It’s St. Patrick’s Day, and I’m celebrating with my two sons in Fargo, North Dakota. I don’t know how many Irish men and women inhabit Fargo, but today there are a couple more than usual.
I’m half-Irish, which means my sons are one-quarter Irish. It’s not a lot, but it’s still worthy of note.
The Irish were among the first wave of immigrants to come to America in the second half of the nineteenth century. They had an advantage in that they spoke the prevailing language, albeit with an accent. And they were willing to take the most menial of jobs too. In time, they assimilated as Italian, German and other immigrants came through Ellis Island and assumed those menial tasks while the Irish worked themselves up the economic ladder.
Today, if you’re Irish, then St. Patrick’s Day holds special meaning. It’s that time when you march in or come to watch parades, drink Irish beer, and honor your heritage. I suspect you also honor how far your family has come too.
Ever since I was a child, I have enjoyed St. Patrick’s Day. Some years my celebration has been limited to wearing green in school; other years I’ve been on Chicago street corners cheering until my voice gave way and I had to find a local pub where I could anesthetize my throat. This year, in Fargo, I am mostly enjoying sharing traditions with my children who are more Italian than Irish.
In years to come, I hope they remember this day not only because we remembered St. Patrick but also because we made an effort to celebrate it together.
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