Immigrants on the Move

The arrival of St Patrick’s Day has always filled me with feelings of giddy excitement; the need to do something special to mark the day, a strong desire to be amongst the Irish. I’m what many call a plastic Paddy (and for the American’s in the audience, it’s always Paddy never Patty – as it’s a shortening of the Gaelic name Padraig), my dad is Irish my mum is British, I’ve never lived in Ireland, I don’t speak Gaelic despite years begging my dad to teach me. Yet in spite of all this I’ve always been fiercely proud of my half roots.

Being Irish wasn’t always as well received as it is these days, thirty years ago while there was still some IRA attacks happening I was entering secondary school. We would visit Ireland two to three times a year to visit my nana and extended family, so for me being Irish was amazing. I was proud, and also very naïve. I never hesitated to tell people I was Irish, and this resulted in my being teased mercilessly and called IRA. My dad recalls when the pubs would have signs outside saying ‘No Irish allowed’. Given the popularity of being Irish these days, it amuses me greatly to think of so many people now claiming their Irish roots when they previously would have been shamed for the same admission.

It wasn’t until I started reading Irish authors as an adult that I realised how much of my vocabulary was influenced by my Irish father. You might ask; don’t you all speak the same language? Yes, English is the spoken language throughout most of Ireland, but as with the dialects across different regions of the UK, the Irish put their grammar together a little differently, their use of words is a little different, and the meanings might not always translate across. A modern example might be the (awful in my opinion) word shifting which is commonly used for kissing by the youths of Ireland today. This word would not translate across the Irish sea to the UK. An older example would be my nana who would often use phrases such as; remember me to your mama, or I’ll see you in the morning God willing.

When anyone asks me about the Irish character, I say look at the trees. Maimed, stark and misshapen, but ferociously tenacious. Edna O’Brien.

It wasn’t until I moved overseas that I began to ponder if my feeling of being an outcast growing up wasn’t related to the strong influence of the Irish culture in my upbringing. It is not comparable at all with being an immigrant who is in an entirely new country, but as so many people choose (and are forced) to live in countries which are not their own, it makes me wonder how integrated their children feel. When you are raised with one culture at home and another among your peers or at school there can be a disconnect in your feeling of belonging.

Maybe it’s just a cultural aspect of the Irish that they make everyone feel welcome, I know many English friends who will say they’ve made amazing connections in Irish pubs, and many who choose an Irish pub over a British one. I can’t comment on Ireland at the moment, but I know the Ireland of my memories was one where all were welcome. I remember in particular stopping for directions on a trip once, and the house we knocked on tried to get us to come in for a cup of tea. My experiences of Ireland are full of warmth and inclusion, and whether or not that is still the case it is something I try to remember and to emulate wherever I go.

The three leaves of the Shamrock represent faith, hope, and love, and as with so many Irish symbols, proverbs and sayings it is one that speaks to my heart and reminds me we all need a little bit more of those things.

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;

the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,

may God hold you in the palm of His hand.