It's St. Patrick's Day. I'm planning lessons to talk to my classes about Ireland. The Chinese for Ireland, 爱尔兰 (aierlan), happens to start with the character for love. St. Patrick's Day is a time when I remember my grandmother Sally. Not only was she Irish, but she passed away right around St. Patty's Day about eight years ago. Like most Americans, I'm a mix of several different countries, none of which I have any real solid claim to. But a little sliver Ireland has been passed through, though I cannot be sure how much of it is my grandmother and her quirky personality.
It times when I have been in distress, my father or my aunts and uncles would say to me sayings that Grandma Sally used to say to them. Many of these are things that don't make much sense the first time, or have a wry, slightly crude humor to them which I have been told is very Irish. But they stick with me, and over time have given me strength and wisdom. “Do the best you can, it's all a horse can do.” Don't worry about getting everything perfect, you have limits. Just do your best. And the one that I have been thinking about the last few days, “The Irish have their kidneys behind their eyeballs.”
This last one was explained to me as meaning that Irish people are sentimental and emotional and dwell over what they've lost in a mournful wistful way. I once read someone describe a requiem this way. You're sad, but you feel good feeling sad.
I am embarrassed to say that my knowledge of Irish history is sorely lacking. I have had the chance, in preparing for class, to read a bit more of history and I feel like I'm getting in touch with my roots. In describing St. Patrick's Day, and in describing why the Irish left Ireland, and how Irish Americans feel, I feel a great deal of pride and emotion. Were I in the United States, around various Irish American organizations, or even just home with my family, I would say I am not the most Irish person. My Dad, whom I take after, is more Norwegian than Irish. Which, a family joke, needs explaining. Even among caucasians in America, there is a deal of surviving cultural distinctions that still exist in communities. Depending on the community, that ethnic origin has come to be associated with regional traits. The Dakotas, Minnesota, and Montana were settled by many Norwegians, and those Norwegian cultural traits in America have come to be associated with the area even more so than the ethnicity. Other communities, like in New York City, can be distinguished by neighborhood and has a bit of a stronger sense of country of origin because that neighborhood is trying to remind itself and its neighbors that they are different from the Italians or the Polish neighborhood just next door. Growing up, when I would visit my aunt and uncle in Fish Town I would see Irish flags flying next to American flags outside people's houses. It was much the same way I would see Italian flags outside the houses in South Philly, where I went to middle-school. So who can be the most Irish or the most Norwegian out of a set of brothers and sisters? Though I don't think any of us have a serious definition for it, I would say it's a combination of personality, stereotypes, and what we tell ourselves it means to be Irish or to be Norwegian. So though in Fish Town I don't think I would be very Irish, I feel very Irish right now.
I have been listening to Irish songs I have either heard second hand that my grandmother used to sing, or have read about once when I was younger. There is a feeling of longing and sorrow. There's “Down By the Glen-side,” about remembering the brave young men of an Irish rebellion. The singer does not say that he/she saw them himself, but heard of it from an old woman humming to herself. “Green Fields of America,” a series of letters are sent out to a man who has gone to America. He and his family grow up. Time passes. And though the family is glad for him, thankful for the money he sends them, have great affection for the family he has started, they miss him very much. They keep asking him to please come home to visit. It would be good to see him again. And I cry when I hear them. And I listen again.
It feels good to cry. It feels good to feel sad about the things that have been lost, the things that will be lost. And though I feel like I'm making the right decision, I still feel sad.
I never like saying goodbye. I hate saying goodbye to friends. Thanks to the internet it is easy to stay in contact with people. We don't really have to say goodbye to people so long as we have a computer. But there still can be emotional distances between people. And though we hope it is not goodbye forever, we know it will not be the same. I will miss my students here very much. But at the same time I feel that I have to go. The more I learn about Shenzhen, the more I think about the future there, the more certain I feel about the decision I have made. But I still wish I could have my cake and eat it too. I wish I could keep everything I like and carefully cut around the unpleasant things. But I can't.
I can accept that. But I feel a good cry is in order. And a good cry is in order, in honor of Ireland, and my grandmother whom I wish I had known better.
