But, but, but . . . everyone's Irish on St. Patrick's Day!

One great thing about St. Patrick's Day is that it allows me to recycle my St. Patrick's Day screed year after year. So, in honor of my least favorite holiday, here it is once again. 

I might as well get my St. Patrick’s Day rant off my chest a day early, so I can move on to other things. Sort of like one of those exercises in which you write something painful on a slip of paper and throw it into the fire, to exorcise your demons.

I’d love to go to Ireland some day. I love the very idea of the place. The people. The lush landscape. The music. The history. The literature. The fact that the Irish are not British. The joie de vivre. (However that translates into Gaelic.)

And did I mention the beer?

Yup. I love Ireland. I love the Irish. But I loathe St. Patrick’s Day.

Maybe it’s because I grew up in Massachusetts, where the wearing of the green is almost as big a deal as the Fourth of July. From Boston in the east to Holyoke in the west, they’d paint the sky green if they could figure out how to do it.

Parades. Omnipresent shamrocks. Cutouts of leprechauns who always appear to be deeply disturbed, even demonic, individuals. Green neckties. Green shirts. Green pants. Green blouses. Green scarves. Green socks. Green caps. Green hair. Green beer. Probably green underwear too, for all I know, although that’s just a guess on my part.

Still, the fact that St. Patrick’s Day is an excessively verdant holiday doesn’t bother me all that much. I say if you’re Irish, flaunt it. Considering the discrimination that the Irish had to endure when they came to these shores and the immeasurable contributions they have made since, they’re entitled to an in-your-face attitude on St. Patrick’s Day.

Except for one thing.

After 64 years on this planet, it still sticks in my craw to hear, over and over and over again, year after year after year, that everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. That’s where I draw the line. I like a hearty “top o’ the mornin’ to ya” as much as the next guy, but listen up: I’m not Irish. Not yesterday. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. I'm quite proud of my own heritage. Every day.

This fact of life has led to variations of the following conversation over the years:

“Why aren’t you wearing green today?”
“Because I’m not Irish.”
“But, it’s St. Patrick’s Day!”
“Yes it is.”
“So, everybody’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.”
“No they aren’t.”
"What do you have against the Irish?”
“Nothing. I love rainbows and pots of gold.”
“So, why aren’t you wearing green today?”
“Because I’m not Irish.”
“But, it’s St. Patrick’s Day.”
“I think we've established that.”
“So, everybody’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Your short term memory could use some work.”

As you can see, it’s a rather circular conversation. It usually ends with the guy in the hideous green tie wandering off, mumbling and sputtering.

I’ve never heard a Frenchman claim that everyone is French on Bastille Day. Or an Australian say that everyone is Australian on Australia Day. Or, for that matter, an American of any race or ethnicity proclaim that everyone is American on July 4th.

So here’s my offer. If the Ancient Order of Hibernians holds a high-profile news conference to announce that all Irish-Americans must proclaim themselves to be Québécois on Saint Jean Baptiste Day, Portuguese on Freedom Day, Kenyan on Kenyatta Day, German on German Unity Day and Dutch on Queen’s Day, I’ll dance a jig and buy a round of Guinness for every Irish-American within shouting distance.

Don't hold your breath. You’ll see despondent leprechauns decking themselves out in orange before that happens.