My love affair with Ireland and thus, St. Patrick’s Day, began in my teens, when I embraced the unconfirmed possibility I was at least one-quarter Irish. I loved the beautiful land, the fighting spirit of the people, the complex political and spiritual ramifications — only one problem: I later figured out I’m even less Irish than I previously thought. Still, about the same time, I learned about the man behind St. Patrick’s Day, shared it with my children, and now we all love the holiday even more because it has significant meaning.
All hail the Fighin’ Irish
As a young teen, my late maternal Grandmother and I developed a strong bond over Ireland. I’d overheard I shared some Irish ancestry, maybe even up to a quarter, and something in me — perhaps the teenager who wanted to belong to something — took hold and didn’t let go.
From then on, I embraced my Irish roots by donning apparel, listening to bagpipes, and cheering for Notre Dame. I paraded my newfound love of Ireland to friends — its culture, people, personality, and food — lauding it even to strangers. I didn’t go digging through my ancestry — I was just a teen who wanted to have fun.
St. Patrick’s Day, as all my friends know, was basically my own personal holiday, akin to my birthday. In my small private school, I received gifts and cards from friends on St. Patrick’s Day and brought my whole class goodies (shamrock-shaped sugar cookies, of course. Do you think I’m a savage?). In college my best friend and I dug between the seats of her car for change at least once, so we could buy Shamrock Shakes — because nothing says Erin Go Braugh! like McDonald’s. I read about Ireland, wrote about Ireland, dreamt of going to Ireland. I loved the spark and spirit of the Irish people, who seemed so passionate and fearless, what with their ability to fight the tyrannical British and survive famines with grit.
Then I realized as an adult, through some research, that even though I had two ginger kids, I wasn’t really all that Irish–some, but likely not even a full quarte. My paternal great-grandfather came to the United States from Norway; my paternal Grandmother was mostly English and Welsh; my maternal grandfather was mostly Swedish. All this left very little room for any Irish blood.
St. Patrick is more inspiring than green beer anyway
This bit of news about my ancestry coincided with a time when my kids were old enough to comprehend bits of information in a fresh way, beyond just rote memorization. Because I wanted to celebrate with them, I pulled up all I could find on St. Patrick’s Day — even if just for fun. Lo and behold, there was much more to the man, Saint Patrick, than I had realized, simply because I had never taken the time to research it.
According to Time, Patrick was not even Irish, but maybe British (although some sources say he might be Scottish) who, at 16 year old, was kidnapped by Irish raiders and spent six years in captivity. Marion Casey, a clinical assistant professor of Irish Studies at New York University says, “We know that he was a Roman citizen, because Britain was Roman then, and then he was enslaved and taken to Ireland, where he either escaped or was released.
During captivity, Patrick had supposedly found the faith of his childhood a comfort. Upon his release, he converted to Christianity and went back to Ireland to convert people to Christianity. History shows he was successful. The idea that he drove all the snakes from Ireland is widely seen as a metaphor for the idea that he drove paganism out of Ireland (there weren’t any snakes in Ireland, apparently).
“Intimately familiar with the Irish clan system (his former master, Milchu, had been a chieftain), Patrick’s strategy was to convert chiefs first, who would then convert their clans through their influence. Reportedly, Milchu was one of his earliest converts.” Patrick did not represent Rome officially, nor was he never officially canonized by Rome, thus he’s not technically a saint with a capital “S” — yet somehow that has stuck. As the story goes, St. Patrick used the three-leaf Irish clover to demonstrate the Trinity (Father, Son, Holy Spirit) and so people started wearing them (and later, green) to show their Irish-Christian pride. (Although that too, like many stories dating back that far, is also debatable.)
Passing on history and heritage
When I learned that Saint Patrick truly was a man who sacrificed so much just to tell people about the hope and love the Creator of the universe offers, the day itself, even as just a way to recognize and honor that accomplishment, offered so much more meaning than it had previously.
Now, my kids and I talk about how Patrick passionately shared the love of Jesus to people who desperately needed it after after he’d gone through captivity.
I still love all things Gaelic. I still celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with vigor–wearing green, listening to bagpipes and just chanting Erin Go Bragh! whenever I can. My kids think it’s silly, but they join in the fun, particularly now, because now there’s so much more to the day than Shamrock shakes and Gaelic music–even if I can’t boast 100+percent Irish ancestry. The combination–part inspirational, part history lesson–has become a real joy to my children and me and our faith.
There’s a Gaelic phrase, An nì chì na big, ‘s e nì na big: What the little ones see, the little ones do. I hope, during times like these, that passing on my small fraction of Gaelic heritage and the importance of Christian faith will prove to plant seeds in their minds about where they came from and what’s important — even as they enjoy shamrock-shaped cookies. Sona Lá St Pádraig!
Nicole Russell is a contributor to the Washington Examiner’s Beltway Confidential blog. She is a journalist in Washington, D.C., who previously worked in Republican politics in Minnesota. She was the 2010 recipient of the American Spectator’s Young Journalist Award.
