Kiss Me, I'm Irish

I'm not saying I'm into geneology or anything, but where my ancestors came from has always been fairly important to me.

My dad's father was Swedish -- straight up -- from an immigrant father and first-generation Swedish-American mother. Grandpa spoke Swedish until grade school. Even though he grew up to marry a Norwegian-American, my grandmother, our family holidays were a swirl of Dala Horses, fruit soup and Swedish smorgasbords. I like to refer to my brother and myself as Vikings and look forward to seeing "the home country" for myself someday.

Just as sure as I have been about my Scandinavian side, I always believed my mother's side of the family to be Scottish. I was a little less fervent about it, but when I visited Aberdeen the summer after my senior year of college, I made sure to chat up the Scots we met in pubs with the fact that my ancestors were MacCleods from the Isle of Skye. Skye had been "settled" (more like invaded) by Vikings centuries ago, which I assume is what makes my brother and me look like we wandered off a ski slope in search of a sauna.

I've also always had this little thing about the Irish. Specifically, Irish-American culture and its overbearing insistence on boisterous St. Patrick's Day celebrations and ear-splitting live Irish music that pops up out of nowhere on what was supposed to be a quiet night out with friends.

"You don't get a whole month!" I insisted to my (half Irish) friend J as we sat in a neighborhood pub underneath a promotional poster laying out the events for the "Month of St. Patrick." I also dragged her up to Andersonville the first chance I got for some Swedish pancakes and a little spin around Swedetown. When March 17th rolls around each year and people ask me why I'm not wearing green, I cooly respond "I'm not Irish."

Except, it turns out that I am.



I recently stumbled upon indisputable proof on the Internet (yes, I was Googling myself -- so what?). One of my mother's cousins has been doing quite a bit of research on the family and my name popped up there on the old family tree. So I started clicking backward, starting with my Grandpa McClure's mother because, unlike his father's side, I never knew where she had come from. Back and back I traveled through Ohio, then Connecticut, then England. OK, English. Boring, but good to know.

Then I wanted to see the paternal lineage, just for kicks. Backwards I wound through Ohio and Kentucky. Then it looks like one of the great-greats had arrived in North Carolina from...Donal County...Ireland.

What. Are. You. Saying?

There it was. Several instances of my ancestors born and dying in Northern Ireland, not Scotland. Irish-born men marrying Irish-born women. Oh, I'm Irish alright.

So what?

I mean, why do I care about any of this? When I was in Europe, people there were perplexed when my friend KC and I talked about being Irish (her) and Swedish (me). "You're American," one guy said during a break in the pub quiz. "You shouldn't call yourself Swedish."

I guess it freaks me out that a mere three generations can pass and you leave very little behind to show who you were or what you were like. Besides DNA, I can't point to one thing I have in common with my great-grandmothers, let alone more distant relations. Did they like to read, too? Who is responsible for this crazy chin dimple? How did they spend their days, their years?

When my Grandma Shirley caught wind of my identity crisis, she sent me a card in the mail with this short note: "The family came from Scotland to Ireland. You're Nordic, not Celtic." But just as I'm American with Swedish genes, those Scots-Irish at some point became a part of their host country, especially having settled there for almost a hundred years before shipping off to the New World.

Grandma Shirley was adopted at birth in the late 1920s, back in the days when 16-year old pregnant girls were sent away and adoption arrangements were loose and secretive. It wasn't until Grandma was pregnant with her own child, my mother, when the doctor let it slip that she was adopted. And it wasn't long after that when she put two and two together about her mysterious "Aunt V." When confronted, Grandma Shirley's birth mother disappeared from her life, leaving more questions than answers about identity and origins.

Is it easier or harder for Grandma Shirley? Is not knowing who you are or where you came from liberating in a way? At some point, if you go back far enough, don't we all just mush together?

In that case, Erin go Braugh