St. Pat in France

When someone asks “What are you?” I never used to answer with “I’m American.” Not before coming here. It just seems so simple, because in America, you’re hardly ever just American. You’re a mix of things, or you identify with one particular nationality. You’re Korean or Filipino or Mexican. You’re hyphenated, like African-American (now more politically correct without the hyphen). We’re supposedly a melting pot, but one that doesn’t really want to melt. Myself, I usually give a breakdown: I’m Italian, Irish, English, Austrian and God knows what else. But here, when you say you’re Irish, you mean that you, not just your great-grandparents, are actually from Ireland.
So did I consider myself Irish on this St. Patrick’s Day? Of course. Everyone’s a little bit Irish, right? I quickly discovered, however, that “Irish by association” is definitely an American way of thought. It’s a wonder to me how people thousands of miles away celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with so much more enthusiasm than those who are just a quick plane ride from the Emerald Isle. I love St. Patrick’s Day. So I wore my green and went to an Irish pub just across the border in France with my friend Carolyn (also an Irish-American). We found others like us, an Irish band and good beer. But not the craziness I’m used to. So next year, as ridiculous as the festivities can be, I’ll be happy to celebrate St. Pat in the American way, with parades, dyed rivers, “Kiss me, I’m Irish” buttons and lots of green beer.