My family and childhood connection to St. Pat’s Day
A few years ago, in July, on the ShopRite last chance closeout super sale shelf, I spotted a “Luck of the Irish” baseball cap for 50 cents. I didn’t have to think twice; I was buying this.
Not for myself, for I’m not an O’Edelstein; I bought it for my son. One, because I thought the kelly green color would suit his pale complexion just fine, and two, because the boy is, by birth, a quarter-Irish.
Fact is, he (along with his sisters) are technically 37 percent Polish, a quarter Irish, 12.5 percent Austrian, 12.5 Russian, and 12.5 percent unknown. (We haven’t done the 23andMe thing yet, obviously.) He’s also half-Jewish, half-Christian, being raised with what amounts to trying-hard-to-be-Buddhist-in-thought-but-failing parents.
When it comes to the religion, he gets only the fun stuff. When it comes to cultural heritage, he gets none from me (the Polish/Austrian/ Russian/Unknown) because I don’t identify as any of them, and he gets none from my wife (Polish/Irish) because not only does she not identify as any of them, she actually thinks she’s Italian. Not kidding. It’s like some twisted Disney fairy tale. You look at her, she’s practically got a map of Dublin written on her face. But when she looks in the mirror, she’s looking back at someone who will one day be referred to as “Nonna.” (True story: Before we got together, she was dating an Italian guy, and after some time, she realized it wasn’t going to last. It took her six months to break up with him. Why? Because she didn’t want to give up Sunday dinners at his mom’s. Anyway ...)
Anyway, today is St. Patrick’s Day, the one day a year everyone is Irish, and I find it weirdly important to point out to my kids that they are, in fact, a quarter Irish. I have no idea why I find this important, but I do. That’s why I bought the hat. And my son, without fail, wears it this time of year. Wore it to school Friday, and I’d bet $20 he’s wearing it right now.
And …
And I deleted the rest of this column. Started it a week ago, finished it (highlights included a Cinco de Mayo detour, a really bad limerick, and how Passover is arguably a better drinking holiday than St. Patrick’s Day) but then had one of those little personal epiphanies. That last paragraph up there, where I said I didn’t know why I found it important to inform my kids they’re a quarter Irish? Yeah. I figured out why. And much like everything else in life, I can trace it back to my childhood.
I grew up in the 1970s and 80s in Parsippany. Back then, you could think of it like this: What Hamilton was to Trenton, Parsippany was to Newark and other cities surrounding New York. It was the place the second generation went to. The burgeoning suburbs.
And who was that second generation in Parsippany? Predominantly Jewish, Italian, and Irish families. Just doing a quick mental inventory of friends and neighbors back then, I bet it was probably 90 percent Jewish, Italian, and Irish.
As a result, I kind of lump those three cultures together. I know they’re different, but growing up, we all shared the same values, the same streets, the same mother-dominated households. It’s a good memory. It’s a great memory, in fact. And as a result of my lumping, I feel a legitimate connection to St. Patrick’s Day (as well as to Christmas, as well as to the notion of “Sunday dinner,” as my best friend Chris had to bicycle home by 3 p.m. Sundays if he wanted to remain a member in good standing in his Italian household).
And so yeah: When Christmas rolls around, or when my wife starts in on a pot of sauce and meatballs at 7 a.m. on a Sunday, or when my boy puts on his “Luck of the Irish” hat, I get taken back to my childhood.
That’s why St. Patrick’s Day means something to me. It reminds me of the cliche-buttrue simpler times. It feels like a warm blanket on a cold night. It simply makes me happy.
Strip it all away, my kids aren’t half-Jewish, a quarter-Irish, a quarter wannabe Italian, none of that.
They are, in fact, 100 percent Parsippany-American. Can’t wait to fill out the next census.