How long does it take to become Irish?

Well the annual St. Patrick’s Day celebration is just around the corner (unless you live in Richmond where the party started about a week ago and will continue until April) and once again I find myself conflicted. Do I dig out my shamrock tie and my green boxer shorts and head out to my local watering hole on the 17th, or not?

They say on St. Paddy’s Day everyone is either Irish or wants to be Irish. My family did come here from Ireland around 1821 but they had only been resident in the Emerald Isle for a mere 160 years or so. On top of that they were staunch members of the Church of England.

They had started out in Roxburgh, Scotland, where the family name first appeared in 1147, listed on one of the Norman tax rolls. The Belford in question was a butcher by trade and some genealogists suggests that makes

Belford one of the oldest surnames in the English language. It’s definitely the first butcher mentioned.

Jump ahead 400 years and we find southern Scotland, and most of Britain in general, going through what was called a mini ice-age. Crops failed, many people starved to death along with their livestock and entire villages disappeared. These dire circumstances were compounded by a series of civil wars running roughly from 1639 to 1652 between Royalists, who supported the monarchy, and Parliamentarians who didn’t. Both sides spent most of their time killing each other and destroying the few farms and homes that were left.

But, as luck would have it, my family found a way out when Oliver Cromwell, the on-again, off-again leader of the anti-Royalists, decided it would be a good idea to conquer Ireland. To do this not only did he invade the country but he had a stab at replacing the Catholic population with the obviously more trustworthy Protestants. To this end he offered free land to anyone who would take the bait.

So, somewhere between 1657 and 1663 my family packed up and made the move to County Longford. Unlike previous waves of Scots who settled in the northern counties of what is often referred to as Ulster, they ended up in the middle of the island close to the Shannon River. They realized quite quickly that the British government had neglected to point out one important detail; the ‘free land’ in question had been previously owned by the local inhabitants and they wanted it back.

This of course led to a series of revolts, uprisings, barn burnings and general unpleasantness that lasted, ultimately, until the Irish Free State was formed in 1922. Even then, things weren’t really settled.

The first Belfords to cross the pond, as I mentioned above, finally packed it in and headed for The New World where, once again, they were offered free land and, once again, the land had belonged to somebody else (my apologies to the indigenous peoples of Ontario). The family consisted of my four times Great Grandfather, James, his wife Sarah (nee Percival) and four children. They brought with them all their earthly possession and, apparently, the confusion over who and what they were.

In the 1861 Canadian census both James and Sarah filled in the space allotted for ‘national origin’ with one word “Scots.” Their children and grandchildren, on the other hand, all listed themselves as “Irish.”

Growing up many years later that same lack of decisiveness was evident in my own immediate family. Every St. Patrick’s Day my father, my siblings and I would don a little bit of green before heading off to work or to school. My mother, for her part, dismissed it all as foolishness and was adamant that we were just Canadian.

What finally changed for me was the discovery of Irish literature and Irish music. I read Yeats, James Joyce, Brendan Behan, O’Casey and George Bernard Shaw amongst others. At the same time, I sang along with the Clancy Brother and Tommy Makem and listened to everything the Irish Rovers recorded. I also, much later, discovered Irish whiskey and the joy of raising a jar or two with close friends. In short, my Irish roots began to blossom.

Just how different my attitude to the Irish side of my genetic code was to that of my immediate family was demonstrated clearly when a friend from teachers’ college ended up practice teaching a class which

My family did come here from Ireland around 1821 but they had only been resident in the Emerald Isle for a mere 160 years or so. On top of that they were staunch members of the Church of England.

But, as luck would have it, my family found a way out when Oliver Cromwell, the on-again, off-again leader of the anti-Royalists, decided it would be a good idea to conquer Ireland.

In the 1861 Canadian census both James and Sarah filled in the space allotted for ‘national origin’ with one word “Scots.” Their children and grandchildren, on the other hand, all listed themselves as “Irish.”

On St. Patrick’s Day, as usual, my father had pinned a small green shamrock on my sister’s blouse. When my friend saw this later that morning she asked my sister, “Is your family Irish?” to which my sister replied, “No. just my brother Tim.”

included my eight-year-old sister.

On St. Patrick’s Day, as usual, my father had pinned a small green shamrock on my sister’s blouse. When my friend saw this later that morning she asked my sister, “Is your family Irish?” to which my sister replied, “No. just my brother Tim.”

So there it is. Even though Ireland was just a brief stop for my family on their road to Canada, those 160 years were enough to embed a connection to the ‘Old Sod’ that I can’t quite shake. So, on the 17th I’ll grab my spoons, my mug and my wallet, hand my wife the