(3/2019) St. Patrick’s Day (St. Paddy to friends and family) is fast approaching, and soon every American will be Irish-for-a-day, or at least we will feast like we are! Irish blood runs thick in my family, as my maternal grandmother’s family was nearly exclusively of Irish descent until my grandmother, Nana as we call her, married my late Italian grandfather, Papa, whose
name was Ronald Alessi. According to the dinnertime stories shared since my childhood, both of my grandparents’ families maintained the rich cultural traditions of their homelands, in everything from the family slang to their holiday celebrations. They were each raised in neighborhoods divided by culture. My grandmother grew up surrounded by "The Irish" and my grandfather
"The Italians." They had their own churches and stores, respective "parts of town." It must have raised a few eyebrows when an Irish woman married an Italian man!
And so, I was raised in an Irish-Italian family, at least on my mother’s side. The residual cultural practices from our European past are easiest to see in our religion, as most of the family is still Catholic, and our appetites, as Italian food is always on the menu at holiday gatherings, the recipes passed down by memory through the generations. Yet, there is great
distance between who I am and who my ancestors were. I do not share their struggles or their joys. My Italian vocabulary is limited to cuisine, and my pronunciations would likely be appalling to a native. I could not tell the difference between a northern and southern Irish accent. I do not know what Ireland looks like in the summer, nor could I name the towns where distant
relatives might still live. I have never prayed in an Italian church or eaten at an Italian table. I have never felt the hunger pangs or persecutions which pushed them to give it all up and board a boat to a new world.
While someday I hope to travel to these places, I can never share the experience of my grandmother’s grandmother, who travelled on a boat from Ireland to the United States alone as a teenage girl. I will never feel the alienation of walking unfamiliar streets with no one to ask for directions, or making a new life in a land full of strangers. I will never know the guilt
and the terror of losing the old culture in exchange for a new one that doesn’t quite understand where I’ve been. This is the part of my heritage that I will never share.
While my connections to the lands of my ancestors grow weaker by the generation, I have grown into an American, simply by being born and raised here, a feat that was much more difficult for my grandparents and their grandparents to achieve. The nation has, thankfully, changed since their time. My world is not divided into the "Irish" and "Italian" sides of town. Barriers
that once divided America into a world-at-war are breaking down at last. My Americanness is a gift given to me by those brave ancestors who came for the freedom, the opportunity, the fresh start. I was born here because they wanted to live here; they wanted their children to live here, and their children’s children, too.
I’ll never know them, but I am grateful for their gift. They have given me a new culture, American culture, to embrace. American culture, while imperfect in many ways, has a beauty all its own. As Americans, we have maintained the grit of the immigrants who came and still come to our shores ready to work for a new life. We aim to be a nation where all cultures are embraced
and appreciated for their unique contribution, even though sometimes we fall short. We have the beauty of the Rocky Mountains, the Eastern forests, and the Western shores. We proudly claim our status as the nation that has valued democracy since its birth. It is a heritage to be proud of.
Even in a nation that values cultural difference, many of the cultures we once knew have fallen behind the advancement of time. There are, however, a few ways to remember the heritage we value from our families, especially the heritage given to us by our family members while they were alive. I will never know my Irish or Italian ancestors, but I can remember and retell
Nana’s stories about who they were, the phrases they used to say, the parties they used to throw, the meals they used to cook. I may never touch a skein of authentic Irish wool, but I cherish the memories of Nana teaching me to crochet with wool from the local craft store. I can share the work of her hands and mine with my children and their children, and teach them the skill
that is a part of my heritage. I will never sit at Papa’s Christmas dinner, but I can learn the recipes from Nana that were served at the table, and one day serve them at my own.
My heritage still lives in my grandmother and my parents. While I live and while my children live, that heritage will not be forgotten, for it is too precious to abandon to time’s eventual obscurity. Their stories will one day be my responsibility to remember and tell, their traditions my duty to pass on. I will remember my heritage, and forever be grateful for the gift
that it has been to me.
I leave you with an Irish blessing (found on irelands-hidden-gems.com) dedicated to Papa, the Italian man who turned an Irish woman into my Italian Nana who gives me my heritage each time I see her.
May the road rise to meet you,
and the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm on your face
and the rains fall softly on your fields.
And until we meet again
May God hold you gently in the palm of his hand.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
