Ever since I can remember, March 17th has always held a special place in my heart. Even before I understood what St. Patrick’s Day really meant to me, as an Irish American, I always felt the calling of the bagpipes blaring, the tap of shoes doing the jig, and the smell of bangers and mash permeating the air. Then again, over my lifetime, most of my friends have referred to March 17th as Sean-Patrick’s Day. And I couldn’t be more honored
I remember one year, I was around six or seven years old, my Aunt Marissa came into Manhattan for St. Patrick’s to meet up with some of her friends and brought me along. Now you have to understand…this is a woman who is just shy of ten years my senior and has basically been my big sister my entire life. Needless to say, we were always very close. Marissa and her friends bar-hopped all afternoon, with me in tow. We met up with my Uncle Joe and his friends as well. I made a fortune in quarters arm-wrestling bartenders and drunk parade goers while imbibing on what seemed like a bottomless glass of Coca-Cola across the day (no adult would deny a six-year-old boy a victory in this context—something I was all too aware of at that age—and, yes, I was a very precocious troublemaker). Back then, things were a lot greyer. Seeing a kid in a pub was not unheard of. Especially amongst the Irish community. And while there was a lot of memorable things that happened that day, the thing that stands out the most in my memory was all of the symbols, sounds and smells of Irish pride. I vividly remember the Emerald Society members coming into a pub we were at on East 58th Street; bagpipes blaring, drums beating, and the sound of laughter and joy throughout the pub. It cemented my sentiment for such an amazing day of the year.
To circle back, I do have to point out that my aunt learned her lesson when I had the stomach ache from hell thanks to all of that soda and my Nana was none too happy about it! To be honest, that entire day, stomachache and all, is one of the fondest memories I have of my childhood. Why? Because I discovered what Irish pride meant. And because my Aunt Marissa was a part of it.
Flash-forward to my even more ridiculous teen-years in Manhattan. Back then, St. Patrick’s Day for many of us was a rite of passage. I remember being 15 and jumping the NYPD barricades on the parade route at 62nd Street with a bottle of Jack Daniels in a paper bag, marching up Fifth Avenue. A few of New York’s Finest approached me who happened to be from my local precinct. They knew me. Thank God. They let me keep marching, right up to Second Avenue and 86th Street where I met up with some friends to go bar hopping.
Yes, that was 1992. Things were very different in New York back then, especially for a teenager who understood how to navigate an adult world. But one thing that has always remained the same on Sean-Patrick’s Day? Everyone is Irish. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Slainte!
“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” For 247 years, the United States of America has served as a beacon of hope to our planet.
It has served as the best example of what humanity has to offer in terms of a fair, democratic republic wherein the People decide what happens, not a dictator or a royal.
Yet what the Founding Fathers of the Great Experiment created no longer exists. Today, our country has become an insane, politically driven machine focused on the enrichment of the few at the cost of the many. For generations, people from across the world would come to our shores to find peace and prosperity. My family included. So, when I see what the White House is doing in terms of the current border security situation, it makes my blood boil. The malarky they are spinning is akin to one of the biggest con jobs in history as the Federal Government tries to gaslight everyone into believing the border problem is everyone else’s fault except the guy in charge. Sorry, but the buck stops at the Oval Office. Always has. And President Joe Biden should be ashamed of himself for using the migrant situation to further his political agenda when in fact he should be retiring (I can’t think of a better word to describe what needs to happen given his age and current mental status).
We deserve better than this. So do the very migrants being used as political pawns.