This is your brain on Shamrocks - what makes us Irish?

A road sign in Gort, Co. Galway

I was ambling through Co. Clare en route to Athenry after landing at Shannon Airport not long ago, and smiled at the sight of the familiar “Welcome to Gort” sign that announces your entry into Galway.

“That place is gone to us,” said the driver. “It’s just full of foreigners taking our jobs away from us.”

Indeed, some 40% of the residents of Gort are non-Irish, according to the 2006 census, a massive majority of these being Brazilians. These people originally came to work in the meat processing plants in Gort where the pay is generally much higher than in similar plants in Brazil.

I could smell a strong whiff of xenophobia in the pubs throughout my last short stay in Ireland. There was a loud cry of foul over how immigrants from Poland and Algeria either took jobs from the Irish, or sucked on the Celtic Tiger boom years like vampire bats that drained their blood and then flew away when the cat got sick.

There was a high resentment of these outsiders intermingling with “the natives” was how it was delicately put -- as if Ireland has its own thing going and we don’t appreciate outsiders messing it up.

Really?

Does anything belong to Ireland anymore? It begs the question -- what makes something Irish in 2012?

It could be debated that the land on the island itself is no longer theirs.

The self-inflicted banking crisis forced Ireland to swallow its pride and accept loans and bailout money from their neighbors to stay afloat. It’s debatable as to who actually owns Ireland now.

The Chinese? Germany? France?

It makes you want to take to the pub and have a good drink, but you won’t find anything Irish in there to whet your whistle.

Bushmills and Guinness are both owned by the Diageo corporation, whose offices reside in downtown London. The lifeblood of Irish culture is owned by the Brits!

Irish breakfast tea, or “tay” as they call it in the auld sod, is actually a blend of Assam tea leaves from the carmelia sinensis plant that lines the Brahmaputra River in India!

Not even the Celtic Tiger was born in Ireland! American companies like Baxter, Microsoft, Boston Scientific and IBM have been fueling the job growth in Ireland for many decades, ever since Ireland aggressively marketed the highly educated nature of its natives and cut corporate tax rates.

The influx of American companies makes the big cat that made Ireland roar more “Tony the Tiger” than Celtic Tiger.

Much of the stuff you buy in an Irish shop nowadays is made in China, especially the tschotkes that were sold at the Cliffs of Moher gift shop.

Even my most Irish memories have gone up in smoke, so to speak. I remember hearing stories about my father’s hardscrabble life growing up, in which he described cutting turf in the bog as a means to provide fuel and heat for the house.

Europe and the Irish government recently introducing laws planning to prevent families (domestic turf cutters) who have been cutting turf for fuel for hundreds of years from doing so.

This seems ridiculous to have a natural resource lay idle and force the Irish to find costly fuel alternatives, and downright criminal when one considers how it tears at our very Irishness! 

I host an annual holiday open house for the family each New Year’s Day, and I was struck by how many nationalities have infiltrated our Irish brood.

My girls are half-Jewish and so is my godson and his sister. During December, we all hosted Christmas dinners and Chanukah menorah lighting get-togethers in the same week.

My brother married an Italian/Polish woman. My cousin’s twin boys are half Jamaican and do a credible Michael Jackson moonwalk.

I grew up in a Catholic enclave in Jersey City in which Irish, Italians and Polish were the nationalities of choice. I didn’t meet a Jewish person until seventh grade.

Genetics and technology guarantee that my family’s next generation will have a broader view of the world than I had growing up at the expense of some Irishness, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

Even though there were plenty of races and creeds huddled around the piano singing as my daughter played “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” during our open house, the chorus of voices was evidence enough that the tradition of tight Irish family ties was stronger than ever before.

(Check out Mike Farragher’s essays on www.thisisyourbrainonshamrocks.com)

Comic books rebooted - my proud family origins

The Justice League

DC Comics rebooted your favorite superheroes last month with “the new 52” series, giving fresh coats of paint and new story lines to the likes of Superman and Wonder Woman.

It reminded me how much I loved reading about the origins of those characters as a kid, and how fascinated I was with the pain that drove the likes of billionaire Bruce Wayne to strike fear in criminals’ hearts by dressing like a giant bat.

There were some events over the last few weeks that made me reflect on my own origins. The first was a series of interviews that New York University’s Glucksman Ireland House conducted with my parents and myself as part of its Oral History Collection.

Ireland House is doing the Lord’s work preserving the histories of authors, clergy, bricklayers and everyone in between with this series. Hearing my parents’ stories told in their own words was an indescribable thrill and provides my family with an oral history of our own that will be passed down to subsequent generations.

I heard the origin of my family in their recount. The sadness of watching the farm in the review mirror as my grandparents drove them to Shannon Airport soon faded in the face of a new world’s bright promise and modern accouterments.

In this sharing, I can see the origins of my own sense of adventure that has me take on things that scare me in the face of growth -- like writing the personal column you’re reading now.

I heard the origins of my sly sense of humor in my father’s response to the question as to the degree of credit he gives his friend for introducing him to my mother at a wedding.

“Yerra, there are days I blame him as well,” he says.

The good-natured laughter between dad and his missus that immediately followed that joke provides an origin to the easy nature between my wife and I.

I hear the origins of the keen writer’s eye for observation and detail in listening to Mom’s gentle whispers in my father’s ear throughout the interview as she corrects his occasional lapses in facts.

The interviewer peppers me with questions during our session, and it brings back memories and introduces new observations long buried or never realized.

I’m reminded of the envelopes of waitressing tips my mother put under the blotter of the dining room table. One was labeled “trip to Ireland” and another one might say “poles” as she funded a telephone line off the main road and through the narrow boreen to her mother’s house.

In that memory I see the origins of my own obsession with saving for retirement and keeping debt levels low in a house full of ravenous teenage consumerism.

With a trip to Ireland last week, I can see the origins of what made me the person I am today with my own two eyes.

It hit me during a bittersweet visit that had me stare into the faraway gaze of my maternal grandmother’s sister, Peggy.  We both giggle spontaneously as she walks through the door of the pub, and I smile broadly at our mutual tendency of approaching each social situation with the enthusiasm of a tickled toddler.

Her mind has faded after almost nine decades, yet I can still see the origins of my own mischievous spark in the eye as she is about to assemble a good yarn while stirring her tea.

The origins of my sharp tongue and quick wit abound when my dad’s family gathers at my book signing in Tuam. When David Burke, the editor of The Tuam Herald turns and asks my 81-year-old bachelor uncle where his wife was, he shakes his head.
“Well, the girleen hasn’t been born yet and her mother’s dead,” came the instant reply.

I lean over the head stone of my paternal grandmother’s grave, and I can’t tell if the wind rustles the dry leaves or if that was her voice whispering, “Nice piece in the Herald about the book – aren’t ye the humble one? And peddling the book in the church parking lot after Mass was a grand gesture altogether.”

I make the sign of the cross and laugh to myself. No mystery where my tendency to get the last word comes from! Having your say when you’re six feet under is indeed a miracle, yet I expect nothing less from Brigid Farragher.

I am grateful that my family origins have so many amazing people that never wore a mask or cape but are superheroes nonetheless.

(Mike Farragher has a collection of essays just like this in his new book that is named after this column. Check out www.thisisyourbrainonshamrocks.com)