I grew up going to Catholic school. I used to hate beer, and I still hate Corned Beef and Cabbage. But in Miami, being Irish isn’t something many people are or understand. However my German Kentucky coworker, the Rhode Island boy and the cuban coworkers took me too a bar where the staff ensured everyone likes beer. After a taste test, I found my buds need a good Stout. But this doesn’t make me Irish, either, not really.
Hardness is something I learned, as well as a thick skin. Growing up in Charlestown, where the Fighting Irish isn’t a slogan of some college football, but this doesn’t make me Irish either.
After accompanying a Scottish friend getting in touch with her Scot side over the weekend, I became proud that no matter how many times, in history, people tried to kill us, no matter how many times, my people had no food… we survived. When we came to America, and every white person here hated us for being Catholic and refused to give us food or jobs… even after my people helped win the Civil War… we weren’t accepted.
My ancestors were all survivors. The claddaugh ring I wear everyday should be there. It’s part of who I am.
So I’m working on creating a good Irish family to write about. My name might be Victoria Pinder, but a name is just a name. My father’s blood is green. Boston was my first home. And despite the heat and humidity of Miami, one should never forget their roots.
