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None so Irish as the Irish of America
By Dorothy Cummings McLean
March 12, 2010
Dorothy Cummings McLean
My illustrious ancestor Michael, father of Martin, father of William, father of Michael, father of me, had the great good sense to be born in Ireland before sailing for America. By the rules laid down by Canadian multiculturalism, this happy accident gives me the right to call myself Irish, write nostalgically about a country I’ve never seen and poke gentle fun at everything Irish. As they say in Boston, wicked.
I mention Boston because Boston is the capital city of Irish America, and when I went to study there, I thought I might discover my roots among the famine memorials. Instead I was shell-shocked by Boston’s outrageous manners, an indescribable rudeness the locals call honesty. For a brilliant reproduction, watch Martin Scorsese’s The Departed, a film I loved for its assurance that there were places in Boston worse than Boston College.
I mention Boston because Boston is the capital city of Irish America, and when I went to study there, I thought I might discover my roots among the famine memorials. Instead I was shell-shocked by Boston’s outrageous manners, an indescribable rudeness the locals call honesty. For a brilliant reproduction, watch Martin Scorsese’s The Departed, a film I loved for its assurance that there were places in Boston worse than Boston College.
St. Patrick’s Day is the High Holy Day of Boston. If SPD falls on a Friday in Lent, the archbishop of Boston grants an indulgence to eat corned beef. Irishness is equated with alcohol consumption, and serious young revellers have their first SPD drink for breakfast.
But the Irishness of Boston is not entirely bogus. Many Bostonians really were born in Ireland. My ancient landlord was the real deal, as were the carpenters and roofers who crowded my neighbourhood’s bars. Thousands of young Irish pour into Boston every year, and my housemates claimed they all made a bee-line for Porter Belly’s on Washington Avenue.
Porter Belly’s was not a bar my housemates frequented. They claimed that American men, even American men with Irish surnames, got beaten up there. Their stories of the place sounded like 19th-century anti-Irish propaganda. So of course I longed to investigate and seized upon a sister’s visit as an excuse to go there. But even Catherine, who was a barmaid in the Australian outback and goes to Irish bars in Toronto, was taken aback.
“I’ve never seen Irish like these Irish,” she said.
It was a scene out of another Scorsese film. The rough-hewn pub was crammed with singing, dancing and eventually brawling young men, all with fresh-off-the-flight-from-Shannon accents. The rock band (American) looked faintly nervous. I had the curious sense of having stepped back in time to Great-great-grandfather’s day, only — of course — back then nice girls like my sister would not have been sidling up to the bar.
“How’re ye?” demanded a man with missing front teeth.
“Hi,” said Catherine. “Where are you from?”
“HAR-lind,” shouted the man.
“What?”
“HAR-lind!”
“How long have you been in America?” asked my sister.
“Whut time is it?” he replied.
Most of the men in Porter Belly’s were in their twenties, and each was cousin to another. Many were named Michael. Michael #1, a dark-eyed, dark-haired man who seemed insane, was in demolition. Michael # 2, who was fair, bespectacled and had a deceptively gentle and even priestly appearance was, well…
“Ah’m a lawyer,” said Michael #2.
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “Where did you study?”
“Trinity College Dublin and Harvard University,” was his reply.
“Oh,” I said. Now I was thoroughly bewildered. Every other man in the place seemed to be a horny-handed son of toil.
“Whut’re ye drinkin’?” he asked, checking the label on my bottle, and squeezed through the crowd of happy labourers to the bar. I turned to Michael’s cousin Anthony.
“What does your cousin do?” I asked.
“He’s a carpenter.”
“He told me he was a lawyer!” I said.
“Ah,” said Anthony, without missing a beat. “He’s a lawyer part-time.”
I didn’t want Anthony to feel badly for having blown his cousin’s cover, so I pointed out that St. Joseph, like Michael #2, was a carpenter. Anthony perked right up.
“Sure,” he said. “Ar Lord an’ St. Joseph wiz carpenters.”
I forget where I read this claim, but apparently once upon a time in Ireland, a naked young woman covered in jewels could walk from one end of isle to the other in perfect safety. This would not have been true in Porter Belly’s, as I surmised when gentle-looking Michael #2 returned with two beers, subjected me to a grinding dance I’d heard described by scandalized high school teachers, made a risqué observation I hoped I’d misunderstood, and finally asked me if I liked to sleep in late.
“Normally, yes,” I said. “But I have to take my sister to the airport in the morning.”
Michael #2 made his meaning clearer, I expressed a wish not to mortally sin, he called me a nun, and I locked myself into a stall in the women’s washroom in a state of tipsy dudgeon.
Amusingly, Michael’s Catholic conscience was pricked. He entreated my sister to fetch me out so that he could apologize for his wicked ways. And I recalled the thundering boast of a visiting Irish bishop in St. Michael’s Cathedral that Ireland was, is and always shall be a solid fortress of the Roman Catholic faith. May this in fact be so. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
But the Irishness of Boston is not entirely bogus. Many Bostonians really were born in Ireland. My ancient landlord was the real deal, as were the carpenters and roofers who crowded my neighbourhood’s bars. Thousands of young Irish pour into Boston every year, and my housemates claimed they all made a bee-line for Porter Belly’s on Washington Avenue.
Porter Belly’s was not a bar my housemates frequented. They claimed that American men, even American men with Irish surnames, got beaten up there. Their stories of the place sounded like 19th-century anti-Irish propaganda. So of course I longed to investigate and seized upon a sister’s visit as an excuse to go there. But even Catherine, who was a barmaid in the Australian outback and goes to Irish bars in Toronto, was taken aback.
“I’ve never seen Irish like these Irish,” she said.
It was a scene out of another Scorsese film. The rough-hewn pub was crammed with singing, dancing and eventually brawling young men, all with fresh-off-the-flight-from-Shannon accents. The rock band (American) looked faintly nervous. I had the curious sense of having stepped back in time to Great-great-grandfather’s day, only — of course — back then nice girls like my sister would not have been sidling up to the bar.
“How’re ye?” demanded a man with missing front teeth.
“Hi,” said Catherine. “Where are you from?”
“HAR-lind,” shouted the man.
“What?”
“HAR-lind!”
“How long have you been in America?” asked my sister.
“Whut time is it?” he replied.
Most of the men in Porter Belly’s were in their twenties, and each was cousin to another. Many were named Michael. Michael #1, a dark-eyed, dark-haired man who seemed insane, was in demolition. Michael # 2, who was fair, bespectacled and had a deceptively gentle and even priestly appearance was, well…
“Ah’m a lawyer,” said Michael #2.
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “Where did you study?”
“Trinity College Dublin and Harvard University,” was his reply.
“Oh,” I said. Now I was thoroughly bewildered. Every other man in the place seemed to be a horny-handed son of toil.
“Whut’re ye drinkin’?” he asked, checking the label on my bottle, and squeezed through the crowd of happy labourers to the bar. I turned to Michael’s cousin Anthony.
“What does your cousin do?” I asked.
“He’s a carpenter.”
“He told me he was a lawyer!” I said.
“Ah,” said Anthony, without missing a beat. “He’s a lawyer part-time.”
I didn’t want Anthony to feel badly for having blown his cousin’s cover, so I pointed out that St. Joseph, like Michael #2, was a carpenter. Anthony perked right up.
“Sure,” he said. “Ar Lord an’ St. Joseph wiz carpenters.”
I forget where I read this claim, but apparently once upon a time in Ireland, a naked young woman covered in jewels could walk from one end of isle to the other in perfect safety. This would not have been true in Porter Belly’s, as I surmised when gentle-looking Michael #2 returned with two beers, subjected me to a grinding dance I’d heard described by scandalized high school teachers, made a risqué observation I hoped I’d misunderstood, and finally asked me if I liked to sleep in late.
“Normally, yes,” I said. “But I have to take my sister to the airport in the morning.”
Michael #2 made his meaning clearer, I expressed a wish not to mortally sin, he called me a nun, and I locked myself into a stall in the women’s washroom in a state of tipsy dudgeon.
Amusingly, Michael’s Catholic conscience was pricked. He entreated my sister to fetch me out so that he could apologize for his wicked ways. And I recalled the thundering boast of a visiting Irish bishop in St. Michael’s Cathedral that Ireland was, is and always shall be a solid fortress of the Roman Catholic faith. May this in fact be so. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
Dorothy Cummings McLean