None so Irish as the Irish of America
March 12, 2010
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.