Irish Need Not Apply

Growing up in central Texas, I enjoyed a very multicultural neighborhood.  Living near an elementary school, we had easy access to basketball courts, baseball fields, and playgrounds.  My brother and I were, and still are, friends with whomever showed up to play.  Regardless of background, color, or religion, we kids just played.  A person's nationality or religion was completely overshadowed by their ability to throw a strike, hit a ball, or sink a 3-point shot.

Delmar and Justin always preferred basketball.  Donald rode a bicycle wheelie farther than anyone else.  Then there were always the kids that would like to go to the stock tank and fish for crawdads, including my brother and me.  Of course we had to climb through a barbed-wire fence, walk through brush, and avoid the horses, cows, and bulls in the field.  But hey, it was lots of fun and it kept us busy during many hot summer days.  Yeah, we ran away from a new bull once in awhile, but after he got used to us, he’d leave us alone. 

I loved my life because I was surrounded by different languages, cultures, and variations of living.  Our neighborhood consisted of Whites, Mexicans, Blacks, Indians (from India not Native Americans), Taiwanese and all kinds of other people.  We all just tried to get picked for the best teams, and we also learned who to trust, who was full of bravado, and who was likely to welch on a deal. 

As children, we always dealt with each other as individuals.  We didn't carry the prejudices that weigh down general society, we just played together.  Of course over time, we grew up and most of us stayed in contact, on the same terms. 

Throughout elementary, middle, and high school, we remained fast friends.  We left the sandlots, joined teams and wore uniforms for our schools.  We cheered each other on, or played together on those teams.  Much more formal around other people, we always maintained contact.  I’ll always remember that Eric was very talented, but could get angry easily and make a mistake, or that Aldo always kept his cool and came through in a tight situation; Aldo and Eric are twins. 

I miss them very much.  I miss so many things about where and when I grew up, but I almost always think of Aldo and Eric Wilson first.  My brother and I were with Eric and Aldo almost every single day.  They were in our home and we in theirs.  Our lives were so very different.  Eric and Aldo are part of a very large family, 8 children, and two parents who worked very hard.  Their father was in the military. Their mother just seemed to work all the time, I have no idea of what she did, but she was very busy.  When she was home, she was always so kind to me, but also very tired.  She had lovely long fingers and beautiful dark eyes.  She always seemed to take me in and understand me, while I rarely spent time with her.  I admire her so very much. 

My parents also always worked very hard, but were lucky enough to have day-jobs without much overtime.  They were home every afternoon, attended our games, and watched over us and our friends.  They created a comfortable home life for us.  Here are a few more details to fill out the picture for you; the Wilsons worked very hard to maintain a middle class life, my parents worked hard, but were professionals with slightly higher incomes.  The Wilsons are black, we are white.  Our homes were only one block apart.

I could refer to myself as "anglo" because my skin is white.  Yet the word “anglo" can be defined as “a prefix to indicate a relation to England.”  You see, while my family has a few strains of English nationality, we're also French, Canadian, and Irish.  My grandmother grew up in South Carolina on a tobacco plantation - who knows what her family histories included!  I don't necessarily feel like I'm of English descent...so no "anglo" label for me. 

As a nurse, I once had a very unhappy and rather combative patient named Darien.  Darien was a teenager who had been injured in a car crash.  He has beautiful, very dark black skin.  You know, the kind that reflects the color blue in the right sunlight.  He’s a physically beautiful person, who carries lots of distrust in his heart.  Being a white woman who happens to have blue eyes and blonde hair, he immediately decided that I was not someone he liked.  We spent many hours together while I cared for him, but these were not easy hours for him or for me. 

I knew I couldn’t simply tell Darien “I have lots of friends who are black.” I mean, how superficial is that?  I finally sat down one day, looked him in the eye and asked “Do you think I had any more choice about having white skin and blue eyes than you did about having dark skin and dark eyes?” 

He must have mulled that over all night, I know I did.  During the next day and the next day, things gradually became easier between us.  Maybe he began to see me as a person, not just that “white woman in a white uniform.”  Maybe, but I’ll never know for sure.  I hope so, I think of him fondly and pray for him often. 

Situations like this make me miss home.  Home was where whoever showed up to play was accepted.  Everyone grabbed a mitt, a fishing pole, or fought over the basketball, but by simply showing up you were included.  Just thinking about it makes my eyes well up with tears.  I miss those people and those years very much.  It’s not because I want to be nine years old again, it is because I want to have friends that know me and like me, because of the person I am inside.  Wearing my appearance, my nationality, my approximate income-level feels like carrying around an anvil all the time.  Appearances are overly important in our society. 


I left Texas and now live in New England.  First I lived in eastern Connecticut which my husband and I referred to it as the “whitest area in the US.”  This notion was brought into painfully clear focus when my daughter was 3 years old.  Looking at a photo album, she saw a picture of my friend Doug holding her as a newborn in his arms.  My tiny daughter pointed at Doug and asked “What’s wrong with his skin?”  I was aghast.  As you can guess, Doug has very dark skin. 

I felt sick that my daughter hadn’t lived among enough different kinds of people to understand that skin color is only that…a color.  “Different” is not “wrong.”  There are no words one can use to educate a three-year-old about this concept.  To learn about it, she needed to live it.  So, we sold our house and moved to a place with a more diverse population about 30 minutes away in the next state.  We live there today.

Our town is mostly populated by Italians.  A river runs through our town, but it took me a long time to understand that the water is not only a landmark.  Over the last few hundred years, families of stonecutters came to the US and settled into our town.  Those from Calabria live on the eastern side of the river and those from Sicily live on the western side. 

To anyone else, this might not seem so significant, but it surely makes a difference here.  There’s a Calabrese social club and a Sicilian social club; I’ve been to both and they’re both very, very nice.  Of course the food is FABULOUS everywhere, but the recipes are different in each part of town.  I shake my head thinking about this, IT IS the twenty-first century after all.  But this is also our reality in our town. 

The Irish comprise the second biggest population here, following them there’s a wonderful mix of skin colors: a growing number of Asians, even one family from Russia and another few from Poland.  Living here also means that we’re near several Native American landholdings.  Ever heard of the Foxwoods or Mohegan casinos? 

I feel like the “Native Americans” are the only true people of North America.  All the rest of us came as immigrants, and we were lucky to make our way in this country.  The manner in which the Native Americans have been treated in our history is dreadful and horrendous.  They offered the hand of friendship and were repaid with disease, cheats, abuse, and worse. 

Personally I find a Native American man with long, black, glossy hair hanging down his back to be very attractive.  A beautiful and proud people, they have struggled in the world the white man wrought in our country.  When I see a person living his culture, whether it’s long hair or an afro, traditional dress, or unique jewelry, one can sense their family history.  Their choices reflect the strength of their families and their traditions; I feel the stronger in myself for being around them. 


Here is the crux of my issue.  My skin may be white, but I’m certainly not a Native American.  So how “American” am I?  I may live here, but I don’t feel entitled to this country.  My birth certificate says “American,” but my family is not “of” this country.  On the other hand, if I were forced to leave, where would I go?  My parentage is so mixed, there’s no clear place that I could call home, other this country. 

More than anything else I am mostly Irish.  As I’ve mentioned, I have blonde hair, fair skin, and blue eyes.  That’s how I was born.  You could say I look like a WASP – a white person of Anglo-Saxon heritage who belongs to a Protestant religious denomination.  Yes, I can look and act the part, be the soccer mom, wear nice clothes, drive a classy car, but it doesn’t change who I am deep inside.  It bothers me greatly that my outward appearance seems to create barriers with certain people, and builds bridges with other folks I don’t know….and often don’t want to know.

Often in my world I make contact with some that looks very different from me.  Many people are surprised that I can speak a bit of Spanish, enough to compliment their beautiful children, ask a question, or simply make polite conversation.  I’ve been learning a bit of Italian also.  I despise it when I initiate conversation in another language with someone and their first respond with a suspicious look; as if to ask “What does this gabacho* want with me?”  After a few words, they seem to sense my sincerity and we get along just fine.  Mostly this happens around other mothers and their children, on playgrounds, in airports, and so forth.

(*”Gabacho” is a Spanish term for a white man or woman, it’s similar to the word “Gringo.”) 
   
I usually call to my children by their American names, but I also use different language variations when appropriate, or just because a mood takes over me.  For example, my son is “John”, but also “Juan” or “Giovanni.”  Sometimes he looks at me oddly, but he’s adjusted, and he always comes when called for dinnertime!  My husband is “Joseph” or “Giuseppe” and I am either “Dawn” or “Aurora.”  We’re all flexible here.

I’ve been on the receiving end of discrimination, a slammed door in my face, unpleasant things said by total strangers, or even people shooing their children away from me, and I feel shame.  Shame for their actions and for our society; people should not presuppose what another’s like only based only on my appearance—but it happens all the time.  I realize that there’s a reason for these reactions.  It makes me sad that somewhere, somehow, those people had been taught to mistrust a blonde gabacho.  I yearn to return to my childhood in Texas where we took each other as we came, with only the thought of  “let’s just play together.” 


From history, I learned about a time when the “Irish Need Not Apply” signs commonly appeared in business windows in New England.  Even with white skin, the Irish were still not good enough.  Time has passed, and the Irish have blended into American society.  With our red, blonde, or brown hair and white skin, we’ve adjusted, mixed and matched with other families, and mostly, we’re become “white.”  Yet in the last century, a proper English Lord might refer to the Irish as the “dirty Irish.” 

You see “white” is not necessarily better.  White is only a skin color.  It makes me crazy  to see racism or experience racism, simply because of skin color. 

I’ll never forget looking for Aldo’s eyes, hoping that he’d look back in time for me to pass the ball so he could sink a basket for a point.    Monica was my best friend and she was always better than me at every sport.  Yet, her home was a sad, mean little affair, with lots of kids and not much money.  When she and I were on the volleyball court, none of that mattered.  What DID matter was that fact that when I set up the ball, then Monica spiked it down to gain a point for our team. 

Where did all of that go? 

My children and I walk through a rainbow of colors and cultures everyday.  They never think much of a person’s skin and my daughter has never again asked “What’s wrong” about a person who looks different from us.  Yet, my children will never live in a similar mix of people who “just played” together, the people who just got along and had fun together. 

I hope that through my actions, I'vef shown my children that people are just people.  Color, culture, and so forth are both inherited and a matter of choice.  At the end of the day, we should interact with people on the basis of their personalities, their kindnesses, and their individual traits.  Idealistic? Yes it is.  But maybe it’s possible.