Another Partly-Irish St. Patrick’s Day

I made a phone call to my grandmother every March 17th for a decade and a half, always saying Happy St. Patrick’s Day first and second making a joke about how neither of us were going to get drunk, or even drink a single beer.

She was fiercely proud of being Irish, my grandmother, living almost her entire adult life in Emmetsburg, Iowa, the sister city of Dublin, where they have their own chunk of the blarney stone in front of the courthouse. She was 100% Irish and so was my grandfather, making my mom 100%, and me 50%. When I was a teenager, relatives would tell me I looked like my grandfather, who died on my mom’s birthday when I was seven years old. I never really got to know him, or if we were similar in any way besides our hair and bone structure. They say Grandpa had a pretty good appetite for booze, but I never really heard any stories. I had only been drinking legally for 26 months when the state ordered me to go to rehab when I was 23.

I never showed my grandma the tattoo I got to celebrate my first year of sobriety, a claddagh ring around my left arm, and she died last summer never knowing about all my problems with alcohol. I’ve had enough time with the tattoo that I don’t like it anymore, chalking it up to one of those things you do when you’re young and you don’t know shit about anything.

Every year St. Patrick’s Day comes around two weeks after I mark another year of sobriety. This year was the first March 17th in a long time that I didn’t call my grandmother, and I didn’t do much to celebrate besides exchange text messages with my mom and remember to not ride my bike in the street during the hours people are likely to be driving drunk.

I know not everyone marks St. Patrick’s Day by getting drunk, but plenty of people do. During my drinking years, it seemed as good of an excuse to get blackout shitfaced as New Year’s, or my birthday, or Friday. It seems now the further I get from those years, the less I identify with my half-Irish heritage, or as my grandma used to say, the only half I need to worry about.

A friend told me last year that we’re getting further and further from the generations who immigrated to the U.S. from Ireland, and people’s Irish heritage is getting more and more diluted. Now, my grandmother is gone, and it’s been 13 years since I’ve sat down and had a Guinness or six, and I wonder how much I really knew about being Irish anyway. I read all of Frank McCourt’s memoirs, used to know all the words to The Rare Old Mountain Dew and The Rising of the Moon, knew what the three colors on the Irish flag stand for (Grandma yelled at me for wearing an orange t-shirt to a family reunion once), I know the difference between a shamrock and a four-leaf clover, and I’ve watched Dark Side of the Lens at least 50 times. I also learned how to drink off a hangover, how to pour a perfect Black and Tan, and how handcuffs fit, but the older I get, the less I think that had anything to do with Ireland.

The Irish side of my family never taught me how to drink. My mother and her six brothers and sisters are characterized less by partying than helping people, grew up poor and worked their way to advanced medical degrees and raised families. What I’ve really learned from them is something like toughness, laughter even (and especially) when things aren’t going so well, fierce loyalty and a certain pride in those traits. So that’s what I think of when I think about St. Patrick’s Day now.

I see my life in two chapters, split by a very tough year learning how to relate to people and navigate a society often lubricated by beer and liquor. I would never in a million years trade all the things I’ve gotten to do sober for the freedom to drink again, even though it’s strange every time I’m at a table of people lifting glasses for a toast—especially on St. Patrick’s Day.

I don’t judge anyone for drinking, because I know some people are good at it, and some of us are complete disasters and the world is a better place if we abstain. But I also have this story about the struggle to quit and stay quit, and how it built a new person who could seemingly never quit anything else, and as a result found his way to some amazing places. And I’d like to think that type of resolve comes from being Irish, at least a little bit.

-Brendan

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16 Comments

  • Thanks for that, Brendan. I don’t drink either and often find myself sitting around with old rugby buddies as they do. It get’s weird sometimes but I’ve found they (mostly) respect the choice and appreciate the occasional ride home.

  • Thank you! Thank you for sharing this part of you, it is a part of a lot of people and their families too. Life can be snatched away in a moment, and I choose to live it 100% sober, 100% of the time. Since I went clean 13 years ago I NEVER went back. I hope others can be inspired by your story to re-think what they put in their bodies and ask themselves “is this going to better my life, or hurt it?”. Thank you again.

  • Thank you for this. My son has a similar story to your own- he is now 2 1/2 years sober at 23. He is still learning how to make friends, and have a social life that does not revolve around booze. Being in college, this is a challenge.

  • Thanks for that Brendan..

    “I’d never in a million years trade all the things I’ve gotten to do sober for the freedom to drink again.”

    Amen to that brother.

    PS. Buy the Cicerone guidebook to the Irish Coast to Coast route?

  • Whew, that was really something. I’ve always liked your writing, but it seems like the serious pieces are getting more and more powerful. St. Patrick’s Day was extra trouble for me because it also happens to be my birthday. I haven’t quit drinking, but I’ve definitely managed to keep it between the lines over the last several years. I definitely don’t miss the annual green puke fest.

    You rock man, thanks for hitting “publish” every Thursday morning!

  • Even though you are only 50% Irish, you are 100% correct. That type of resolve does come from being Irish but you are so much more!

  • Brendan, you do have some courage and strength (i. e. balls). Such truthfulness and ultimate sincerity is not gained by many.

    Your writing now contain all that life is.

  • Hey my family is from Emmetsburg!! Know any Drews, Elberts or Malloys?!

    Great post as always!

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