The Irish American

It’s a strange thing to sit at my desk in New York City to look out the window and see Sixth Avenue stretched out far below and in the distance the Huston River, and turn and look at my computer screen and see the signature of my great grandfather Patrick Harty on the 1901 census form.
It’s a strange thing to sit at my desk in New York City to look out the window and see Sixth Avenue stretched out far below and in the distance the Huston River, and turn and look at my computer screen and see the signature of my great grandfather Patrick Harty on the 1901 census form.

(Most of the records were burned in a fire in the Four Courts during the Civil War. But the two saved census records, 1901 and 1911, are now online.)

Patrick is 73 in 1901 and his wife Mary is 68. Their son William, who would become my grandfather, is 35 and still living at home with his brothers John and James and his sister Johanna. English is listed as their spoken language. They can all read and write. Roman Cathilik [sp] is listed as their religion. I don’t know if the misspelling of "Cathilik" is my great grandfather’s or the census taker, Constable William James Hughes.

My first St. Patrick’s Day in New York, I was fired. Or rather, the day after my first St. Patrick’s Day in New York, I was fired.
My first St. Patrick’s Day in New York, I was fired. Or rather, the day after my first St. Patrick’s Day in New York, I was fired.

I was fired from my waitress job because I didn’t show up for work on St. Patrick’s Day. But in all fairness to myself, it was an unjust firing. I had asked, and been granted, the day off but at the last minute my manager, the cigar-chomping Mr. C, reneged and said I had to work.

He liked to play favorites and “Jackie” was getting the day off instead of me. The fact that Jackie was sitting on his knee as he told me this, and the fact that she had only just joined the staff, didn’t sit well with me.

When I was young I used to dream about gunmen coming to our house.
When I was young I used to dream about gunmen coming to our house.

I would hear them downstairs confronting my mother. I would want to go to her but I would be afraid. I would wake up with my heart pounding.

I was traumatized by Irish history. I remember not wanting to turn the page in my history book. Every planned insurrection would start out hopeful enough, but turn the page and there was a traitor or leaked information – the British would put down the Rebellion in the most horrific manner. (I always connected Cromwell’s sack of Drogheda with the murder of the Holy Innocents that we learned about in Catechism class.)

My first St. Patrick's Day card of the season arrived early:
My first St. Patrick's Day card of the season arrived early:

"Let us assume that we represent one of ‘the underdogs’ because of injuries received, or because of an indictment brought by what the prosecutors name themselves, “the state.” Then what sort of men will we, seek? An Irishman is called into the box for examination. There is no reason for asking about his religion; he is Irish; that is enough. We may not agree with his religion, but it matters not, his feelings go deeper than any religion. You should be aware that he is emotional, kindly and sympathetic. If he is chosen as a juror, his imagination will place him in the dock; really, he is trying himself. You would be guilty of malpractice if you got rid of him, except for the strongest reasons."

After 25 years as editor of Irish America magazine, I have a green tinge to my brain, or perhaps I should say, I see the world through green-tinged glasses.
After 25 years as editor of Irish America magazine, I have a green tinge to my brain, or perhaps I should say, I see the world through green-tinged glasses.

This quirk -- of which all my friends are aware of and indulge me -- comes into its own whenever there's show on television.

For instance, watching The People's Choice Awards a couple of weeks ago, I bolted out of my chair as Alyson Hannigan took to the stage to receive her award. I had to rush to Wikipedia to find out if she was Irish.

The past is never dead. It’s not even past,” the writer William Faulkner said.
The past is never dead. It’s not even past,” the writer William Faulkner said.

I was peeling potatoes for dinner when blindly reaching into the plastic bag my fingers felt something soft, and then the smell hit me. I upended the bag and there was the rotten potato. No big deal really, in the scheme of things, but as I looked at the offending lumper, already infecting the other potatoes around it, I was filled with a kind of despair far beyond what the situation warranted.

I’ve always felt that there is such a thing as historic memory, that we can be affected by things unknown to us but that were experienced by someone of an earlier generation, so perhaps I was experiencing something of what my great-grandmother who lived through the Famine must have felt that summer of 1845 when the blight was first discovered.

It’s Christmas Eve and the Brew and Burger on 47^th Street where I work is crowded with last-minute shoppers and tired children bought in from the boroughs and New Jersey to see the tree at Rockefeller Center by irritated parents and young nannies with short skirts who look at their watches anxiously.

Posted by Patricia Harty at 9/8/2009 5:42 PM EDT
Posted by Patricia Harty at 9/8/2009 5:42 PM EDT

Labor Day is kind of like Christmas -- people have forgotten the meaning of it. They just want the presents, the birth of Christ gets lost somewhere in the wrappings.

The significance of Labor Day gets lost too -- in the sandwiches at the beach on the last day of summer. But as you throw another hot dog on the Barbie, spare a thought for McGuire, Maguire, Jones, Quill and Sweeney –- to name just a few of the many great Irish labor leaders.

Posted by PatriciaHarty at 8/28/2009 6:37 PM EDT
Posted by PatriciaHarty at 8/28/2009 6:37 PM EDT

A sailboat moves slowly down the river its canvas furled.

It's out there all on its own in the quiet of the early morning.

Posted by PatriciaHarty at 6/5/2009 3:27 PM EDT
Posted by PatriciaHarty at 6/5/2009 3:27 PM EDT

She held the two-year-old baby girl in her arms. The child was so light she was afraid that she would crush her or move in such a way as to press against her sores.

She had never been this close to starvation before.

Posted by Patricia Harty at 5/15/2009 4:13 PM EDT
Posted by Patricia Harty at 5/15/2009 4:13 PM EDT

Could an Irish-American Stanford University law professor be the next Supreme Court Justice?

When Kathleen Sullivan, Stanford University law professor, and former dean, was asked in a 2000 interview with Elgie Gillespie for Irish America magazine, about the possibility of following in Sandra Day O'Connor and William Brennan's footsteps, she said:

Posted by Patricia Harty at 5/4/2009 4:08 PM EDT
Posted by Patricia Harty at 5/4/2009 4:08 PM EDT

Kentucky Derby winner Mine That Bird has a famous Irish ancestor or two. He also has an Irish Disney connection, which means that when the movie is made – and you know there's going to be a movie – perhaps we will see it on the Disney Channel. Here’s the story:

Going on the theory that every good horse has Irish bloodlines, I did a little investigation okay, a lot of “mining” into Mine That Bird's, and sure enough found that “the Bird” is not just any little horse, but is the descendant of a famous Irish ancestor called Birdcatcher.

Posted by PatriciaHarty at 3/25/2009 1:22 PM EDT

When I was young, a visit by two Frenchmen caused great excitement in our house.

They were distant cousins – descendants of Oliver Harty who was born in Knockainey, Knocklong, County Limerick in 1746 and left for France as a lad of sixteen.

Posted by PatriciaHarty at 3/20/2009 4:40 PM EDT

Lingering signs of St. Patrick's Day -- a tapestry of John F. Kennedy in an Arabic carpet store window; a display of nylon scarves festooned with shamrocks in a wholesale shop; a bedraggled young man with green T-shirt who doesn't look like he made it home.

It's Tuesday morning, March 18, but let me take you back to March 15, Sunday afternoon.

Posted by PatriciaHarty at 3/19/2009 3:21 PM EDT

“The robins came - that's a sign of luck,” my cousin whispers in my ear as the men start to shovel the clay.

Sure enough, I look up and see a pair of robins swoop down over the heads of those gathered and then fly off together.