Kiss me, I’m Irish-American

I have found that a lot of English people laugh about Americans who associate themselves as Irish, Italian, Polish, fill-in-the-blank – Americans. They often say, “You’re American! That’s it!” But we really do associate ourselves as Irish-American. My grandparents went to the Irish-American club every week and were very proud of where their parents came from and the traditions they grew up with. The pride and those traditions have been passed on. There isn’t anything wrong with that.

Because of the strong sense of pride, St. Patrick’s Day is a big celebration in many places in the US. There is a big St. Patrick’s Day Parade in New York City every year. The second biggest is in Savannah, Georgia.

St. Patrick’s Day, when I was a kid, used to be associated with wearing all green and eating green pancakes, drinking green milk, and making Irish soda bread. Then in high school, it shifted to wearing something subtle like green socks and driving through McDonald’s for a Shamrock Shake. In college, it was all about the green beer, knocking back Irish Car Bombs and wearing “Kiss me, I’m Irish” t-shirts, pins, flip flops, etc.

But for my last St. Patrick’s Day at college, I had to take a final exam from 7pm-9pm. It was the last exam before Spring Break for most everyone in my class. But it was my last exam ever as I was graduating early. Everyone would be heading to the bars the minute the exam was over.

Scott was visiting that week and I had mentioned going to to the bars for a green beer one last time after my exam. He was acting sort of funny and I figured it was just because he never understood the St. Patrick’s Day craze in America. But before I left for my exam, he handed me an envelope and told me not to open it until after my exam, but before I came back to my apartment.

As I drove to class, I wondered what was in the envelope but had too many facts and figures going around in my mind in preparation for the exam. I left the envelope in the car and headed in to take my last ever exam.

Once the exam was over, I sat in my car and opened the envelope. It was the “Story of Us” which Scott had written. I read the story as students piled down Court Street, some dressed as leprechauns, others wearing shamrock hats, all looking for green beer.

He had written a story about the previous seven years together and included photos of us over those years. At the end of the story, he had written, “You’ve just finished your last exam of your college career. I’m waiting for you at your apartment. Come back for the next chapter of our story.”

And then, I freaked out. Was this it? What if it isn’t? What if I am over-thinking this? But if it isn’t it, what could it be? I hope this is it!

I drove back to my apartment, dodging leprechauns, and waited outside the elevator as a group of girls dressed in green wigs and shamrock stockings tumbled out into the hallway. I rode up the elevator with a guy whose shirt read, “Kiss me. I’m not Irish but I’m trying real hard.”

On the fourth floor, I waited outside my door for what felt like minutes but was probably only five seconds. I was trying to prepare myself. For what, I wasn’t sure.

When I pushed open the door, I saw that the living room was filled with balloons and there was music playing. Scott, dressed in a tux, was standing in the middle of the room.

This is it.

He started talking but I couldn’t hear him. It was like the sound all the adults make in Charlie Brown cartoons. I was trying so hard to hear him but my heart was pounding. I remember thinking, this is it and you’re going to miss it! So I stopped him and asked him to wait a minute. And then I asked him to start again. I was ready.

He got down on one knee. I said yes and then asked if he had asked my dad. He had. (In fact, he had flown from London to Washington DC and spent the day with my family. After my dad – being the dad he is – gave Scott a hard time, Scott was finally able to ask for permission. Once he got the “go ahead,” he flew up to Ohio to see me and I had no idea.)

Then my phone rang and it was my friend, Jack, calling from the bars. He shouted down the phone, “You have to come. It’s your last night. Don’t be boring, get down here!”

I excitedly told him my news and he said, “All the more reason to drink.”

Which was true. So we opened up a bottle of champagne.

I never got that last green beer. But I think I got something much better that St. Patrick’s Day.

Three years later, and here we are. No special St. Paddy’s celebrations. No green pancakes or Shamrock Shakes. I’m watching Louis Walsh’s Top 50 Irish Crackers on some music channel. And I am wearing green socks. That’s about it as far as today’s festivities will go.

But next year I’ll be able to say I’m Irish-British-American. If that doesn’t call for a celebratory drink- green beer, champagne, whatever – I don’t know what does.