Every country from which my ancestors came is in this tiny corner of the world: England, Ireland, Scotland, France, Germany, the Netherlands, and Sweden. Well, I suppose that's not quite true. Every country from which my ancestors sailed to America is in this tiny corner of the world, but before they got to those places? Who knows from where else my mitochondria have their provenance? Who are those unknown and anonymous grandmothers and forefathers whose lives made my own possible? These questions stir my imagination.
But I'm getting off-track. What I wanted to say is that I've been thinking a lot about my heritage lately, especially the Irish part. (Maybe it's a lingering buzz from St. Patrick's Day.) Being Irish has always been a part of my identity, but it leaves me with some questions. Can I really call myself Irish, or am I just American? When I make my "heritage" a significant part of my life, should I really be listening to Buck Owens and B.B. King? Learning the Jitterbug and the Charleston?
I wonder if it does me any good to lose myself to the sweet sounds of the sean nós of Carthach Mac Craith and Iarla Ó Lionáird, to sing "Craigie Hill" and "Lough Erne," to learn every word of the Irish language that I can. Am I keeping something alive? Does it make a difference? Does it matter?
I can't know, I guess, but I believe it does.
2 comments:
And it's what you believe that's important. I love the cloth globe and the way they've tried to squeeze all those names in.
Right. If it matters to you, then it matters. I love the way Audrey Mango sees the world. And I'm going to try to take a special picture for you tomorrow.
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