The Unauthorized Autobiography of Amy Dillon

It’s a late summer night in my grandparents’ backyard.  I sit on my Aunt Maryanne’s lap as my aunts and uncles reminisce about their childhood in the Austin neighborhood of Chicago, their school days at St. Martha’s, the snow days, etc.  They laugh at the fact that they used to hate each other; my Aunts Una and Maureen tell me how they would walk on opposite sides of the street on their walk to school.  My Aunt Maryanne smashes a cigarette into an ash tray on the table next to her lawn chair.  They will stay there, with me, until the sun sets and the streetlights turn on, until they have almost run out of things to talk about, for the night. 

The most important thing about being Irish, for me, is family.  All I needed to know, as a child, was that my family loved me. 

Thesis: There are 70-80 million Irish people worldwide at this point in time.  Thesis repeated:  The people I knew best as a child were my Irish family.

As an undergrad, I wrote a poem about being Irish, for which I had the assignment of imitating another poem:

“The Sober Irish Girl’s Poem for Her Friend Who Isn’t Irish” By: Amy Dillon

(A Parody of “The Mexican Cabdriver’s Poem for His Wife, Who Has Left Him” By: Martin Espada)

We were playing bingo

at the Irish Heritage Center,

so I asked the immigrants

in the back of the gymnasium

to write a poem for you.

They asked

if you were like the green hillside

crowding cottages at dusk.

I said no,

he is like a pub

that is so full of drunks

I have the whole county to myself

to find a four leaf clover

outside.

This poem I wrote semi-blindly, without having any real intention of the man that it portrays.  Ok, that is a lie.  I had a certain guy in mind, in the back of my mind, while writing it.  But my favorite part, the part that I think this autobiography would be lost without, is the part about Bingo at the Irish Heritage Center.  As a child, this place in Chicago was where my cousins took Irish dancing lessons, where my grandfather went occasionally to drink, and as a twenty- something, I went with my mother and her friend to play Bingo, on one or more occasions.  The impression I got from the crowd of Irish people there was that they were modest yet very explicit.  The look in their eyes suggested that they were very at peace, content in their ways.  Some had accents, some I assumed had accents, because they didn’t talk; they just played Bingo, until, in some junctures, a monetary prize was won.  The only people I associated as people that I might become acquainted with were the Irish- American young people, who were selling Bingo tickets.  Looking back, I assume they were Irish-American, because they were young people.  I have no way of knowing if they were Irish or Irish-American.

The difference between Irish and Irish-American may not be substantial to some people, to people who don’t classify themselves as Irish, but to me, it is very significant.  My grandparents on my Dad’s side emigrated from Ireland when they were young, so I consider them Irish, and I consider myself Irish- American.  My Dad has dual-citizenship to Ireland, but he is still, in my eyes, Irish-American, because he was born here, in the United States.  When I think of Irish-American people, I think of girls who wear stretchy headbands.  I think of middle-class families with at least three kids that live in the suburbs, where the kids play soccer on weekends.  I think of the South Side St. Patrick’s Day parade.  When I think of Irish people, who originated, who were born, in Ireland, I think of alcoholism.  I think of the depression that comes with alcoholism, that comes from the lack of work available.  I think of Angela’s Ashes.  I think of my grandparents’ kitchen table, where my grandparents and my aunts sat on some days when I visited.  I think of the stereotypes that come from people who don’t know the difference between Irish people and Irish-American people.  I think of the hate that spurs from the problems that arose in Great Britain, the hate that exists between Irish people and English people.

Something worth mentioning is that I am also part English, originating from my Mom’s side.  I don’t know the percentage I am English, I don’t know what part of England I am from, but it exists within me.  To Irish people, and to English people, this means that I am a walking contradiction.  I really don’t understand the hate that is there between the Irish and the English.  It started very long ago, and it is quietly carried amongst the Irish and the English.  It is part of the heritage of the English and the Irish, it is part of who I am.  It is hard to explain, and it is something only understood by those who are a part of it.  But I have a little bit of both sides within me.  I guess that makes me special.  I guess that may make me malevolent, in the eyes of some, but I like to think of it as a way, a reason, to further define myself, outside of the confines of heritage.  I don’t spend that much time with my relatives on my Mom’s side, but I am close with my aunts, uncles and cousins on my Dad’s side, so, because of this, I most celebrate my Irish heritage. 

Irish heritage= pride + family + identity

English heritage= pride + family + identity

Yet,

English heritage≠ Irish Heritage

In my eyes,

Irish Heritage ≈ English Heritage

Maybe I see it like this because I live in the United States, and I live amongst pretty much all of the nations and heritages of the world.  Maybe I see it like this because I am witness to a lot of other culturally motivated problems that exist outside of the angst that exists among the Irish and the English.  When I think of the way that the Irish and English get along, something that follows this thought is, what if they did get along?  The angst started so long ago that it seems to me that whatever provoked it should probably be insignificant now.  It all started when the English invaded Irish territory, but that was so long ago!  I know that this is something naïve to say, but I feel like it is still true.  After thinking of this, while writing this paper, I have come to realize that happiness comes from within. 

Happiness = Inner Peace