Kiss Me, I'm Irish
Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day, a day when fountains run green and people all over the country find ways to be festive. This Irish-American tradition was introduced in 1737, in Boston, and people in America have been using the day ever since as an excuse to hope for spring, have some fun, and display ethnic pride—if not to party as if there is no tomorrow. Children will wear green to school or, if their Protestant parents want to make a statement, orange.
I’m not sure what I’ll wear, but I will reflect on what it means to be Irish in America. Some historians think that the Irish, along with other despised ethnic groups in our country, helped show others how to endure prejudice and hatred while opening the doors for future generations of immigrants. It’s so ironic, and so American, that the Irish who gave us St. Patrick’s Day are the same people others once wanted to ship back home or close our borders to.
“Mitchell” is an Irish name, sort of, but my ancestors slipped in before the anti-Irish sentiment was so strong. First, some Vikings settled in France and took the name Michel. Then, for various reasons, they travelled to Great Britain, moving from England to Scotland to Ireland. By the time they ended up packing their name in trunks to carry across the Atlantic Ocean, my Norman ancestors were called Irish. That was a long time ago.
What started out as Michel ended up as Mitchel in colonial America. A few Mitchels who had found their way to Pennsylvania from Ireland meandered down the east coast to a rural community in South Carolina, where my father’s by now Anglican forebears settled down to farm around 1740. Not too many decades would pass before somebody would decide to anglicize “Mitchel,” too, and add a second “l.”
It doesn’t surprise me that the “l” was added during a time in our country when anti-Irish sentiments began to flair. A rise in Irish emigration in the nineteenth century made too many snobby citizens nervous. Prejudice thus was born of the fear that Irish people leaving a famine-torn land, ready to live in relative squalor and work for almost nothing, would take over all the menial jobs and build too many Catholic churches.
My husband’s father, Willie Love, decided to come to America from Ireland in the first part of the twentieth century. By now, the “Help Wanted: No Irish Need Apply” signs were not so prevalent, though they did still exist. He was able to find work in a factory and have a good life. In the true spirit of the new country, this Anglican Irishman married a Catholic Irish-American. America is nothing if not a melting pot.
It is interesting, I think, to realize that the name Love that my son carries, along with Mitchell, also originated in France, where it was once “Loef” and meant “wolf.” The name turned into “Love” in Great Britain, with the Loves following the pattern so many did in those times, moving from one country to another, just as the Mitchels did, to find a good home, or at least a country that would tolerate them or their religion.
There was a time when the Irish were called “white negroes.” Despite prejudice, the Irish, Catholics and Protestants alike, persevered. Catholics continued to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, a day set aside to commemorate a Roman-Scotsman enslaved by the Irish who later helped Rome to Christianize Ireland. Nineteenth-century cartoonist Thomas Nast depicted Americans celebrating St. Patrick’s Day as apes. We’ve come a long way.
Felicia Mitchell. First published in Washington County News (Abingdon, VA), 16 March 2005, p. A4. WCN is a publication of Media General Operations. Copyright 2005.
I’m not sure what I’ll wear, but I will reflect on what it means to be Irish in America. Some historians think that the Irish, along with other despised ethnic groups in our country, helped show others how to endure prejudice and hatred while opening the doors for future generations of immigrants. It’s so ironic, and so American, that the Irish who gave us St. Patrick’s Day are the same people others once wanted to ship back home or close our borders to.
“Mitchell” is an Irish name, sort of, but my ancestors slipped in before the anti-Irish sentiment was so strong. First, some Vikings settled in France and took the name Michel. Then, for various reasons, they travelled to Great Britain, moving from England to Scotland to Ireland. By the time they ended up packing their name in trunks to carry across the Atlantic Ocean, my Norman ancestors were called Irish. That was a long time ago.
What started out as Michel ended up as Mitchel in colonial America. A few Mitchels who had found their way to Pennsylvania from Ireland meandered down the east coast to a rural community in South Carolina, where my father’s by now Anglican forebears settled down to farm around 1740. Not too many decades would pass before somebody would decide to anglicize “Mitchel,” too, and add a second “l.”
It doesn’t surprise me that the “l” was added during a time in our country when anti-Irish sentiments began to flair. A rise in Irish emigration in the nineteenth century made too many snobby citizens nervous. Prejudice thus was born of the fear that Irish people leaving a famine-torn land, ready to live in relative squalor and work for almost nothing, would take over all the menial jobs and build too many Catholic churches.
My husband’s father, Willie Love, decided to come to America from Ireland in the first part of the twentieth century. By now, the “Help Wanted: No Irish Need Apply” signs were not so prevalent, though they did still exist. He was able to find work in a factory and have a good life. In the true spirit of the new country, this Anglican Irishman married a Catholic Irish-American. America is nothing if not a melting pot.
It is interesting, I think, to realize that the name Love that my son carries, along with Mitchell, also originated in France, where it was once “Loef” and meant “wolf.” The name turned into “Love” in Great Britain, with the Loves following the pattern so many did in those times, moving from one country to another, just as the Mitchels did, to find a good home, or at least a country that would tolerate them or their religion.
There was a time when the Irish were called “white negroes.” Despite prejudice, the Irish, Catholics and Protestants alike, persevered. Catholics continued to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, a day set aside to commemorate a Roman-Scotsman enslaved by the Irish who later helped Rome to Christianize Ireland. Nineteenth-century cartoonist Thomas Nast depicted Americans celebrating St. Patrick’s Day as apes. We’ve come a long way.
Felicia Mitchell. First published in Washington County News (Abingdon, VA), 16 March 2005, p. A4. WCN is a publication of Media General Operations. Copyright 2005.
posted by Felicia Mitchell | 9:01 PM
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