| Oh, by the way...For your benefit Master Drotter, et al....
Irish Myth and Reality
by Mike Barnicle
Yesterday morning, because I wanted to experience what it must
be like to be brain dead, I turned the TV on to discover a young
man discussing the fact that he had lived for years under the same
roof as his parents without ever knowing his father was a woman.
One look at the son was enough to tell me that he probably had some
difficulty figuring out exactly what he was so I directed my attention
to the newspaper I was reading when this incredible ad for ice cream
appeared.
An old man, Carvel I think, was saying that at this special time
of year his store would present ice cream that looked like Irishmen.
Curious, I dropped by the Carvel place in Brookline, where a kid
at the counter told me these wonderful treats wouldn't be on sale
until Friday.
"then we'll have Irish faces that are all green," he was saying.
"Is that what you want?"
"No," I told him. "I want ice cream that looks like a Jew. Or
how about a chocolate cone that looks like a black guy? Can you
do that?"
"Are you crazy?" the kid said, laughing.
"Well how about an ice cream cake shaped like a huge Middle Eastern
nose? An Arab sundae. Is that possible?"
"Man, you are nuts," he said.
"No nuts," I insisted. "Whipped cream with red M&M's to resemble
the complexion of Englishmen."
Unsuccessful, I came back to the office, more convinced than
ever that I belong to the only ethnic group left in America, Irish,
That can be made fun of at will without the slightest public
repercussion toward those perpetrating the offense. Of course this
is not surprising when you consider that the Irish have assimilated
so well here that blood lines now resemble soda water and outrage
can only be summoned over increases in automobile excise taxes or
property assessments.
While mulling this over, my phone rang and a guy from New York
told me how a wonderful fellow named Joe Hynes had organized a
demonstration in front of the New York Times to protest the paper's
predictable failure to cover the murder of Pat Funicane, a Belfast
attorney assassinated after a British racist stood in Parliament
to practically call for the murder of anyone caught defending a
Catholic in the North. Hynes himself is an unusual man, an Irish-
Catholic lawyer from Brooklyn who cares more about fairness than
he does about wealth or personal ambition.
Then the guy asked if I had read the new book written by Peter
Maas, which I most certainly have. We talked a bit about the book,
called "Father and Son", and how it provides a much better feel
for the daily obscenities in Northern Ireland than any supposedly
balanced account in the Times, which is no more than another American
house organ for Thatcher and the terrorism she sponsors in six counties
where the British still cling to the myth of empire.
Maas is a reporter. And he brought his good reporter's eye to
the situation. As a result, his book gives you the reality of desperate
lives under siege. It is not some propaganda piece aimed at bucking-up
demented policies of politicians who strip a race of human beings
of constitutional rights while saying quite politely, "Well, we
must. It's war you know."
And as the British sip tea in between skin searches, as the London
government continues a premeditated assault on civil liberties,
their despicable conduct is met by the thunderous silence of the
Irish in America. We do and say very little because the only thing
lower than our interest is our knowledge.
It is tragic how we have been lulled, homogenized, and inoculated
against any feeling of outrage. We have become a country of "Parade
Irish" who think St Patrick's Day is a marvelous success whenever
a police superintendent announces no arrests were made and only
312 people threw up on their shoes along the route.
Clearly, St Patrick's Day is now a very bad practical joke we
play on ourselves. It's a time for stale stories or for nuts who
run around thinking the solution to troubles abroad is sending a
.38 to Derry.
Pat Funicane once represented Bobby Sands, a great Irish starver
who went without food one day too many and ended up in Milltown
Cemetery, a martyr. Now Funicane is dead too, another martyr in
a country that doesn't need any more.
And here we have the stone-silent survivors, fat, prosperous,
far removed and apparently afflicted with amnesia. What other answer
could there be when you see that we giddily celebrate our origins
with bogus sentiment dished out alongside corned beef and cabbage,
green beer, and perhaps a nice slice of colored ice cream that looks
just like an Irishman for dessert.
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