It’s nothing against the Irish. It’s just that heredity is utter BS.
Look. Three of the nationalities I come from are German, French, and Jewish. So if national origin actually meant anything, I should have some special day just for me to invade myself then stick my head in an oven.
Obviously, none of that is going to happen.
And yet here’s a special day for one particular group (or even those who just want to pretend — huh?) in what might be the world’s most mixed-up, polyglot republic. It’s the drink-until-you-puke bacchanalia of identity politics. It’s silly. And in some ways, it ought to be seen as slightly offensive to the Irish. Imagine if everybody was supposed to spend Black History Month dressed like a Hollywood version of a ’70s pimp, carrying around a 40oz in a paper sack.
I say: We’re all Americans; be that. Our special day is Independence Day — which, considering the drubbing we gave the English, ought to be plenty enough for everybody, even the Irish.
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