Diaspora: The Tale of a Lost Bastard of Ireland
The following is the beginnings of a short story taken from my one of my notebooks. I have yet to flesh out the rest of the story.
I’m not Irish. I was born in Canada, as were my parents. My link to the Emerald Isle is found on the upper branches of the family tree. But, buried deep inside the twisted double helix of my DNA is a pro-typical Irishman, that, from time-to-time, emerges, like a Jekyll to my Hyde. I’ve been told by others this Irishman lurking in my blood is not very well hidden. That if I sported the red hair and freckles it would only be slightly more obvious of where my people originated.
Why is it important to know I’m not Irish but remain firmly within the bosom of that race? For most of my life I could not give an answer to that question. The faint scars of old Eire seemed unimportant, just an interesting fact of my family tree. As I grow older, I realize those faint scars meant a lot to my life. I may not have recognized the presence of my heritage, but I felt it regardless.
Poverty, while not unique to the Irish, is a particular prominent experience to most who call themselves Irish, and was a part of my experience growing up. And I don’t mean the kind of poverty that involves the exclusion of a trip to Europe, purchasing a fishing boat, or shying away from brand name clothes. The poverty I am speaking of requires making a decision between buying a loaf of bread or a carton of milk. It’s a trick question because choosing the bread means no milk for cereal or tea or coffee. It also means no milk for baking, if flour and salt happen to be in the cupboard. Choosing the milk means no sandwiches, toast, or supper of a mystery sauce drowning a slice of bread. In short, either choice means an empty stomach.
I did not know what an avocado was until late into my teens. I didn’t taste one until I was in my twenties. I was twelve when I saw my first pineapple in person. The local grocery story had an entire produce bin of them. They had a sticker on them saying they came from Hawaii. I always wondered if Elvis had grown them. I had learned about pineapples from watching Paradise Hawaiian Style. The fact the grocery store had pineapples for sale caused a stir in the neighbourhood. Who could possibly afford to buy one? Four dollars would buy bread for a month.