I have never been to the land my people come from.
I think I am aching for a home I have never seen.
Maybe my Irish blood has given me more than quick-blushing cheeks and pale skin
Maybe it has given me my love of the ocean,
Of green things,
Maybe it has given me my fighting spirit.
Because my people have been trampled upon and walked all over for so long it’s hard to remember when they weren’t.
Their language was stolen from them ,
Their land forced to fly someone else’s flag.
But they didn’t give up—
They formed a republic, they formed the IRA.
And they immigrated.
They flowed across the Atlantic like a tidal wave, Micks looking for the American dream.
My family among them.
They grew their broods of freckled scrappy Catholic children,
And they planted roots.
They spread across the vast United States until eventually, they hit the West Coast,
They hit me.
A freckled scrappy Catholic girl, curly haired and opinionated, looking for home.
I want to retrace their steps, take a voyage back to where, a long time ago, my story began.
My name is like a map, guiding me to the Emerald Isle, the apostrophe which stubbornly flummoxes baristas and computers saying quietly,
Go little one, go.”