I have struggled with the Irish for most of my life. Not directly with people from Ireland but the Irish within myself. I am a Black woman who is quite fair in skin tone, honestly confusingly fair in skin tone, being lighter than many of my white friends in fact. I have blue eyes and when I was younger I had blondish, reddish hair. But low and behold, I am completely African American. My parents, all grandparents, and most great grandparents were all Black people. Every St. Patrick’s Day, I struggle. I absolutely LOVE Irish whiskey, Irish food, and the small part of what I know about the culture and I very much hope to visit Ireland one day. So my struggle isn’t a typical struggle, it is part of my struggle with identity.

My last name is Finley. A common Irish last name for sure. On paper (hair and a few other features aside), I definitely have some Irish roots. So here is the crux and reality of it...I only have these things because my ancestors were owned by Irish slave owners. I don’t come by these features because I belong to some long legacy or heritage, or rather I do but not in a good way. I can’t imagine what life was like on that plantation down in Alabama where my family is from and specifically the obvious rapes and assaults that occurred there. All I know is that while I have grown to love my blue eyes and be comfortable in my alabaster-toned skin, on St. Patrick's day as we celebrate the Irish, I am drawn into turmoil. How do I celebrate a piece of my culture that was raped into me? I wasn’t born into it, I was born in spite of it. My ancestors' children were Black even if the father was Irish so how do I accept that now? The Irish do have a rich culture and some highlights to be proud of as a people I suppose, but it’s not my culture, just swimming in my blood somewhere. For years I have spoken about this with friends and family and still haven’t ever been able to really form a solid question on what I am looking for an answer to. Sometimes I think the question is - is it ok for me to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in any way?

I admit March 17th does not pass without me making a huge pot of corned beef, cabbage, and potatoes and occasionally soda bread. I really never miss an opportunity to have Jameson in hand and I recognize my celebrations are very Americanized since there is no religious component to my acknowledgment of the day. I grew up in the ’70s when classrooms were turned into rainbow wonderlands with clovers and pots of gold all over while we looked over our shoulders for those naughty little leprechauns. Like most other holidays the history was lost and what was ingrained was the miseducation of the Irish as it were. To me, it was fun to wake up, dress in green from head to toe, but like many things for many Blacks... it’s all fun and games ‘til you leave your shitty education and real history comes at you hard and fast. My family was owned by the Irish and from that ownership, years later, I was born with blue eyes and pale skin.

I have also become much less tolerant of the insensitivity and thoughtlessness of others. Like when I was at a party I once mentioned that I have some Irish genes but through my ancestors, so it’s not something I am super proud of and a very confused-faced white woman looked at me and said, “Why, I would love to be Irish. It seems so fun.” My reply was a quick, “I am sure for you it may have been but if you had to get raped to get there, would it still be appealing?”. Words were stumbled, apologies were spewed. I get it, no one thinks it’s their job to think about these things (although really, it is).

But, as I began to struggle more with the idea that I have genes somewhere in me that thought it was ok to OWN other people and do God knows what to them, I began to understand that yes, trauma is carried through generations. I try to put in perspective the things I have come to learn with the rationale that who cares if I eat Irish food and drink Irish whiskey - these things are unrelated right? No. What is not understood about Black people is that we have these inner struggles, these thoughts and feelings we still have years and years later but don’t know what to do with. It’s a feeling that is hard to describe but one that WE know others don’t have.

Finally, I am able to form the overall question about what I feel about having a few Irish genes and it is this. ‘What am I supposed to do about these feelings of historical angst, leftover stress, and ancestral trauma?’ My answer to myself is... ‘I, as a Black woman, am not responsible for fixing this and it is completely ok for me to feel the way I feel.’