“We are Irish,” my father proclaimed throughout my childhood to preserve our Irish heritage, never mind my mother’s Italian roots. 

The lone pieces of Irish decor strategically placed throughout our home attested to his devotion. All coffee and side tables elevated a piece of Belleek pottery—an unused ashtray, a flowerless vase dotted with shamrocks, a shallow bowl so thin I feared it would shatter if I ran into the room and leapt on the sofa.

Despite my father’s continuous home improvement projects, he never moved the large oil painting of early Ireland from its focal point above his oak desk. His bedroom and the family room displayed stone-carved Celtic crosses that must have required heavy duty screws to hold them up. And the Our Lady of Knock and St. Patrick statues smiled upon the guests we entertained in the living room.

Outside, the Irish flag waved at passersby from our front lawn.

The beginnings of my nostalgia

When my dad filled our house with his friends, most were either of Irish descent or directly from the motherland.

I would lay on the floor with my head in my hands, and I’d listen to my father—a master oral storyteller—recount his adventures across the pond and the stories his grandparents had shared about their lives in Ireland. In those moments, I could smell the sheep, feel the emerald grass brushing against my fingers, and imagine the taste of warm bread shared among friends. 

Even though I did not know the meanings of their words, the sounds of Irish spoken aloud comforted me as much any childhood lullaby.

In the background, The Chieftains and the Irish Rovers played the bagpipes and fiddle. Some guests joined the chorus, clanging my mom’s spoons against their knees while my father played the bodhrán—an Irish drum covered on one side with goatskin.

When the spirit or the Guinness moved them, my father dragged the coffee table aside. The adults formed two lines facing each other, and together they danced the jig. The air smelt of pipe smoke and whiskey, and I watched from the lap of a grownup admiring my curls. 

Surprisingly, I never considered those events or people distinctly Irish; those parties were simply how we spent time with friends. When my father and his guests spoke in Irish, they weren’t speaking a foreign language. Even though I did not know the meanings of their words, the sounds of Irish spoken aloud comforted me as much any childhood lullaby. 

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St. Patrick's Day wasn't always fun

On the other hand, we celebrated St. Patrick’s Day like a holy day of obligation. That included mandatory attendance at the local parade, from early preparation to final demolition. While my father ran back and forth engaging almost everyone in conversation and organizing God knows what, my brother and I tried to entertain ourselves by playing tag or touch football while mom played referee.

During the parade, my father hardly ever glanced our way as he marched past, the tassels on his sporran bouncing with each step. I never knew if he just didn’t see us jumping up and down, screaming his name, or if he had disappeared into the rhythm of the bagpipes and dreamt he was visiting Ireland once more.

After the crowds thinned, I slumped down on the curb, peeling confetti off the bottom of my shoes while I waited for my dad’s storytelling and packing to conclude. I even tried to nap on the sidewalk more than once. 

To commemorate the official holiday, we always went out to dinner—Dad dressed in full kilt, of course. We didn't dine at pubs. With two children in tow, my parents took us to family-friendly American chain restaurants. In the 80s and 90s, seeing someone wearing a kilt outside of a parade or festival grounds garnered stares.

As my father marched down the aisle to our table with his chest puffed forward and head held high, I studied my mother’s shoes. The servers asked my dad questions, complemented his clothing, and reluctantly made their other customers wait as my dad imparted at least one Irish-culture–related lesson. He suddenly had an Irish accent, too. I focused on my chicken fingers and French fries and tried not to be too loud, which only resulted in him shushing me because I’d embarrassed him. 

Distance instead of connection

The more he insisted I was Irish, the more I insisted I was Italian, even though my maternal grandparents did little to teach their children about their heritage.

Being a stubborn child, I resisted my father’s teachings. When I begged my parents to sign me up for gymnastics in elementary school—surely the bullying would stop if I was a gymnast too—my father stipulated I would have to learn Irish Step Dancing as well.

My mom took me to an in-session class. As I clung to her arm, I observed a sterile room large enough to swallow me whole and groups of kids chatting in established clicks. Then they started dancing. They kept their hands stiff at their sides while they moved their feet in complicated patterns I couldn’t imagine mimicking. All I wanted was to learn how to do a cartwheel.

When I told my dad I didn’t want to learn step dancing, he refused to alter his conditions. He left no room for discussion. Thus, I didn't participate in either activity—a double defeat I didn’t realize until years later.

Thus, my father’s fanaticism engendered mostly my resentment and distance. The more he insisted I was Irish, the more I insisted I was Italian, even though my maternal grandparents did little to teach their children about their heritage. Like most immigrants of the time, they wanted my mom and her siblings to grow up American, so they refrained from speaking Italian. Aside from the shape of my hands, our family recipes, and the random Italian words my late-Grandma used among relatives, I lost my bridge to Italy when I lost my grandparents. 

Conversely, my second-generation Irish-American father can still relate almost any person, place, or thing back to Ireland. When I first discovered reading could be fun, my father recommended Joyce Carol Oats, whose work (I’m so sorry) I didn't find engaging. When we planned our first, long-awaited family vacation to Florida, my father kept mentioning Ireland’s palm trees in the south. When my brother wanted to play baseball, my father bought him hurling sticks.

And while other families spent afternoons tossing around a football, my father practiced playing the bagpipes and marching circles around our backyard. Hidden behind the kitchen window, I watched him, more than once, and wondered what he thought about during his alone time out there.

My favorite Irish-based holiday

Although my brother and I could not understand our father’s need to preserve this portion of his identity, we both eagerly anticipated one particular Irish-based holiday: Halloween.

Although my brother and I could not understand our father’s need to preserve this portion of his identity, we both eagerly anticipated one particular Irish-based holiday: Halloween.

Without fail, dad transformed himself into Lord Samhain, lord of the underworld. His black robe and billowy cloak accentuated his lifelike crimson mask, its hollow cheeks, and elongated chin. He painted his hands red and glued onto his nails black talons. Then, he carried in his demonic hand a gnarled walking staff, the top of which displayed a human skull, and a glow stick illuminated the eye sockets. 

As he escorted me and my brother from house to house, my father’s long strides, cold demeanor, and slow, deliberate movements made most other adults flinch. Their kids scrambled closer to their parents' sides. My brother and I found this very cool.

After we chanted “Trick-or-Treat!” and plunged our hands into the candy bowl, our benefactors would ask us, “Do you know that man?”

Proudly, I’d announce, “That’s my dad.” 

Experiencing Irish culture on my own terms

I gravitated toward the jewelry, subconsciously tracing the intricate knots that preserve an ancient art.

Other less forced moments drew my attention, too. When assigned to dusting duty, I would wind up the ceramic maiden in her white bonnet and green skirt and watch her rotate to the melody of “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.” Her sweet tune mesmerized me. At night, I nestled in the crook of my arm Deirdre, a porcelain doll with two long blond braids and a straw hat that my father brought back from Ireland.

As I grew older, we also attended our hometown’s annual Irish fèis and other local Celtic festivals. I gravitated toward the jewelry, subconsciously tracing the intricate knots that preserve an ancient art. The older I grew, my stomach directed me to the stalls selling bangers and mash, fish and chips, and bread pudding. 

I sat for hours under the main tent, admiring the step dancers bounding across the stage. As they kicked their legs high in the air, my feet tapped to the rhythm of the music. My lower half ached to dance too. When we saw the dancers roaming the fèis, I stared at the Swarovski crystals decorating their velvet dresses and matching tiaras. My mother marveled at the dancers’ doll-like ringlets and often remarked, “And to think, your hair is naturally that curly!” 

Experiencing my family's history through fiction

By the time I entered my early twenties, I wanted to learn more about my heritage, but I hesitated asking my father who had so arduously tried to make me Irish.

One day, while browsing the new fiction section at Borders, I stumbled upon The Princes of Ireland by Edward Rutherfurd. Although an Englishman (God forbid!), Rutherfurd had made Dublin his home for more than 13 years and had consulted many historians to ensure his characters were placed in scrupulously accurate settings and events. In short, I felt I could trust him. I was right to do so.

Rutherford’s novel added depth and texture to the images my father had first created. I visited the monks at Gleann Dá Loch, leafed through the illuminated pages of the Book of Kells, and witnessed Brian Ború’s death at the Battle of Clontarf. Moreover, through Rutherfurd’s fictional characters, I experienced what my ancestors lived through—the coming of St. Patrick, the Viking long ships lowering anchor, and the trickery of Kings Henry the II and VIII.

I was astounded to recognize traits that I myself possessed, namely a vivid spirit, an affinity for nature (I used to read children’s books to trees and flowers), and the occasional stubborn streak that sowed discord between me and my father.

Forbidden love among a torn nation

By relating to and understanding the past, I grew more sympathetic to the Catholic and Protestant conflict that tore my family apart and led to my great-grandparents emigration.

By relating to and understanding the past, I grew more sympathetic to the Catholic and Protestant conflict that tore my family apart and led to my great-grandparents emigration. My family hails from Derry* in Northern Ireland. As my father told me, half the Cannings converted to Protestantism in order to keep their land. In the process, however, our Roman Catholic family deemed them traitors. I’ve seen this resentment still divide my family today. 

Whenever chance allowed us to meet another Canning at a fèis in the United States, that distant relative invariably asked from which side of the family my father and I were descended. When we met an Irish-born Canning exhibiting a few books he authored (another family trait I inherited), he smiled when he saw my father’s Celtic cross dangling around his neck, advertising our Catholicism. “Ah, you’re from my side,” he said gaily. But my family’s history is more complicated than that. 

Here’s a love story for you: Have you heard the folk song “The Orange and the Green”? The colors represent Protestantism and Catholicism. My grandfather loved that song most of all because it reminded him of his parents: My orange, Protestant great-grandfather, Robert Canning, fell in love with Catherine ​​Boynton, a green, Catholic lady. Despite the objections of their families, they married and immigrated to the United States. 

Despite the objections of their families, they married and immigrated to the United States.

As much as I loved Rutherfurd’s book, I remember Robert and Catherine’s stories better—stories my father told, such as how Sundays split the family apart: While Catherine brought the children to a Catholic church, Robert attended a Protestant mass alone. Then one night, my great-granddad didn’t show up for dinner. Catherine and the children waited. The hours ticked by. The children ate their dinner cold, but still no one knew where Robert had gone. At last the door creaked open, in stepped Robert, and Catherine fell to the ground—for in his hands, he held rosary beads. He had secretly been attending catechism classes so he could convert to Catholicism. Finally, the whole family attended mass together; at least they did for a short while, until my great-granddad suddenly passed away. 

As much as they loved each other, their immigration created an indelible wound that passed down through the generations. As they shared their love for Ireland, they also shared their pain. My dad heard many stories about the Great Hunger (which the rest of the world calls the Irish Potato Famine), about our divided family constantly fighting each other, about the banning of the Irish language and kilt, and about the cold welcome the Irish received when escaping starvation and persecution: “No Irish Need Apply.” 

I now see why my father clings to the memories and lessons his grandparents imparted and how history compels him to participate in preserving a culture and language that were nearly eradicated.

As an adult, I now see why my father clings to the memories and lessons his grandparents imparted and how history compels him to participate in preserving a culture and language that were nearly eradicated. I never asked my father, but I also suspect his devotion to everything Irish also serves to preserve the memory of his own father, whom my dad lost to cancer at just 19 years old. 

The complex knot of knowledge and personal experiences

The insight and knowledge I’ve gained with age further complicate my relationship with my Irish heritage, especially as I struggle to separate that portion of my identity from the father who disowned me only a few years ago.

Knowing that the effects of intergenerational trauma could have contributed to my father’s carefully concealed anger, immutable perspective, emotional detachment, and overall narcissism doesn’t negate my personal experiences. The nostalgia and affection I feel for all things Celtic are forever knotted together with the trauma my father inflicted throughout my life, trauma I’m still not able to write about in detail. 

My interactions with my dad’s Irish friends exemplify this complex knot. As a long-time member of the Ancient Order of Hibernians, an Irish and Irish-American organization, my father saved the best version of himself for his AOH brothers. I still remember my dad standing in the middle of our driveway, chatting and laughing with his friends, patting one on the back, offering advice and encouragement, entertaining them with jokes, and enchanting them with the same stories I cherished from afar.

But the moment they left and my dad came inside, he reverted to barking at my mom, my brother, and me. Every day, he sequestered himself in the family room, where our family rarely gathered. 

The Irish spirit is endearing, inspiring, and irresistible. I just wish I could have experienced that jubilation with my dad, rather than from behind him.

When we’d attend the AOH family-wide events or Celtic festivals, one person after another would holler and wave over my father to join them. Soon enough he’d leave me behind. Throughout the festival, I'd socialize with his friends too. And every time, they'd praise my father, gushing about his humor, about all the times he’d treated them to dinner and gave them invaluable advice, and about the ways in which he’d become a surrogate dad to them. They’d envy my luck to have been blessed with such a supportive, engaging father. Eventually, I numbed myself to imaging their version of a parent I rarely had. 

I also discovered that I couldn’t resent his Irish friends, because, first, they didn’t beget my dad’s behavior toward his own family and, second, gosh darn it, I loved them all too.

It’s impossible to not get swept away when surrounded by such jolly fellowship. I associate grabbing a pint, listening to pub music, and clapping my hands every time there’s whiskey in the jar with pure jubilation. The Irish spirit is endearing, inspiring, and irresistible. I just wish I could have experienced that jubilation with my dad, rather than from behind him.

Guiding the next generation

Although I cannot change my past, I try now to share with my children the aspects of Irish culture I hold most dear. Thanks to my husband, our kids are an amalgamation of genetics. They even have a bit of English heritage in them too! Look at what several generations of progress can breed. 

During the month of March, our house vibrates to the sounds of bagpipes, fiddles, and bodhráns. We listen to traditional music and then have family dance offs to Gaelic Storm. 

When we took our then-4-year-old son to the Maryland Renaissance Fair, my husband and I discovered our favorite local Irish band, Dublin 5, performing live. Our son ran down the aisle to the front of the stage and began dancing in circles.

At the end of their performance, the fiddler, Jenn Belle, invited my son onto the stage. She knelt down behind him, propped her fiddle against his chest, and guided his hand as he glided the bow back and forth to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” My little boy kept looking up at me, a smile wider and brighter than the crescent moon, and shaking his head in wonder that he could play the fiddle too. Her kindness created a tender moment that left my sweet boy feeling like the luckiest kid in the world.

This year, I’ve been counting the days until this weekend’s parade. My son’s been counting too, jumping each morning as he realizes the days have been rapidly decreasing. I'll never forget the first time my eldest discovered Irish step dancing; he slowly lowered himself to the ground, folded his hands in his lap, and turned into a statue. When the show concluded, he ran over to me and said, “Momma, that was amazing!” No matter what, I’m certain they’ll have fun at the parade, and when they’ve had enough, we'll know it's time to head home.

In the meantime, my son pointed out just this week that our house severely lacks St. Patrick’s Day decor. I suppose I don’t associate decorations with St. Patrick’s Day because my childhood house displayed Irish culture all year long—except for leprechauns. My father banned them. Even though this fairy originates from ancient Irish lore, my father loathes the caricature that dehumanized early Irish immigrants.

My kids, however, love the idea of leprechauns. Every March, I read to them The Littlest Leprechaun picture book, which shows children that everyone, no matter how small, is important. Even though I can still picture my father’s visceral hatred for leprechauns, maybe it’s time I welcome one or two little fellas into our home. 

I don’t associate decorations with St. Patrick’s Day because my childhood house displayed Irish culture all year long—except for leprechauns. My father banned them.

Preserving my Irish heritage in my own way

As my children grow, I will also share the stories of Ireland and our family’s history, because learning about my heritage has rooted me in time, connecting me to the past and influencing my future. The more I learn about the country and the people my great-grandparents sailed away from, the more I feel proud of my family’s endurance.

My father may not speak to me anymore, but more than once I've heard myself repeat his lessons. For example:

• The Irish Potato Famine wasn’t a famine. A famine implies there was no food, but Ireland grew plenty of other crops, and laws required most of it to be exported to Great Britain. In fact, exportation increased while the Irish starved to death. Thus, most Irish call this the Great Hunger. 
• As much as I love corn beef and cabbage, this dish is Irish-American, so don’t go looking for it when you’re in Ireland. (Although I do believe they now sell it for tourists.) 
• Irish is its own separate language. It’s a branch of Gaelic, but it’s not the same as Scottish Gaelic. And Irish isn't just English spoken with a funny accent. Someone actually said that my father.
• In a proper Irish coffee, the thick cream sits on top of the coffee; the two mix together only when you take each sip. 
• Research shows that the British actually outrank the Irish in terms of drinking. 
• Most redheads are found in Ireland and other Celtic countries; however, the majority of Irish people are brunettes.

While I don’t know if my father will ever value our relationship enough to want to work toward reconciliation, I hope he knows his efforts to preserve our heritage weren’t in vain. Despite rolling my eyes from the backseat of our car during yet another lecture, I still paid attention. I absorbed his knowledge, his passion. Someday, I’ll share my own adventures abroad with my kids and grandkids.

When I listen to the bagpipes and fiddle, I am drowned in nostalgia for a culture that my father helped keep alive. That I will help keep alive.

Although I have traveled as far as Japan and visited England and Italy twice, I have yet to visit Ireland. But I hear her calling. No matter where I go, she always finds me. And when I listen to the bagpipes and fiddle, I am drowned in nostalgia for a culture that my father helped keep alive. That I will help keep alive.

After all, Ireland has been a part of me since birth. My namesake, Erin, is the poetic form of Éire—Ireland’s name in her own language. No wonder she keeps calling me home.

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* In my mid-20s, I was dumbfounded to learn that many maps identify the city of Derry as Londonderry. The controversy surrounding this name is indicative of Ireland's history.

Featured photo by Harris Vo on Unsplash