IRISH: Act One--Like Roots, but 100,000 words shorter

Not having any first cousins on my father’s side, I didn’t really consider myself an Irish American when I was growing up. My dad is one of five children. His three sisters, however, are all nuns and his one brother is a priest. So no kids in the family for me and my brother to play with. As a result, it was always my mother’s family we were with. It was Romanian culture—their customs and foods and particular brand of crazyness that I identified with.

I did love my Irish grandparents, though. My brother and I spent a lot of time with them. They were sweet, and gentle. They were not fiery or hysterical. Not at all Romanian. My sense of morals, my desire to be a good person, my hope for social justice in the world is all a direct result of the example of my grandmother, my Nan. Nan was one of 15 children—actually I’m not exactly sure how many kids there were. A ton. It was more than 12 and less than 17. Ladies and Gentlemen: The Crehan family.

Even as a kid, when I was all Romanian all day, I realized that lurking somewhere out there in the world was a family that I was a part of. Hundreds and hundreds or pure bred Irish people (and plenty of half-breeds like myself).
Still, I didn’t give them a lot of thought.

Then last April I got an Evite from a stranger/cousin named Mary-Alice Barrett inviting me to a reunion of the New York area Crehans—specifically our generation. The first cousin’s once removed. The party was happening on my birthday. I really wasn’t that excited about spending my birthday with a bunch of strangers/cousins. Whatever. Not going.
But magically about four minutes after the Evite arrived my mother called. “There will be a cousin party,” she announced as if she’d just read it on Page Six.

“It’s on my birthday.”

“What a great way to celebrate,” she said, choosing to ignore the petulance in my voice.

My older brother died in 1996. I mention this now because as a result, I am now an only child. And at moments like this one, with my mother’s wishes so clearly stated, I feel the burden of responsibility to do what is expected of me.

I accepted the Evite. I spent my birthday with strangers/cousins.

But then, upon arriving at the event, something remarkable happened. Almost immediately these people didn’t seem like strangers. They seemed like, well, exactly what they are, my family.

Many of them even looked like me. Which makes no sense at all. Because I look like a Romanian. True, I no longer possess the classic Romanian uni-brow. That disappeared long ago when I very wisely accepted waxing as my personal savior. But the dark eyes, the high forehead, that’s pure Romanian—at least I always thought so. My skin is too pale for a Romanian, exactly right for an Irishman. The way we moved and spoke and laughed, there was a connection there, too.

These cousins embraced me.

One female cousin embraced me rather aggressively. At first I was a little taken aback that she was putting the moves on me—yes we were strangers—but we were still technically cousins after all. But then even this awkward moment of having a relative hit on me became a joyful one.

I realized right then, as I was removing her hands from my waist, that I have crazy coming at me from both sides of the family! Here’s the thing: when you look into the face of crazy, what you usually see is talent and vulnerability and heart and pain and sorrow and imagination.

I’m a little bit crazy and I’m proud to say I inherit it from both sides of my family. By the way, my mother has no idea that I write a blog. Let’s keep it that way because I don’t think she’d appreciate her only living child describing himself as nuts (even a little bit nuts).

I left the party that night, ecstatic. Realizing, for the first time—I’m IRISH!!!

I’ve been on a multi-cultural cloud ever since!

Actually, I was on a cloud until yesterday. That’s when I remembered this week is St. Patrick’s Day. That’s a great day to be Irish! I live in New York. And now that I’m finally Irish I would love to march in the parade.

Oh, wait.

I can’t.

Because I’m gay.

Thank God I’m not writing a screenplay. Because this—everything I’ve said thus far—is just the first act of the story. In a screenplay this would be the first 10 of 115 pages.

Fortunately I have a couple more days to figure out how the story ends.

Will I go to the parade anyway, with my friends from Queer Rising?

Will I carry a sign?

Will I get myself arrested?

Will I stay home and feel bad about myself?

Will I decide to turn myself back into a full-blooded Romanian?

Honestly, I have no idea what I’ll do.

Two days to figure it out.

I’ll keep you posted.