I'm an American! For reals.

Does this sound familiar:
"What nationality are you?"

Like many, I always answered this question with, "I'm Irish."

That prompted the asker to answer, "Yeah, me too!" That, or Italian.

I think these are pretty standard answers anywhere you go in the United States. And no, it doesn't matter that we've never been to that country. Not at all. Details. My reddish hair and ability to sunburn means that I'm Irish, bitch. Stand aside, gen-u-ine paddy coming through!


 Until my twenties, I was convinced this was absolutely true; I was as Irish as any American could be.  My dad looks like a leprechaun for goodness sakes! Red hair and beard, on the short side, and usually holding a beer? Oh yeah, we're Irish.

One more thing--my last name was Caven. As in, from the county Cavan...in Ireland. So the spelling is different, so what? Where's that Irish badge...

It was pretty clear to all that we were, indeed, Irish. No two ways about it.

I was so sure, in fact, that when I got the chance to visit my friend going to college in Ireland, I was soooo excited to see the place I came from! I got green suitcase tags, got Irish themed "have a good-trip" cards from work friends, and was the envy of everyone. All the "Paddy's" thought I was so lucky to go to our home land!

I should note that at the time (I was 22, I believe), I had never traveled abroad, no member of my family had traveled abroad except right over the boarder to Mexico, and only that one friend had traveled abroad. Not only that, but I lived in a town north of San Francisco and primarily lived among middle-class white families. We weren't even properly steeped in American culture, we were nestled in a certain niche of American culture.

But here comes the traveler, watch out! Don't worry, everybody--I'm 22, I know everything. I got this!





I should also note that I had never talked to an Irish person. Actually, I don't even think I had talked to a European. At the time, we really only had people from Mexico in that area. Well, that and Americans, obviously. Northern Californians, to be precise, which is a certain breed of people--that I love, don't get me wrong, but we are not the defining group that make up America. You'll probably know us when you meet us. Californian's, even the northern ones, have a certain vibe. Or, maybe, a lack-there-of. We're the ones in flip flops lounging around in casual dress, usually pretty blasé about most things.

I had a New Yorker miss a meeting and reschedule. I said, "No worries. I was just wondering what happened." The New Yorker laughed and replied, "That's because you're Californian. If you were my normal client, you'd be screaming at me."

Anyway, I digress. Back my assurance that I am Irish!

A horribly long plane ride, and confusing plane change in the monstrous Heathrow Airport later, I met my friend in Dublin. This is my book-smart friend, by the way. She can blow your mind with everything from writing to calculus. Procrastinator du jour, she can start a huge paper the night before and receive a gleaming "A" the next day. I've always been in advanced classes--I'm no slouch. But she always got higher grades than me (in those same classes). It worked, though, because I do better when challenged, and she always challenged me. Then I beat her up. BFF's!

I did say book smart, though. On the street, she is dumb as rocks. I should have remembered this. I looked to her to guide me through this new culture, and got a blank stare in return. Basically, I had to start from scratch with this new culture.

No problem, I am quick on my feet.



We toured some museums, stayed in a hostel, and had a few pints. I had my first Guinness in the Guinness factory and didn't much like it. If only I could go back and punch myself in the mouth, I would. Repeatedly!

All was fine at this point. We stayed in mostly tourist areas because Dublin has a lot of history to divulge. In tourist areas, though, the Irish just pretty much ignore you. I don't blame them.

On to Galway, a city much like San Francisco, on the west coast of Ireland. People there are more relaxed, ready to have fun, and the college is there, which attracts a wider variety of people. We visited some truly awesome pubs where people would just break into beautiful, yet terribly depressing, Irish ballads. Everyone would quiet down for the singer, and we'd look on with a small smile at something we had never experienced in the states.

Let it be known that this practice now irritates the crap out of me. Not while in Ireland--there are unspoken rules about the situation there to maintain it's beauty. If you are out of line, someone will shut you up, and possibly help your ass out of the bar so you can promptly feck off!

 But in the bars here...I'm not such a fan anymore. Yes, fine, beautiful, great--seriously, I'm in a bar talking to my friends. Can you drunkenly sing Danny Boy, off-tune, while weaving on your barstool, some other time? You just woke up from being passed on the bar for cripes-sakes. Tone it down, man!





While in Galway, I received my first dose of reality about my nationality. There, I learned that Americans are loud, obnoxious assholes who think the world revolves around them. Say what?

This was confirmed on the bus on the way to get a ferry to the Aran Islands. Some overly loud Bostonians in the front of the bus were demanding information from the bus driver.

Let's stop for a lesson. Because I have since married a paddy, and have a bunch of Irish friends--I know some rules. One of them is, don't yell at an Irish person. They will assume they are in a fight, and want to punch you. That might be punching you with words, their fist, a grimace, or a head butt. They might not even express it right out, but they are thinking it. Yelling is not one of those things that goes over all that well, and speaking in a belligerently loud voice is considered yelling.

The Irishman's thoughts: God damned yanks.

His response: Silence. He didn't answer one question, or engage in one ounce of conversation. I laugh now, but then I was like...Whaaaa?

It was probably his way of not punching them for hanging behind his seat and talk-yelling at him. Cultures collide!

We got further evidence of unnaturally loud talking on the ferry. East Coasters again. Man, oh man, we thought, they are giving us West Coasters a bad name!

Do you see where we are? I had established the bad reputation of the American as something the people from the East Coast generically created. I was setting myself up for a smack down. Cringe.





We left Galway to travel the southern tip of Ireland. On the way, we visited a lovely town of Cong, known among John Wayne fans for the filming of The Quiet Man. My friend and I aren't John Wayne fans. We did not know anything about this movie. Instead, she wanted to check out some great trails in this area.

Hoof and mouth decease was running rampant at the time. The trails were closed and the bus wasn't coming back until the morning.

No problem, we'll have a look around, visit the gift shop, and head out in the morning. About here things started to go very, very wrong.

My friend and I stood in the gift shop, debating what souvenirs to bring back to whom, when a Spaniard went up to buy something. The lady checking him out, who had greeted us upon entry, and ascertained our origins, started a huge rant about Americans.

Yes. This happened.

This is basically what the woman said: ALL these Americans think Irish people live in huts, dumb yanks. They come over here, shoving their weight around, perfectly ignorant, and expect the world on a silver platter. Then they get mad at ME for this town having real houses. And hear this, they all think they're Irish! Well--

On and on she went. My friend and I, both on the shyer side with strangers, stood at the back of the store gaping at the souvenirs in our hands. I blinked a million times, my bubble of "I'm Irish" shattering so hard the shards stabbed me in the face.

Upon leaving the store--we still purchased the souvenirs for lack of a better plan--we tried to laugh off the tirade by saying she was talking about old people. Those people who knew what The Quiet Man was. But by this point, we were nearly out of ways to deflect.

On to Cork, my favorite city in Ireland. We found ourselves in a pub that night, having found a beer both of us really liked. There we got hit on. How did we know this? Not like you might think. The man in question was middle-aged and hovering around our table talking to us. Well, obviously he was hitting on you, you might say. Not so obvious when you understand one word in ten.



He settled himself right in, having found two girls that didn't tell him to feck off. We couldn't-we had no idea what he was saying. We did try to squeak out of there and move on, but made the mistake of using the bathroom first. When we got back to say good-bye, we had beers waiting for us. And the chatty Irishman. With the real accent. Of which we could not understand.

Now, when I don't understand an Irish person talking to me, I just say, "I have no idea what you just said right then." Everyone laughs--Irish love taking and giving abuse. It's why my personality fits so well with them. But back in the day, I was trying to be nice. And to do that, I was being quiet.

Green light for the hit-on extravaganza! He had himself a merry chat with two younger girls that were hanging on his every word. His mates probably pointed out later that we didn't understand him, further proof when we snuck out to get away, but for the moment, he was as happy as a pig in...

Anyway.

On coming home to America, my bubble was burst, singed, and totally gone. I became positive that I am not Irish. I am American, born and bread. And more specifically, I am Californian (something to remember in the 3rd book of Skyline, because I make fun of Californian's in one of the lines). Thank god I knew this before working in an Irish bar in San Francisco. Yes, Paddy, I know I look Irish, but trust me. I'm American. Don't call you Paddy? Well don't call me yank. Now feck off!

I've since learned that you aren't Irish unless you are actually from Ireland. Even kids born in America, but with two Irish parents from Ireland, and even if they go back a few times a year, aren't Irish. They are American-Irish. Me? I'm the yank wife to an Irishman. A Cavan-man, specifically, which get made fun of for being penny-pinching (my husband isn't, but I crack jokes)*

An Irish person hears an Irish accent, and the first thing they usually say, "Oh, where're ye from?"
I do actually look Irish for the most part, and I hang out with Irish people, so when I'm asked this, I just cut to the chase. "I'm American."

"Oh," they often say. And then they immediately look to the person they know is Irish. *shrug*

After visiting a few countries, now when I get the question:
"What nationality are you?"

I answer: "American."

Boy, does that piss people off.

"No, but like, where did your family come from?"

"I've been American for about as long as someone can be American. My ancestor was the first child born in Sacramento, California. I have Quakers in my family tree. Thieves, crooks, potato famine survivors--you name it."

Not liking my answer, they push, "No, but where in Europe?"

"Everywhere in Europe. I had an ancestor fight with William the conquer. English, Irish, German-- I am a quintessential American mutt."

Unless I am traveling aboard. In which case, I am Canadian. Everyone likes them :)




*And yes, my maiden name was Caven. I married a man from Cavan. My parents were tickled to learn this. They still think they are Irish. They plan to go to Ireland in a year--I'm totally going to let them learn the hard way.