Genuine american mutt-type person

One of the things that annoys me about living in Boston (and there are only a few of them, relative to the many things that delight me about living in Boston) is that everyone here thinks that they're Irish.



I am just as guilty of this as anyone, by the way, lest you think I'm lobbing stones from the porch of my glass house, especially around St. Paddy's Day, when I can generally be found running through the streets of South Boston with a plastic cup of beer in each hand, wearing an entirely green outfit and screaming various mispronounced gaelic expressions. At a certain point in the day, if I don't know the actual gaelic expression, I'll just make something up that sounds guttural and dirty, and scream that. But I digress.



My point is that I am not Irish, and neither, most likely, are you. I am american. I know I'm american, because I have very white teeth, love hamburgers, and have a murky grasp of geography and global politics. I have both a gym membership and frequent flyer miles at my local bar. That's America, baby. We don't do nuthin' halfway.



However, because I'm vaguely redheaded and have a pointed chin and freckles, I'm often drawn into discussions with the local chapter of the Hiberian Society at parties and such, and it's kind of annoying.



"Well, Hubley, you're Irish," someone will say, prior to launching into a list of "Irish" peoples' supposed attributes.



"No. I was born in Newton."



"You know what I mean. Where are you from, you know, originally?"



"Um. Newton?"



"C'mon."



"Okay, well, let's see. In 2047 B.C.E., my ancestors crossed the land bridge. It was cold, and they had only animal skins to warm them..."



At this point, people usually roll their eyes and run off to find someone else to talk to.But seriously, the fact that some of my ancestors are from County Tyrone doesn't mean anything. It's been like a hundred years since anyone in my family lived in the Old Country -- or is that "Auld Country?" -- and I don't think it counts.



A couple years ago, my family was actually in Ireland on vacation, and we stopped, as you do, at a sweater shop somewhere in Galway. My hair was very red at the time, and going crazy from the humidity. I looked like I should be standing on a wind-whipped moor, painted blue, wearing a kilt and drinking the blood of my dead out the skull of mine enemy. But anyway. The shopkeeper, who was fairly reserved as most real Irish people are, kept watching me as I tried on sweaters and looked at post cards and did other touristy things. I figured she was afraid I might lift something, so I didn't pay much attention. Finally, when I went to the register to pay for my purchases, she told me why she was watching me.



"I wish I could have a picture of you in my sweaters for my advertisements," she said, shaking her head. "You're exactly what americans think Irish people look like."



This is exactly what I'm talking about.