Back in kindergarten we made refrigerator magnets. I decorated mine with rhinestones, purple swirls and sequins. It was a work of art. I brought it home, went to my family fridge and stuck it as high as I could reach. But it fell off. My fridge was not magnetic. Pouting, I fumbled around the kitchen trying to find an appliance willing to let my magnet stick. But nothing in my kitchen was magnetic! It clung to nothing. Horrified for my sanity and personal self worth, my psychiatrist of a mother taped the magnet to the microwave. It soon fell off.
When all the kids came back to school with pictures of their magnets being magnetic, I sulked. The same thing happened ever year around Christmastime. My family didn’t have a Christmas tree; we had a menorah. Not even eight days of presents and fried potato pancakes made up for the fact that Santa never visited our home. The feeling crept back around Easter. No egg hunts for my sister and me. Instead we cleared the house of bread.
I never felt left out of St. Patrick’s Day until college. It never seemed like that big of a deal. But freshman year, Irish friends flocked to a certain bar–deemed–Irish–Mecca at 10 a.m. to celebrate with green–clad brethren. Well, needless to say, I am not Irish. Guinness does not run through my veins. I have zero red hairs. Sadly, I was left moping again. Then, sophomore year, my excitement to join in the fun was killed by the appearance of a March 18 midterm.
So this year, I’m adopting the ‘everyone’s–Irish–on–St.–Patrick’s–Day’ philosophy. I plan on only eating Shamrock Shakes, potatoes and cabbage. Suck it, Russian/Polish heritage.
Street, too, has taken up the mantra this week. We bring you an Ego of the Week who’s known for her Irish step dancing (p.5), an ode to Philly’s Irish memorial (p.16) and a feature on Penn’s very own Blarney Stone (p.10). Drink it up.
Pots of gold and rainbows,
