The wearing of the green and gold

My life as an Irish stepdancer

There was a time when I dreaded St. Patrick’s Day.

I grew up in an intensely Irish household. My mother came from Brooklyn. Her mother was a nurse, her father was a bartender named Pinchy Flanagan. My father grew up in the Bronx and when he was enrolled at Iona College he was a member of the Gaelic League and he and his friend Jesse brought The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem to campus shortly before they became household names—in Irish-American households anyway. I grew up listening to stuff life this:

Me and my three siblings—Emmett, Meghan, and Molly—were all dutifully enrolled in Irish dance lessons with the O’Neil James School of Irish Dance in Washington D.C. Lessons were held every Monday after school at the Knights of Columbus. I’ve mentioned in the past how we competed in Irish dance competitions called a “feis” up and down the Eastern Seaboard, but the school was also something of a dance troop that gave performances at cultural centers, fairs, and schools, including—much to my horror—my own.

The competitions and fairs were held outdoors in the summer time and shows were pretty sparse until late February when March hove into view. From that point on we were booked solid every weekend night and nightly the week leading up to St. Patrick’s Day.

Some of my memories are pretty special like dancing at Wolf Trap and feeling the applause of thousands of spectators wash over me. Parties at the Knights of Columbus were rowdy and fun because the dancers and their parents were on home turf, so to speak. But mostly I remember dashing from place to place, changing frantically into costume, and sweating under the hot lights while dancing about the stage in a golden kilt and a green corduroy jacket with matching knee socks.

That’s me on the far left.

I knew that none of this was normal. Most kids didn’t have dance lessons every Monday and music lessons every Wednesday—lessons that were impossible to avoid because they were held at our home. I knew that most moms didn’t stay up all night sewing costumes before competitions. I knew that most dads didn’t do things like organize the Washington D.C. Feis in their free time for fun, or host luncheons, cabarets, and regattas in honor of St. Patrick, St. Brigid, and St. Brendan, respectively. A lot of people went to the St. Patrick’s Day parade every year, but we marched in it—sometimes more than once. The year my father was named Washington D.C. Gael of the Year I marched in it three times.

Unlike playing the clarinet or swimming on the swim team, being Irish was part of who I was. I never drifted away from it because how could I?

As I got older and I hung up my dancing shoes, I became fascinated with Irish literature and the first short story I wrote in college was called “Rince Mor,” which means “The Great Dance” and was set at Glen Echo Park—an unusual former amusement park that was the site of an Irish festival every summer. The first time I went to Ireland it was to present a paper at the International James Joyce Symposium and in Galway I saw Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot” in Irish.

Shortly after I moved to LA and started writing for Flipside in earnest, the Irish punk revival started up. Flogging Molly’s debut came out in 1997 and Dropkick Murphy’s released Do or Die in 1998. I always found a way to connect my interests with my Irishness. For a very brief moment in time I was even in an Irish-ish band called Twitching Bits. We played exactly one gig during the lunch hour at Schoonerville in Canoga Park on St. Patrick’s Day and were paid in green beer.

No matter where I am or what I’m doing, every time St. Patrick’s Day comes around, I feel like I’m missing out. Even after I quit drinking—when I had even more of an incentive to avoid the holiday altogether—I felt nostalgic for the time when my life revolved around music and dance.

My father never lets the holiday pass without some kind of celebration. In the past these were grand affairs held in hotels in Washington D.C. Now that he’s in his eighties, he has a gathering at his house in West Virginia and this year I went out to help celebrate the feast day of Ireland’s patron saint. Whether the book-burning, proselytizing swine-herder is worthy of veneration is a conversation for another day…

I arrived on Friday and we spent Saturday prepping the outside of the house and Sunday getting the food ready. My father had been cooking corned beef and cabbage all week and had an abundance of both on hand. We sliced up the Irish soda bread I brought from San Diego and set out the spread. After observing sunset on the deck, the partygoers settled into and around the kitchen where my dad commandeered the CD player. Thankfully, no one asked me to dance.

The next day we slept in, cleaned up, and ate the potato salad I forgot to put out. In the evening we met up with my brother and headed to the Irish Inn in Glen Echo to see my father’s old college roommate Jesse play. Jesse and his brother Terrence Winch had a long career with the band they formed, Celtic Thunder. Nowadays he plays on most Mondays with the Irish Inn Mates where he is often joined by friends and family members. It was really nice to see how happy Jesse and my father were to see each other, and the music was, of course, excellent.

Best of all, I didn’t have to do anything but sit there, sip on a nonalcoholic Guinness, and enjoy it. Wherever you are and whatever you did, I hope you had a festive St. Patrick’s Day weekend.

Brooklyn, Barcelona, Krakow, Frankfurt

I’m back in San Diego—I had a later flight but was able to get on a standby, which is why this newsletter is going out so late in the day. Next month I’ll be in Brooklyn for a few days. and then I’m heading to Barcelona with Nuvia. I’m doing a book signing and talk on Saturday April 6 at 12pm at La Conxita. Please share with your friends in Catalan! From there I’ll be traveling to Krakow for a few days and then to Frankfurt (I think).

In the past, when I talked about my travels in Message from the Underworld, I could count on a message or two from an old friend or new acquaintance in the city I’d just visited, and then we’d exchange regrets over having missed each other. Now I try to give a little heads up on the chance that we might meet.

For instance, when I was in Virginia I met up with a longtime reader who is both a former career Navy officer and lifelong Bad Religion fan. (Hi Thane!) I also did some amateur true crime reporting. So if you’re in (or headed to) any of these places where I’ll be next month, drop me a line. I love meeting readers from Message from the Underworld, especially Bad Religion fans who are the best fans in the world.

One more note: last week I mentioned that I would be discussing the My Damage movie. I haven’t forgotten my promise but I’m going to hold off on that for another day. (Sorry, Travis!)

View of Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia from my fathers house

If you’re new to Message from the Underworld and you enjoyed this newsletter, you might also like my latest novel Make It Stop, or the paperback edition of Corporate Rock Sucks: The Rise & Fall of SST Records, or my book with Bad Religion, or my book with Keith Morris. Message from the Underworld comes out every Wednesday and is always available for free, but paid subscribers also get Orca Alert! on most Sundays. It’s a weekly round-up of links about art, science, and killer whales.