I’ve felt an urge to protect Elizabeth Warren a little bit, because I don’t have official papers to prove my Indian background, either, and I’m as Indian as she is. Needless to say, that’s made me feel a little uncomfortable with the ribbing she’s been getting… less uncomfortable than I am at the notion of race quotas, but a bit uncomfortable.
Then I had a bit of a revelation moment tonight—Duchess discovered red potatoes (cheaper than fresh if you get them at Cash&Carry, and pre-diced!) and thinks they’re quite nifty. I made a crack to TrueBlue about that being proof of her being my daughter, since I’m Irish… long story short, the tradition goes that my ultimate Irish ancestor jumped off an Irish ship, so how much from-Ireland-blood we have is unsure. It’s just… a “thing,” the way that TrueBlue makes jokes about being Sicilian. (
short version: he’s just as much Cajun, or moreso)
For us, being X group is something that’s kind of nice, but not hugely important—it’s like knowing your grandparents. (Heck, it is knowing your grandparents. For many generations back.)
I’ve got more proof of being Indian (a picture of an umpty-grandmother) than I do of being Irish (jack and a story), but our family acts Celtic. It’s almost like a mini-religion, or a micro-sub-culture. (I’d put being a geek at LEAST on par.)
I guess it’s kind of like the first wedding my uncles’ Celtic club did. Bride and groom were “black,” going off looks and common assignments—far darker than the president, for example. Darker than Morgan Freeman. But the groom is a member of the club, and they were wed in kilts and… whatever the longer, girl-kilt thing is… under a giant arch of swords, to the tune of bagpipes from the Giant Piper, by a Catholic Priest. (All from memory; I was kinda small at that point.) Didn’t really matter, at least to someone as fashion dumb as I am—I’m sure there was some fumbling to make sure that the flowers and stuff made the lady look as gorgeous as she deserved.
Being “Irish” doesn’t eat everything else. It’s more like having green eyes than it is like having ten fingers—and I chose green carefully, because many shades of hazel are summed up as “green.” I’ve got two different eye-colors, going from my gov’t issued ID. Heck, my mom has the loveliest blue-shot-with-green eyes you’ve ever seen, and the DMV lists them as “hazel.”
For the record? I don’t give two toots if the bride or groom actually had a single Germanic-area ancestor, let alone one that had lived in Celtic lands. I care even less if it was genetically provable.
From reports, Ms Warren actually kinda cared at some point. Heavens knows that a lot of libs care, passionately—they conflate genetics with culture.