Kiss Me, I'm Irish

Irish Need Not Apply!" 

Written March 17th, 2011

My Grandfather told me these signs were common in the Portland area during his youth. I had the privilege of living with him toward the end of his life. I wish I had taken better care of him, but that's between me, him and God. I got sober and decided the best I could do for my Granddad was to go get the help I so desperately needed, which meant moving from his home.

When I still lived there, however, I would share breakfast and the newspaper with him. There were some specific events that happened during my five years at his home. A viable Woman candidate appeared on the Vice-Presidential ticket. The Space Shuttle, Challenger exploded on its way in to orbit. Jesse Jackson made an improbable run at the Dems nomination and delivered his historic "Keep Hope Alive" speech at the Democratic National Convention.

One of the things I was absolutely sure of was that old people had wisdom. Richard Pryor told me so. On one of his stand up routines on HBO, he mentioned that we should listen to old people. They were smart. That's how they got old. I knew I wasn't very smart (but thought I knew everything), so I listened when Grampy discussed the historical context of the news.

On the Challenger, he spoke of the risks taken previously and lives lost in the space program. About Geraldine Ferraro, he noted that in less than a century, Women had moved from not having the right to vote to "making the ticket" in a Presidential election. Grampy believed that it was a question of when, not if a Woman would some day be elected President of the United States. 

My Grandfather was a Deputy SheriffSherriff, and a boxing trainer. He didn't care what color you were. "Long as you could hit." he told me. That meant he trained what were referred to then as Negro fighters. Grampy didn't like the word and used the term black; at least as far back as I can remember.

It seemed that whenever I brought Grampy anywhere, we would run into someone who knew him from the fight game. There were the usual grins, insults and other assorted greetings between him and whomever we met. If the unsuspecting person hadn't seen my Grandfather in a while, there was always the eventual look of sadness on their face as they realized my Grandfather's  mind was betraying him. His long term memory was flawless, but he couldn't remember anything from a few minutes ago.

"How long?" one of the greeters would pull me aside and say.

We're not really sure was part of my usual response. My Grandmother hid a lot of info from us. We didn't figure it out until after she passed. Then I would hear how she was a saint, and that my Grandfather had a wild side and liked his whiskey (Wondered where I got that). But I would also hear that he was the best corner man (Boxing term for manager) in the state, on the East coast and even the country. The story had other aspects too.

On more than one occasion, I heard from the men (Black and White) about how my Grandfather brought Black fighters into the game despite warnings to the contrary. The story goes that "They" told Grampy that he wouldn't go anywhere if he kept bringing up Black fighters, but he kept doing it. I never figured out who "They" were. I know that Eddie Griffin was really good to my Grandfather and helped him no matter who Grampy was training. "They" had to be someone else. Not Eddy.

He was "One hell of a Man." they would tell me; like he was already gone. Sadly, they were right. He was retreating a little every day. Despite my Grandfather's strength of long term memory, he never spoke of being cheated or singled out by the system that kept him down for doing the right thing. He never uttered a bitter word about the experience, but he could tell me volumes about the likes of Smitty Hicks.

Jesse Jackson gave his Keep Hope Alive speech at the 1988 Democratic National Convention. As we followed  the news in the paper (Yeah. We did that back then), my Grandfather would comment on how far the Black Man had come since slavery and the struggle for Civil Rights less than twenty years before.

During discourse on social issues, my Grandfather  would draw parallels between now and the struggle for immigrants during his youth. There were also religious taboos. Grampy recounted that he was surprised when his Mother mentioned that a friend of his was "awfully nice for a Catholic boy."  My Grandfather chose to go to Portland High School. His Class picture looks like the melting pot that Portland was at the time. However, there were many things being said about the Irish, French and Italian populations of this city. Systemic discrimination ran rampant, and my Grandfather was bewildered by it all. At least as he remembered back and saw the current struggles and social issues, he voiced the common threads, and his displeasure at them both. He always insisted it would get better though. As it had.

Even what little press was being given to Gay Rights did not escape him. He would tell me about a gay friend and how kind the person was and how they were no different. In retrospect, he told me that story a lot. He repeated many of his stories, but this one seemed out of context and was only brought up when we were alone. Maybe he already knew something I was much too ashamed to admit to myself most of that time.

Which brings me to St. Patrick's Day. We've come a long way from "Irish Need Not Apply!" I have a dear friend who finds the whole spectacle offensive. This person feels as if the history of the struggle is given over for this homogenization of a holiday that leads to revisionist history. I respect that position. Forgive me if I do not do justice to it during this writing.

Then it occurred to me today that this could happen for my community, but in all that is good about this day. Imagine having Harvey Milk Day for a moment. Imagine everyone parading around wearing pink with buttons that say: "Kiss Me I'm Queer!" It could be a day where everybody was a little bit Queer.

It could happen. My Grampy said so.

M<3

PS: I will fore-go the pink beer though. ;-)