Irish Greetings - Six Degrees of Separation
Six Degrees of Separation
When an Irish person meets another individual suspected of being a fellow Irishman, there is a dance of words initiated. Depending on the individual it may have any number of different steps, but the object of the dance is always the same: who are you to me? It’s a lovely thing when this sometimes very subtle set of human interactions results in a “hit.” The compulsion of the Irish on meeting a stranger is to discover if they are related, or if their families were neighbors, or if came from the same village, or the same county, down to the distant connection that they are both descended from an Irish great-grandmother (with a little Indian, African, . . . Chinese, or Eskimo thrown in). It is almost in itself diagnostic that the inquirers carry the blood of the Celt. “No. Well, then, do you think it will rain?”
The reaction to the affirmation of connection is generally open and warm—otherwise why bother to inquire?—and spreads out to draw in any others in close proximity. It is what has given Ireland the nickname of “Land of the Welcomes.” There is a world of welcome in the Irish, very much so. Trust it. It’s not mere nosiness. I’ve once or twice seen the gentle inquiry into the connections of the newly introduced taken amiss, but rarely enough that it would even be noticed by the sincerely interested.
When Ireland was a country of emigrants---and would that I could ever tell you how happy it makes me to say “when”---every boy and girl who left Ireland spent their lives talking about “Home,” and any bit of news or familiar phrase was a taste of honey to them. And this is how the Irish came to rule the world. Where conquerors, dictators, invaders, and armies left bad blood behind, the Irishman invariably stopped to find out if the other fella was related.
Growing up I so often heard repeated to newfound friends: first my family, then my parish, then my town, my county, and my country, and there’s plenty left for the rest of ye.
No, it’s not a coincidence when you find that the person next to you has the same last name, or looks just like your cousin, or came from the same county as your mother. It just happens way too often, way, way too often. Sentimentality? Maybe. Effective?
When an Irish person meets another individual suspected of being a fellow Irishman, there is a dance of words initiated. Depending on the individual it may have any number of different steps, but the object of the dance is always the same: who are you to me? It’s a lovely thing when this sometimes very subtle set of human interactions results in a “hit.” The compulsion of the Irish on meeting a stranger is to discover if they are related, or if their families were neighbors, or if came from the same village, or the same county, down to the distant connection that they are both descended from an Irish great-grandmother (with a little Indian, African, . . . Chinese, or Eskimo thrown in). It is almost in itself diagnostic that the inquirers carry the blood of the Celt. “No. Well, then, do you think it will rain?”
The reaction to the affirmation of connection is generally open and warm—otherwise why bother to inquire?—and spreads out to draw in any others in close proximity. It is what has given Ireland the nickname of “Land of the Welcomes.” There is a world of welcome in the Irish, very much so. Trust it. It’s not mere nosiness. I’ve once or twice seen the gentle inquiry into the connections of the newly introduced taken amiss, but rarely enough that it would even be noticed by the sincerely interested.
When Ireland was a country of emigrants---and would that I could ever tell you how happy it makes me to say “when”---every boy and girl who left Ireland spent their lives talking about “Home,” and any bit of news or familiar phrase was a taste of honey to them. And this is how the Irish came to rule the world. Where conquerors, dictators, invaders, and armies left bad blood behind, the Irishman invariably stopped to find out if the other fella was related.
Growing up I so often heard repeated to newfound friends: first my family, then my parish, then my town, my county, and my country, and there’s plenty left for the rest of ye.
No, it’s not a coincidence when you find that the person next to you has the same last name, or looks just like your cousin, or came from the same county as your mother. It just happens way too often, way, way too often. Sentimentality? Maybe. Effective?
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