Local Opinion: Finding your Irish roots

Like so many of us here in America, I celebrate my Irish roots on St. Patrick’s Day each year.

Far from our ancestral home both in time and distance, folks here “across the pond” celebrate drinking dark beer and eating Irish nachos. We exuberantly share the day with any and all willing to wear green and sing along with us.

When I was young, my mother warned us that it was far different in the old days. Then, folks went to church on this holy day. The parish priest said masses for lost souls. Wearing green and talking of the wee folk was considered seriously bad cess (luck). It was a somber occasion.

But here in the Southwest, we didn’t care. We enjoyed our pizza and root beer while our parents sang “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” to the tune of a player-piano at Shakey’s Pizza.

This year, though, I have a reason to celebrate in earnest. I became an Irish citizen. And in the process, I discovered something I never thought I’d find.

It began with an obsession. Like many retirees, I redirected my time and energy by leaping into a pit of ancestral research.

Along the way, I found out more about the grandfather I never got to know, Tom Byrnes.

He was born in County Kerry. He left because he was the fourth-born son on a family farm. They said once he reached America, everything he touched did turn to gold. Discovering evidence that it was true was satisfying. Apparently, this was the land of opportunity for some.

I traced his progress through newspaper archives. I felt like I was there with him, watching as he first advertised his services as a moving man and then shopkeeper. I watched worriedly as he made his biggest profits as a tavern owner during Prohibition and bought “the big house” in Connecticut.

I was right to worry. The local police could only do so much to protect him from the gangs as he smuggled whiskey from Canada. He died as too many of my male Irish ancestors did — after a fight in a bar — leaving behind a widow, children, and a probate case that would take years to settle.

It was finding the stories that led me to apply for Irish citizenship. Somehow, I felt I owed him that. As with so many nationalities that fled to American shores, if things had been fairer in the old country, he could have stayed. So I began.

It wasn’t an easy process. I almost gave up several times along the way. Finding birth certificates in a country where they were destroyed by British forces during “the Troubles” was challenging enough.

Brexit made it worse. Thousands of British citizens with Irish roots applied so they would not have to show passports each time they crossed the border.

Factor in COVID-19 pulling all staff from the Irish Registrar’s Office for two years and the task became more daunting still.

When asked why it was important enough for me to go through the arduous process, I had no answer at first. It was just something I had to do.

But now I know.

Holding the Certificate of Naturalization in my hand for the first time, I cried. Laying it down next to my grandfather’s certificate of citizenship here in the United States felt like the circle was complete. I made it possible for him to go home again, at least in spirit.

When he does, I’m pretty sure I’ll hear him singing, “I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen.”

In the meantime, I’ll be sharing the day with anyone willing to listen to my Irish ditties or enjoy my shepherd’s pie.

And I’ll be encouraging anyone who has an ancestral trail to follow it.

You never know what you might find.