When Non-Irish Eyes are Smiling

There's not a drop of Irish blood in me.  I'm Polish and Italian, and if you were going to measure quantities, I’m actually more Polish. You wouldn't know it because my Italian mother's habits profoundly influenced me. I talk with my hands and am subject to mercurial bouts of temper, but I always kiss and make up--once I've told you how I really feel. I don't miss Mass and I go to Confession.  I prefer Italian food to most cuisines; Chinese is a close second, however.  I heart dim sum and sticky white rice.

People say I look Italian which makes me chuckle. I don't really look Italian. I don't have a Roman nose, and with my almond shaped hazel eyes, you'd be hard pressed to say I look like a daughter of Caesar.  I have my light brown haired, blue eyed father's pale skin and my olive complected mother's dark hair.  I have a smattering of freckles from when I wasn't so careful in the sun, and I'm cursed with cheeks that blush very easily which some people use to their advantage.  I have a Hebrew first name.  My Mother read the account of the Slaughter of the Innocents with "Rachel weeping for her children" and decided she loved the name, much to the chagrin of my father's mother.

Imagine being in Catholic schools during the late seventies and early eighties with a Jewish first name when the classrooms were filled with Marys, Katherines, Meghans, and Michelles.  I was the only Rachel, and boy was I behaved.  It's not like I could hide in the anonymity of my name.  "Yeah, Mary pushed me."  "OK, which Mary?"  "Mary from fourth grade."  "There's ten of them, so really, which one?"  Ahh, see, but say "Rachel did it" and those St. Joe's nuns were on my case quicker than a duck on a June bug.  There was only one.  (Wait, that's reminiscent of Highlander's tagline:  "There can only be one."  That Quickening thing would provide me with much needed energy.  I'm so sick of living on SoBe and Vivarin.)

I never wore green as a child on March 17th.  My Mother insisted that we didn't buy into that "Everyone is a wee bit of Irish on St. Patty's Day."  Everyone very well may be, but not her children.  She never begrudged the Irish their day...they could have St. Patrick, but we lay claim to the Roman Empire, the Vatican, Columbus, Leonardo, and on the Slavic side, Pope John Paul II...

Mother never warned me about those Irish boys, though.  What is it about the dark hair, blue eyes, and pale skin that makes my knees quiver and my mind turn to mush?  Oh, I've had my share of Celtic crushes, and I've worn green silk chemises and green panties to play hide the shamrock while listening to Enya's voice wafting through Bose speakers.

I've had my heart shattered by these leprechauns enough times to have gained some wisdom.  I'll drink the Bailey's Irish Cream but not fall for the blarney.