The Patron Saint of PAR-TAY!

Today is St. Patrick's Day, and I awake feeling uneasy. For the past week, I've seen advertisements laden with leprechauns, shamrocks and pots of gold coins; and heard the rumble of my peers as they laid out their plans for imbibing. I can't say I'm up on the story of St. Patrick, so I cannot begin with a history lesson; all I can do is deliver my history lesson, one leading me to wonder what many of us are led to believe about the Irish.

I awoke to the sound of my brother's alarm clock, set to blast the sound of "shock jocks" and "new rock" at seven o'clock each morning. Today, this particular morning show broadcasted live from the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Dublin, Ireland. They had on their show, as their guest, one of the heads of the Jamieson distillery, purveyors of whiskey, and inquired as to how the company manages to create such exceptional spirits. 'Twas all well and good, this lesson on concocting a renowned beverage. Perhaps I wasn't paying attention to the entire broadcast as it found its way from my brother's radio through the air vent into my primary auditory cortex, but all I recall hearing were tales of drunkenness, with not so much as lip service to why we commemorate St. Patrick on this day.

I don't recall receiving any sort of history lesson in school beyond the legend of St. Patrick ridding the island of snakes. (Personally, I think snakes get a bum rap; they're no different from any other animal aiming to defend itself from a perceived threat.) All I remember is being instructed to wear green clothing, swallow pints of green lager, and affix a button to my shirt that reads "Fuck me, I'm Irish!" I must now ask: am I looking too much into this, or is there something dwelling beneath the surface of St. Patrick's Day? Why are many of my peers making plans to get trashed on a Monday evening? Because it's the "Irish" thing to do?

Why not spend some time reading a bit of the story of St. Patrick instead? Perhaps it'll act as fodder for the inebriated banter we will exchange with our comrades this evening. (I'm one to talk: I'll probably end up glossing over the entry put forth by our friends at Wikipedia.) To me, it seems we've been conditioned to respond to the coming of the seventeenth of March by salivating over alcohol or donning green-coloured threads. (The Protestants of Ireland prefer orange - does this mean they make no claims to St. Patrick? If the Catholic Pope decides who is canonized, it makes sense.) I suppose, so long as we consume and consume and leave no time for thought, everything will be fine, and that I should simply keep my fool mouth shut over this. All I know is, I don't suppose this Patrick became a saint by drinking his friends under the table, nor did anyone else receiving canonization, so what's up with the drinking?

What do we think of the Irish, anyway? Why does the addition of spirits make a cup of coffee "Irish"? Why do we celebrate this day by drinking ourselves into a stupor? Has this day become yet another excuse to intoxicate ourselves with excess? Do we want to know what it means to be Irish, or are we content to run our green, booze-soaked paint rollers over this group of people? I hope my assertions are off the mark, for it means this day means more, to us non-Irish folk, than going to the pub. I know I can't generalize this to everyone, but, given the advertising and attitudes to which I've come in contact in advance of today, and our tendency to lump all "others" into convenient categories, there seems to exist a collective view of Irish folk as silly-looking, funny-talking drunkards, an image fostered by alcohol merchants in a ploy to persuade us into buying more of their product.

I don't know how much truth there is to what I've just said, so I will open the floor to any and all comers who wish to correct me.