Adam Raised A Cain

Ain't Living Long Like This

You've got to be yourself
You can't be no one else

-- Oasis, "Supersonic"


My father was what you call your “black Irish.”

When some people hear “black Irish”, the first thing they think of is the late Phil Lynott, bassist and lead vocalist for the Irish band Thin Lizzy (“The Boys Are Back In Town”, “Jailbreak”, "Cowboy Song".) Lynott was that rare Irishman with some African ancestry, in his case on his father’s side.

A friend of mine once used Phil Lynott as a component in a convoluted slam of the Chicago Cubs and their manager at the time, Dusty Baker. In the tradition of the Cubs since at least the late 1800’s, one day Baker (who was African-American) was whining to the press about the unfair disadvantages the Cubbies had to overcome in order to compete in the National League Central that season. In this case, it was the team ownership’s penchant for scheduling a high percentage of weekday games during the daytime, unlike almost every other team in their division, who played them at night. Baker, an often brilliant manager who was subject at times to rather bizarre sociological theorizing, opined that since his team was mostly made up of European-American players (like almost every other team in major league baseball, by the way), day games were tougher on the Cubs because everybody knows it is a proven fact that white boys can’t stand up to the midday heat like their African-American and Caribbean-American teammates can. I forget what criteria he was basing his theory on. Skin tones and melanoma, or melanin, or something. Anyway, my friend said what Baker needed was a team full of Irish black guys like Phil Lynott, who presumably could hold their liquor (another disadvantage of playing day games, according to Baker, was that the Cub players had more opportunities to sample the famous Chicago nightlife) and be able to take the daytime heat, too.

Anyway, Phil Lynott, great artist though he was, is not what I meant by 'black Irish'.

A small segment of the native Irish population, roughly 3%, has dark or black hair and a medium skin tone; instead of fair skin and light-brown, blonde, or fair hair, as the majority of Irish do. Gaelic legend held these “black Irish” were descended from Iberian kings (the Milesians, not to be confused with the ancient Greek peoples of the same name) who had emigrated to Eire in days of yore. This was in modern times a disputed tale; but as often happens, it appears the myth had some basis in fact. Recent DNA research has established a genetic connection between the so-called black Irish, and peoples of the northeastern Iberian peninsula (now part of Spain), particularly the Basques. These common Irish-Iberian genes are found primarily in the northwestern part of the Irish Republic (from my intermittent interest in genealogy, I know my father’s people were from County Sligo and County Mayo, on the NW Irish coast.) Also, the western Irish in general tend to possess fewer genes traceable to Anglo-Saxon and Scandinavian sources than the rest of the native Irish population.

That is your genetics lesson for today, people, for what it is worth.

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I don’t think having vaguely Basque origins made any difference in the sort of person my father was. He was, on the surface, your stereotypical Irishman, hale fellow, well-met. He was convivial and humorous and, from what I can tell, well thought of by most people he ran into. He had a dark side, too; but that is another story.

Growing up, we kids admired and loved our dad, of course. He was kind of emotionally distant underneath all the good cheer and bonhomie, but not to a ridiculous extent. He was all right. A lot of boys idolize their dads, and want to be just like them. That is where my brothers and I drew the line.

We thought our dad was funny and all, but also kind of goofy and out of it. He did really embarrassing stuff sometimes, in public, and said things he probably shouldn’t have. He didn’t care, he just went on his merry way, but sometimes it stung us. For a long time and even up to now, it was a mildly condescending epithet when one brother said to another, “That sounds like something Dad would say.” It meant you had said something “uncool”, and being cool was all that mattered in the era in which we grew up.

So the focus growing up was to appreciate our father, but not be like him, at all. At all costs.

By the way, my father seemed mildly amused by all this. He is dead now, for a year-and-a-half, but I’ll bet he is still laughing, somewhere; because I have noticed lately, to my horror, that I do more and more things that cause me to stop and say to myself, “Goddammit, that is just like something Dad would do.” I have talked to my brothers about this, and they all admit to this creeping malady as well, to varying degrees. Sometimes at a family get-together we will huddle up with one another and in hushed tones trade stories of stupid shit we did and said that we subsequently realized was Dad-like. Then we try to comfort each other.

One trait my father had was extreme cheerfulness at very early morning hours. This trait did not get passed on to us. When we were all living at home, he would get up sometimes as early as 5:00 or 5:30 a.m. and start banging around, making a lot of noise, I always felt intentionally. And sometimes, just for the hell of it, he’d stand outside mine and my brother’s bedroom doors, at 5:30 in the morning, now, in his boxer shorts, and start singing French opera, in a booming voice. “Figaro! Figaro! Figaro!” Loud as hell, with a big smile on his face. It would knock us right out of the bed. I think my aversion to opera and classical music began then.

*****

One recent morning, I was attempting to get my slug-a-bed children up and ready for school. I tried gently at first, then more firmly. But nothing was working (it was a Monday.) So next, without thinking, I stood in the hallway in my briefs and started singing “Figaro” at the top of my lungs. That got them up. Hell, I’ll bet the neighbors could hear it.

I was pretty satisfied with myself. Hey, whatever works, right? Then all of the sudden I realized what. . . oh, goddamn it! Son of a BITCH.

*****