The Parade of Last Names: March in East Islip

An Island people, we proudly celebrate our heritage.
Well, we celebrate the heritage of our last names.
My heritage is that of a second generation Long Islander.
My folks were both raised in the former potato fields of Long Island, hard on the southern Hempstead plains. Levittown and Wantagh.
I was raised out in South Central Suffolk County, further east, a land of non-planned suburban sprawl with no town center.

My wife?
Her folks were Bronx bred, but she was born and raised in the bucolic, but very askew rustic hills of the Northern Shore of Eastern Long Island.
Nary a brogue between us, nor our older relatives.
Go back a few generations you still might not touch an accent that didn't say "dawgs" and "dauwthas" instead of "dogs" and "daughters".
So, not much pining for the mossy expanses of Tara.
Very few righteous shouts of "erin go bragh" from the Mullin's or Clark's of Long Island.

My surname however?
It demands corned beef every March.
As it gets rainy, it finds U2 on the cd player with alarming frequency.
"The Quiet Man" is watched with religious fervor.
Bagpipers are praised for the mournful baling cry of a homeland never known.

If and when I have a daughter, this alone is the time of year I'd be most susceptible for signing her up for a step dancing class.

My surname has a proud heritage every March, and it is celebrated.
My actual heritage?
Not so much.

A good friend of mine has numerous Celtic inspired tattoos.
Shamrocks and harps, leprechauns and tribal bands.
All of this despite:
a) He can't name one prominent historical Irish figure.
b) He doesn't know the capital of Ireland.
c) He is mostly German.

A great deal of my friends and acquaintance have collared their offspring with unwieldy vowel laden, constant clogged Gaelic names. Dooming these children to many a disappointing trip to the "vanity bike license plate" rack at Six Flags Great Adventure.

Not "Shannon", but "Sionainn"
But pronounced "Shannon".

Not "Patrick", but "Padraig".
But pronounced "Patrick".

These are people that do not speak Gaelic. They may have watched "Lord of the Dance" during a PBS pledge drive a few years back.


This is the way of the Irish surnamed Long Islander.
The Long Irisher?

Many Irish surnames abound on Long Island. This stands to reason.
Long Island and Ireland have many similarities.
Both, of course, are Islands.
Both are Islands that have a neighboring Island that lords over it at times like a bitchy older brother;
eye rolling in their heightened fashion sense and haughty sense of general superiority.
Both Islands feature an aggressive, at times inscrutable accent.
Both Islands are inhabited by big headed people that drink a tad too much on occasions.


No surprise that Long Island has a multitude of St. Patrick's Parades.

This year, we attended the St. Patrick's Day in East Islip. It was an impressive parade for the town of East Islip. East Islip is a hamlet on the South Shore of Suffolk County, with streets such as Irish Lane.
So, a tremendous turn out.
The parade wasn't on St. Patrick's Day, but that didn't matter for the revelers lining the street, tailgating along the route with large plastic cups of amber delight.


Many firefighters, and many bagpipers marching down Main.
Even Senator Chuck Schumer made an appearance.
Well sort of.
At the tail end of the parade he was walking by himself, with a few aides, and a lonely sash that read "Senator Charles Schumer".

It wasn't that he was the last person in the parade. It was that there was the last person in the parade, then a gap of half of a block, and THEN Chuck Schumer.
Enough of a gap that people would think "Hmm, parades over." and walk away.

Senator Schumer might be looking for a new aide this week.

But before the Senator? At least nine distinct troops of bagpipers.
Asking one of them, they mentioned that this is a tune up for the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Manhattan.
To be fair, I'm pretty sure that this time of year the bagpipers don't turn down an invitation.
Let's face it, this is the time of year to be a bagpiper.
No one wants a bagpiper at a Fourth of July Barbeque, or at your block party in August.
This is it.
March.
Right now you are looked at with admiration and a certain respect.
Post parade, you are lauded as a hero when you enter a bar.


Come April?
You are a clown in a skirt blowing into a pillow case.
No one wants you around.
No one is going to compliment that "strangling of cats" melody you got going on.
Put on a pair of slacks.

Still, the air was crisp. The crowd was pale and freckled. The bars were open, and soon to be overflowing. My son's stroller was festooned with two flags of Ireland. My wife sported the green knit "erin go bragh" tam o' shanter.

As the parade ended we sat in a bar, drinking Guinness and Harp at 3pm on a Sunday afternoon.
U2 came over the speakers, a buzz started over the appearance of a few bagpipers’ that entered the bar to perform.


Will sat smiling in his mom's arms, a big gummy smile as he bopped about in his green shirt, taking in the sights and sounds.

"This is your heritage little man, this is your heritage. Enjoy."