I'm very sorry, but you're not Irish

The Donna Syndrome

“And so, I will continue to suggest that if you’re American, just being American is fine. Your people have their own characteristics, and your own nationality is something to be proud of.”

With St Patrick’s Day upon us, now is the perfect time to remind my American cousins of an inescapable, and apparently painful, reality. Sorry chaps, but you’re not actually Irish.

To Celts who’ve not spent much time around Americans, this comment may seem superfluous, or even puzzling. So allow me to take you back to 1994.

Following 36 hours of travelling and barely a wink of sleep, we arrived in a state of disarray at Oakwood Apartments, Newport Beach, So Cal. Our youthful vigour kept us upright and sniffing the air, but although cheerfully embracing our new situation, we were both now in dire need of a nap.

A thunderously friendly receptionist offered us our key and a quick tour around the complex, then up to the apartment we were to inhabit for the next few months, which we gratefully accepted.

And then, upon asking where I was from, she exclaimed in a loud, and very American accent (yes, of course Americans have accents) “Oh, I’m Scawdish!”

I blinked.

I asked her to repeat herself and after a second or two, my tired brain rebooted, I deciphered her strong American accent and realised she was claiming to be a fellow Scot.

“Oh, really?” quoth I, raised to be polite, and trying to hide my incredulity “You’ve lost your accent then?” I tentatively enquired.

“Oh, I mean my father was Scottish” she replied.

My weary mind was truly discombobulated and scrambled for another polite phrase: “Ah, um, whereabouts was he from?” was all I could think to say.

“Oh, I dunno” she stated flatly, and strode off as we exchanged puzzled glances behind her back, following like ducklings imprinted on a strange new species.

This was not, as I assumed, a momentary glitch in her programming; it turned out to be an affectation of many of the Americans we encountered in our 4.5 years in Sunny California.

The Donna Syndrome

I think of this affectation as the Donna Syndrome, thanks to the efforts of one particularly clueless American who attached herself to me, some years ago, via Facebook. I have long since ditched FB, but this time had not yet come, and she had ferreted me out through another American friend.

Donna seemed harmless enough, and so I accepted her request.

Her name was certainly Scottish in origin, and she claimed - perpetually - to feel a great affinity towards Scotland, England, and all things UK. She made a great deal of attending Renaissance Faires, a new concept to me, and it only occurred to me later that the reason she’d friend requested me in the first place was due to my plainly UK origins.

One fine morn, I posted something light and whimsical along the lines of missing Scotland, and Donna decided that now was her moment. She sprang, quickly asserting that she too was a Scot.

Donna was born and raised in the USA, however, and had never so much as set foot out of the USA. So - nope.

I was polite but firm. I thanked her for her affection towards my ain folk and pointed out that it’s fine, even rather complimentary to say you feel an affinity towards Scotland, have Scottish ancestors, that your heart belongs to Scotland, etc etc.

But that does not make you Scottish.

She was aghast. Never before had this reality been averred in her presence.

We went back and forth for a bit, with Donna trying to batter reality into submission, and me quietly and politedly but determinedly pointing out that it is excruciatingly over privileged to believe that you can simply claim the Nationality of a country because your gran was born there.

About four comments in, when she was determined not to relent, I suggested that should she wish to try making that claim in Scotland, she should do so. Just pop into any pub in Glasgow and announce in a confident American accent that you are Scottish, and see where that takes you.

Note - please don’t try this. They might let you away with it if you buy them free beer all night, or are in the mood for a laugh, but a glass to the face often offends.

By now, Donna was simply seething with entitled fury.

On my humble little post, which was never intended to serve as a sounding board for Donna’s feelpinions, which was merely a whimsical moment sharing my longing for a long lost childhood, she went into full melt down mode, continuing to post ever more emotive, lengthy, snarky and fact-free bloviating.

Which I quietly deleted. It had become apparent she was just not going to shut up and be told. So I deleted everything, leaving only her original comment and my polite response explaining her error.

I do not allow anyone to blunder into my house and vomit on the couch.

I then more or less forgot about her existence again, and certainly forgot all about the comments I had been forced to delete, until some weeks later.

Petulant, peevish and presumptuous

Donna was in the habit of complaining ad nauseam about many subjects, from her job, to her colleagues, to her adult child, who seemed to want little to do with her, to the home owners association. She was, at least online, an energy vampire.

A few weeks after her sulk spectacular, I noted that one particularly whiney complaint had received no interaction at all. I felt a little sorry for her. So I clicked like and offered a gentle commiseration.

Reader, she deleted the comment.

I realised then that her spittle lipped fury at being told “No” to appropriating something that did not belong to her had been simmering away in silence for weeks. Because I rarely interacted with her, she’d been forced to wait for weeks to vent her spleen on a pleasant, supportive comment.

I daresay she thought she’d showed me.

After I stopped laughing, I blocked her, of course. I have not the bandwidth to deal with that kind of mental midwittery.

And the reason I share this with you, dear reader, is to give you an insight into the sort of mind who will argue themselves into a ding dong battle against reality and those who know better, in the name of their feelings.

Petulant, peevish and presumptuous.

Offence Olympics

Appropriating a nationality is, frankly, offensive.

But, of course, my taking offence is not a reason to stop doing anything.

I find a lot of online content truly offensive, but I wouldn’t suggest anyone delete it or alter it just to please me.

Please do be aware, however, that the ancestors whose nationality, culture, heritage and experiences you’re so lightly claiming as your own, the ones you think you’re honouring with such declamations, are spinning in their graves with gritted teeth, each time you do it.

Now, I realise this will have triggered many of you, who are just bursting to jump in with how well meaning appropriating Irish/Scottish/etc nationality is, how the American experience is difference, how it’s just an American quirk, or tied to your immigrant roots and that I just don’t understand.

And, most importantly you can barely wait to offer me a resounding American “Fuck you”, as you insert the reasons why you think claiming a nationality that does not belong to you is actually a compliment and no big deal.

But reality does not care how you feel. And though I cannot speak for the Irish, or for every Scot, I can certainly speak for reality.

There’s quite a difference between cultural appropriation—which is normal, natural, and part of the human experience in every culture across the world—and making a claim to be part of a group in which you are, factually, simply not included.

It’s true that many of America’s laws, behaviours and beliefs were informed by the melting pot that included your Celtic and Anglo Saxon forebears, but, just as my 2% Norwegian DNA does not make me Norwegian, your “insert percentage” of Irish DNA does not make you Irish.

Although I retain my Scottish accent, was born and raised in Scotland and spent my first 25 years there, and though I could return to the UK and live there if I so chose (perish the thought), I can only barely claim to be a Scot myself at this stage, having spent so many years in another country, away from my ain folk.

That aside, the reality is that it’s factually incorrect to claim you are “insert nationality” unless you actually are “insert nationality”. That my ancestors are 74% Scot, 24% Irish and 2% Norwegian is barely worth a mention, except to my children and in family group chats.

Regardless of intent, desire, identification with, or heritage, I’m Scottish/British by dint of birth right and Australian by dint of naturalisation.

Do as thou wilt - you always do

I don’t expect you to mend your ways, people almost never do. I expect you will persist in claiming a nationality you are not entitled to and your fellow Americans will continue to nod along approvingly.

But nevertheless, I will continue to suggest, at around about this time of year, that if you’re American, just being American is fine. Americans have their own characteristics, and your own nationality is something to be proud of.

That it’s delightful that you feel an affinity towards the Irish, Scots, Polish, Norwegians etc and that your fascination with their culture and heritage is fair and reasonable. But that does not make you not Irish/Scottish/Polish/ etc.

And know this: claiming a nationality you are not entitled to is not looked upon fondly outside of the United States of America. And every time you do it, a real Celt somewhere is offended.

Not that you care, right?

And so with that, happy St Patrick’s Day, may you have the luck of the Irish, today and every day.

And may the road rise to meet you - no matter what Ancestry.com may have to say.