The DNA results confirmed what I already knew: I’m 100% Irish. To be more precise, my ancestors hailed from the Gaeltacht, the Irish-speaking region on Ireland’s west coast. The English considered this region “beyond the pale,” and countless generations of my kin have lived there. As I told my husband, we didn't get around much until we came to America.

All of my grandparents emigrated from Ireland. My parents, first generation Irish-American, wrapped us in green. Literally. I received so much green clothing over the years that I began to dread gifting holidays. Their exuberant Irish pride shone through porcelain plates decorated with shamrocks and Irish blessings, shillelaghs, fisherman sweaters, Donegal caps, Waterford crystal, Lenox china, lace curtains and doilies, high balls with Jameson's, gaming in every form, and paintings of Mary and the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

Let us not forget the boiled dinner, when beef brisket, potatoes, cabbage, onions, and turnip are boiled together in a pot. The smell is so pungent, so sulfurous and meaty, that it hits you like a slap in the face. Between the boiled dinner, the Ritz-crackered meatloaf, the fried liver and onions, and the threat of cooked eels, I declared myself vegetarian in my teens and brought my own food to the table. This bold, unsupported move set in motion a lifelong suspicion of my eating habits, but, really, it was an act of self-preservation. With the exception of scones and Irish bread, I’m not a fan of Irish cuisine.

My parents are variations on being Irish. My father's side tends to be introverted, quiet, proper, gentle-natured. My mother's side is boisterous, musical, fond of storytelling, appreciative of a joke. What connected them was dance. They first met at a dance and were members of an Irish social club where they danced every weekend until the summer of my father’s death. Dancing and music are central to my cultural upbringing, along with kindness and a strong sense of ethics, a family-centric mindset, sacrifice (even martyrdom), generosity (the crumpled money stuffed into my hand by aunts and uncles along with a muttered, "Don't say nothin' about it”), family musicians pulling out their instruments at parties, others reciting long poems from memory, overeating and laughing complaints, festive drinking, the joyful noise.

My parents were not big huggers until we experienced family therapy in my twenties. (If you were raised Irish-Catholic, "family therapy" couldn't sound more implausible or painful. It speaks to my parents’ great love for us that they participated, and then some.) The absence of a hugging instinct is not unusual for the Irish, who aren’t the most physically affectionate, though they’ll lay it on verbally. When my parents started hugging me, it was extremely awkward; I would back up and become very stiff as they closed in to wrap their arms around me. I wish their affection had happened years earlier, because, like learning a language later in life, my lack of practice puts me at a disadvantage. When pressed to initiate a hug, I fling my arms out wide and approach like a plane coming in for a landing.

Catholicism is a big part of my Irish identity. Even though I’m agnostic, and have been since childhood, I’m comfortable in church, lulled by the singing and chanting, the words coming back so easily. I’m drawn to these beautiful spaces filled with candles and incense, the doors always open for prayer and contemplation. Irish Catholicism is, from my witnessing, a blend of pagan and Christian, with deep reverence for Mary, and customs I’d imagine are not priest-approved, like hanging a rosary on a tree branch to hold back the rain, as my mother did during my first wedding.

I never feel more Irish than at funerals and wakes, so steeped in ritual. At wakes, we visit the deceased in their open coffins and kneel before them, sometimes kissing them, before meeting the grieving family members, who are usually stoic, but warm in their greetings to make us feel welcome. The solemnity of the funeral mass is often followed by singing a cappella by the graveside. At my aunt’s graveside, her son and his friends sang a moving rendition of “The Parting Glass”; at my father’s burial, we sang “True Love” by Cole Porter, my parents’ song. There’s always a big dinner after the burial, where laughter is as plentiful as tears.

I've been to Ireland twice. Each time I was enthralled by its beauty and stunned by its bleakness, the near absence of trees in a land so alive. I hiked for miles along the west coast and have never breathed air so pure, though I rarely met a soul on the paths. I was off rhythm in this country for night owls. Live music in pubs started after 10pm, when I was in bed, and nothing was open early in the morning, when I’d search for a coffee shop. Yet, I discovered the strangest thing. Though I’ve long felt geographically challenged, unsure of north or south, the last one you should ask for directions, Ireland was a geomantic homecoming. I always knew where I was in space, perhaps because I knew where the sea was, and I navigated in a car in real time without GPS, off a paper map, like a boss. After my first visit, I got my Irish citizenship and passport with the idea of moving there if I needed a haven. I felt safe in Ireland, at home.

Would that my family would gather again in Ireland after we die, in that green, green place with soft rain, cool winds, and a hearth warm and fragrant from a peat fire. Whiskey and hot coffee, scones and a dish of butter, singing and storytelling as the night comes on, my mother playing the piano, my cousin the guitar, my uncle the accordion, and my father reaching toward me, inviting me to dance. My parents’ friend Joe would recite that long poem again, and my Nana would bring out her blueberry muffins. We would toast to the life we spent together, to the ones still living, to those to come. We would spend one final evening together and make it last till the sun came up, everyone's dear faces smiling before we went to our final sleep, at last.

Kiss Me, I'm Irish! by Diane

Parlor