Kiss Me, I'm Irish!
“Kiss me, I’m Irish!” What might be great to the college guy that dons the shirt to match his charming smile on St. Pat’s day isn’t great to a young girl wondering if everyone expected Formula 1 greatness from her lips.
As a young girl, there were and are elements of being Irish that helped inflate the power of certain character traits or elements of my life: Luck, a hardworking nature, the ability to handle adversity, comfort with getting my hands dirty, the ability to make do with few things, a love of green, and loyalty to and love of kin.
As a young girl near Boston, I felt everyone wanted to be Irish because of St. Patrick’s Day. I had friends of varied ethnic backgrounds who wore “Kiss me, I’m Irish” buttons on that day. I concluded early on that being Irish meant I must be genetically a great kisser. The pressure! I had better be good. I had an early start on my kissing career. My first kiss was at my wedding -- my first wedding, that is. I was 5 years old and it was an arranged marriage to the boy across the street, Drew Diamond. I am not sure who the arrangers were, but suspect it was Linda-Marie, Sandy, and Lee. Drew Diamond and I each stood atop an upside down metal trash barrel set up inside our garage. To seal the deal, we kissed. Kissing at 5 years old is a beautiful thing. All the love in my little heart swelled in my lips and passed through to my beloved in that brief smackaroo.
My next chance for a kiss was in the caves of France. Or at least that was where my mind went once I learned what a French kiss entailed. My best friend Robin and I were invited to play Spin the Bottle and the stakes were high as my secret crush, David Lakis, would be there. We said yes to the mid-day game hosted by the Natarelli twins. Robin and I talked about kissing, and as usual, she seemed to know everything. There would be French Kissing. I now wondered if my freckle-faced Irishness might be alluring to the boys. Those “Kiss me, I’m Irish” buttons, shirts and stickers, so often seen, might be the perfect setup Robin described a French kiss: “Open your mouth and he will put his lips on yours and then explore with his tongue.”
“Wait, what?” Her words scared the bejeezus out of me. She said I would need to move my tongue about as he moved his. She didn’t say ‘explore with my tongue’ like the boy. She made it sound like a fencing match where I would need to react to his thrusting tongue with some counter move with my tongue. Could we hurt each other’s tongues? I was terrified he might bite my tongue or I might bite his. Oh, this was all so complicated. I’m Irish, with plenty of love in my swollen closed lips. I didn’t even know one French person yet we all had to kiss like these tongue thrusting cave dwellers!
The bottle first spun to me and I was beyond exhilarated at the chance to kiss David. I put aside any performance anxiety in hopes of a kiss that would surely lead to our becoming boyfriend and girlfriend 4eva! I tried to rig the spin with just enough gusto to point to David. It barely moved and everyone shouted “Do. Over. Spin it hard!” So I did, and it finally slowed passing David once, then a second time till slowing down to point to Joe Natarelli. Italian Joe. Close to France, I thought. I steeled myself for his confidence. Joe, we could tell even at 12, was built to become be a professional linebacker (or a bar bouncer). This made me further nervous about what I would discover in the closet. As we walked together to the unlit kissing booth, I steeled myself to be brave and to remember that unlike every kiss I had given so far in life, this time I needed to open my mouth like a trap.
And then there were my freckles. I was locked in as Irish and the world knew it. As no one else in my family, including my parents and siblings, had freckles, I believed they were a sign I was adopted. Almost as upsetting, I felt like the spots made me look dirty, from a lower class of humanity. I couldn’t wash them off and the summer sun rays were like paint brush tips, constantly leaving spots I would only see the next time I looked in the mirror. My sisters and brother had clear, freckle-free skin and I became convinced my parents adopted me. A natural detective, I went into the attic looking for evidence. It was the place my parents told us not to go as it was unsafe and we could fall through the ceiling too easily. I knew this would be where my mother and father hid proof of my adoption. I went up more than once, finding nothing. Finally, one summer morning, not wanting to go out and get more dots, I admitted to my mother how upset I was at not being able to stop the freckles from coming and my fear that I was adopted. I cried.
My mother had moments of impact that gave belief in love and hope that resonate to this day. She told me I was lucky, special. “Every freckle is a kiss from God.” It was a stretch, but I also wondered if it might be true.