Sheri's Tribune

Being Irish

One would say I'm not Irish but in name.
I wasn't born in Ireland.
I've never been to Ireland.
And yet, I feel much more Irish than any Irishman would / should / could.
Cose of a word that is also used for the Jews: Diaspora.
Like the Jews, the Irish are a scattered people.
I, I was born in Central Africa.
My father was born in Cairo during WWII.
My grandfather was born in Bruges!
I speak three languages, and a few words of a fourth one.
I've got Belgian, French, Dutch, English blood running through my veins.
Yet, it's the Irish part, minute as it is, that seems to prevail.
Why is that?
I've got that bit of Irish craziness in me. Call it mental instability.
Mental instability or a certain hindsight, a sense of relativity / futility which is interpreted as craziness by the people that belong to the "norm".
I hate the norm.
The norm is a coffin.
I shit on the norm.

Am I drunk?
Only slightly.

I love the deafening, rythmical sound of cicadas in Southern France. I love Pagnol.
But I (would) equally love the shabby stone walls and dark sticky woodwork of an Irish pub in a remote coastal area. I would feel at home.
At home.