Celebrating St. Patrick's Day

Ah, the drunken display of mock-Irishness is upon us.

The man many people think they are celebrating wasn't actually Irish. He blasted down Ireland's doors to shove his religion onto the native folk.  Maybe not literally, but I envision it was very Mormon-esque. Elder Patrick went door by door, with his companion, asking the gentle Pagan folk if they would like to change their religion; he had a free book written by Jesus.

I have spoken before about why an atheist would ever celebrate a religious holiday. So the fact that my family celebrates something like St. Patrick's Day isn't too big of an announcement. We just do it a little differently. A little background on the holiday that I double checked with the Catholics via their website-o-saints.

We will start off with Mr. Saint Patrick's story:

He was born in Scotland in 387. At fourteen he was kidnapped during a raiding party and taken to Ireland to herd sheep. At twenty he escaped and made it back to Britain by sailors, where he was reunited with his family.

At home, he started in the priesthood of Catholicism. His father was a Catholic deacon and his grandfather was a Catholic priest. So he was following in the footsteps of his family.  He spent about 40 years in Ireland, converting the Irish from Paganism to Catholicism.

Pretty basic. 

We all know that the only way a mere mortal can become a saint is through documented miracles. I am not going to break them down. But I do want to touch on one that may not be a legit miracle, but one that he is known for nonetheless.

Snakes.

Rumor has it that Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland. The only problem with that is that there were never snakes in Ireland.  Snakes are not native to the island and at the time of Patrick, they hadn't been introduced. There were literally no snakes for him to banish after they allegedly attacked him during a 40 day fast on top of a hill.

Some people may offer a different interpretation of the story of the snakes. Snakes have been a long standing symbol for the Pagans, specifically the Celts. So Patrick never drove out serpents, he drove out the Pagans.

Now, what is wrong with that? For what seems like eons people have been bringing their religious beliefs to the people they have conquered, or people who are different or people who are poor. Funny thing about religious beliefs is that people aren't usually so quick to give theirs up. Usually it takes force, persuasion or syncretism. And even though Patrick himself didn't subjugate an entire race of people, the many missionaries that followed in his name did.

It's important to remember that Patrick himself didn't walk around the Emerald Isle with his mighty walking stick, slaying dragons and Druids and anyone else he didn't agree with. Saint Patrick has fallen prey to the mythos that comes with being more of a symbol than the person you once were.

So today is the day where I make sure my children have some kind of green on, as to prevent the mean children at school from pinching them. I smile as my children bring home colored sheets of rainbows, pots of gold, and three leaf clovers. And I try to plan a meal at home, as to not deal with the college kids who are one green beer away from vomiting.

I also take it as an opportunity to teach my children a few important things.

We learn about Ireland.  We learn about different beliefs and why pushing beliefs that have no backing is wrong. We learn about the Celts and Pagans and their rich history and tales. We learn about the symbolism of the snakes. We learn about accepting others for who they are and doing our best not to cast judgement on others. We learn about Irish folklore. We learn about leprechauns and the little people. We learn about fae folk and banshees.

Today my girls and I are going to make snake wreaths to celebrate the real snakes of Ireland, and enjoy the Pagan stories that were almost forgotten due to the way Christianity tries to snuff out every other religious practice.

The Worst Christmas Pageant. Ever.

My children attend a public elementary school in the Midwest.

So each Winter Concert there has always been at least one Christian Holiday song.  That might bother some atheist parents. Surprisingly enough, it hasn't really bothered me. Maybe because I once loved and cherished those songs. The two that seem to appear each year is "Silent Night" and "Away in a Manger". Usually the kindergarten children play the hand bells along to them. I think it's sweet and they are rather easy songs. I can see why the music teacher selected those two songs for the youngest students in the school.

This year, their music program was called, 'Paint the Town December'. For the past two months, I heard my children sing the songs they were learning at school while they played at home. Based on the songs they were singing, it was going to be a wonderfully diverse program.

We arrived at the auditorium and took our seats. The 5th grade band played "Jingle Bells" and the older children sang some songs. Then the kindergarten children took the stage and played "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" and "Away in a Manger" on the hand bells.

So far, it had matched each Concert that the school had put on since my children started attending there three years ago.

The first through fifth graders started walking down the aisle towards the stage and were looking around for their parents and waving when they found them. Parents were standing up trying to get their students attention. I was trying to locate each of my children so I knew where to look during the performance.

Once the students were settled and ready to go, they started with a non-religious song called "Paint the Town December", and it was really sweet.

From that point on, the Winter Concert became something other than what it should have been. I couldn't believe how many racist stereotypes were blended into something that I was expecting to be so very diverse.

As the children with speaking parts took the stage dressed in berets, white painter smocks and thin mustaches, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. Their role in the Concert/Play was the painters. They were walking from store front to store front offering to paint the windows in the town with holiday themes. (Paint the town December, ah, I get it.)  But every time one of the students opened their mouths to speak, a thick, stereotypical French accent came out. I glanced at my husband and he gave me a look that said, "Give it time, maybe they just missed the mark on this part."

I wish it had stopped there. I really do. But every time they represented any culture or people who weren't Caucasian Christians, their portrayals were steeped in stereotypes.

The next song was a Hanukkah song. The children with speaking parts came out with yarmulkes and side curls. They spoke with heavy Yiddish/Hebrew accents. 

Then it was time for Kwanzaa... Same deal. Offensive stereotypical accents and garb. 

Even the secular song, "Up on the Roof Top" ended with a little boy yelling, "God bless us, everyone." You would think that would have been the only moment to offend someone who is atheist. Nope. They kept going.

Next, they had a little girl in a hijab walk out on stage. She spoke briefly about Ramadan. They didn't make her speak in a heavy accent. But they also had no song. Granted, Ramadan was celebrated in July this past year, and only rarely falls in December, (last time was in 1999 and the next time will be 2030), but I could see how they were trying to touch on as many religious holidays as possible, even if it meant leaving out a few that actually are celebrated every December. (Chalica, Human Light, Saturnalia...)

I am from Southern California, an area that is alive with the wonderful Hispanic Culture of so many different races. So when the children were setting up for the song, "Las Posadas", I was cringing before they even opened their mouths to speak.

The children were wearing over sized sombreros and ponchos that were made from small area rugs with holes cut in them for their heads to fit through. The fake accents were sloppy and offensive and I couldn't believe how the entire performance was riddled with pigeonholing and stereotypes.

Well, almost the entire performance. The one song that wasn't misconstrued by ignorant backwards thinking was the song that represented Christmas. The song was 'Shepherd Boy' and the children spoke in their normal accents, which weren't as 'country' or 'Southern' as they could have been. Or even should have been considering the running theme. They were reverent, soft and respectful. Did the store owner come out in a wife beater holding a shotgun? Nope. Did the children with speaking parts have bright white teeth and tans or speak like Valley Girls? Nope. They were just average, normal sounding children. There were a lot of American accents and stereotypes they could have chosen from. But because it represented THEM (mostly the person in charge of the performance, considering these are primary school children). It was something she could relate to, something that seemed 'normal' to her.

By the end of the performance, I was racking my brain for ways to un-educate my children who were obviously miseducated about so many wonderful cultures and so many different religions. We had already been celebrating Hanukkah, so I know that would be something that I had already, recently, put the foundations for in place.

I was so disappointed. I went in with such high expectations of diversity and well represented cultures and religions and I walked away with such a bitter taste from the pigeonholing that only stopped for a brief moment when the children sang a song that represented the majority of the school, and the music teacher.

I wanted to write a letter to the school, but I don't even know where to start. I loved the premise, I hated the execution.  I wasn't planning on making my children's Winter Concert into a huge learning lesson at home, but now I know I must.

Stories my grandmother told me

I loved my maternal grandmother. She was the embodiment of beauty; I looked up to her my entire childhood and well into my twenties, even now. I can still remember her hands, her smile, her smell, the way she hugged, the way she would sing. I loved her so purely that at times I think I loved her more than I loved my mother.

We lived with my grandparents on and off for the first 12 years of my life. My grandmother taught me how to play the piano, helped me learn to read music, taught me what I know about baking and sewing. She made dresses for me as a child, and they were my favorite dresses growing up.

On occasion my grandmother would let my brothers and some cousins and I sleep downstairs in her living room, all in a row; a pile of mismatched children and blankets, and she would tell us stories that she would make up on the spot, or ones that were reminiscent of childhood tales from her youth. She would keep the story going until every grandchild had fallen asleep.

When morning would come, she would have biscuits and gravy ready for us to gobble up, or if we were really lucky, she would have scones frying in a hot pan of oil. I loved the way she loved us. She would always tell me that I was her favorite, which I wholeheartedly believed because of how much love I felt from her.

My grandmother was a huge part of my childhood. Not only because we lived in her home, but because my mother became sick around the time I was 5. My grandmother stepped in when my mom was sick in bed with a migraine, or had adverse side effects from the medication her doctors were experimenting with at the time.

I remember all the stories my grandmother told me as lessons or as lullaby stories. But the one I can't forget is how she would tell me how sick my mother was. She would tell me that if my mother died, she would go to the Celestial Kingdom, which is the highest level of heaven. She would tell me how Jesus and God would be there to hold my mother and comfort her. She would tell me that my mother would no longer feel pain. She let me know that I would feel so sad, but it would be okay, because it would be in God's plan. I remember how she would wipe away my tears and how she would hold me.

I remember my mother being in the hospital over Christmas in 1992. I remember my father telling me and brothers how the hospital didn't allow visitors on Christmas, so we spent the entire day at his parents house, whom I loved as well. I remember opening our gifts in the hospital the day after Christmas. And I remember coming home to a house that felt so empty. My mother was in the hospital and my only sense of comfort had moved to Apple Valley the previous Summer.

Two years later my parents when through their first divorce. (Yes, I said first.) And I looked forward to the week every Summer that I would spend at my grandmother's house. My grandfather had a wonderful garden, and we would pick zucchini for the delicious zucchini bread my grandmother would bake. I really missed her after she moved. Every time I visited, I eagerly waited to hear her stories, they had changed from bedtime tales to childhood memories over a game of Up Words.

I loved every story she told me, and even though her story of what would happen if my mother died really made me feel like my mother was definitely going to die, I know now that her intention was to comfort me.

My grandmother passed away in 2009. I hadn't spoken to her much the last year of her life, but I know how much she loved me and I believe if I had loved her any more than I did, my heart would have burst.

After my grandmother had passed away, I had a gander at some of her children's facebook postings. They all were posting about how they know she was playing the piano up in the spirit world, or how she was now living without pain awaiting judgment day. Some mentioned how they couldn't wait to see her again.

It was a bittersweet moment for me, when I took a step back from the pain of losing her, and realized that I would never see her again. I realized the story she told about what would happen to my mother was something she truly believed would also happen to her. That I would never, ever get to hear one of her stories ever again. Then the sweet part came, when I realized that even though she was now gone, that she did exist. She lived a full and beautiful life, filled with pain and regret and love and family. She taught me to play the piano, which I can now teach to my daughters, my grandchildren and maybe even my great grandchildren. I learned how to sew, which has turned into a full blown craft obsession.

And the best part of all, besides having her chicken and dumplin' recipe, is that I got to love her and be loved by her. And I get to share each and every story she told me with my daughters, plus the story about how purely awesome my grandmother was.