St. Patrick's Day

March 2019

 As St. Patrick's Day approaches, we asked our writers to reflect on their cultural heritage -- Irish or not! -- and its importance in their lives.

From Heritage to Responsibility

Harry Scherer
Class of 2022

Flannery O’Connor once said, "I write to discover what I know." When beginning to consider my heritage and how it has affected me, I began to immediately relate to this sentiment. Heritage is not a subject upon which I frequently ponder, but it is a worthy topic, especially in the month during which it seems to be discussed the most. While a cradle Catholic, I am not Irish, an apparent blasphemy in the month of March.

Merriam-Webster defines "heritage" as "property that descends to an heir." While respecting the true meaning of the word, I intend to expand the definition of this seemingly nebulous word for the sake of this reflection.

When I consider that which has been passed down to me, the heir, from those who have come before me, I am overwhelmed by the mass of spiritual and material gifts that I have received. With all authenticity, I am who I am because of those who have lived before me. Primarily, my existence relies entirely of the most important Being who has lived before all of us. The Being of Christ, Humility Himself, emerged into this world not in wrath against the generations of sin that preceded Him, but in the ultimate vulnerability of a woman’s womb. He worked for thirty years and died hanging on the wood of a Cross to liberate His people from servitude into freedom. Finally, to remind us that His Love cannot be conquered by even death itself, He rose after three days.

I cannot imagine meditating on my heritage, on that which descends to me, without considering the infinite merits which were won for me and all who will come after me on the Cross. Now, I am able to consider the heritage which is rooted in the foot of the Cross.

About thirteen centuries after this Cross was uprooted, a man was given the articulation to describe the Being of God, an admittedly impossible feat, with the brilliance of some of the greatest scholars the world has ever seen and the with a complementary humility that made all of his works so much richer. At the end of his life, St. Thomas Aquinas said "The end of my labors has come. All that I have written appears to be as so much straw after the things that have been revealed to me." Thirteen years of my primary and secondary education took place at an institution named after this brilliant mind. There was certain formative significance in the fact that all the work of myself and my peers was done under the intercession of this Dumb Ox.

Seven centuries after this great saint died, another one was born in the hills of Albania. She was to live her life in service of the poorest of the poor, a vocation which came straight from the mouth of God. St. Theresa of Calcutta lived her mission in a different way which Thomas Aquinas did, but both vocations were rooted in the Heart of Christ. With a deep love for those whom the society discounted as insignificant and worthless, she brought into this world the gaze of Our Lord’s merciful Love.

Finally, after all of the love which the saints before us have displayed, the heritage which I hope to carry on is a dedication to that which is true, good and beautiful. This dedication has been displayed to me by my friends, teachers, family and, most importantly, my parents. All of these groups and persons, in some way or another, have been able to display to me a mere glimpse of the true purpose in life. I am incredibly grateful for this glimpse, for it a greater sight than many who have come before me have ever seen. These persons, either directly or indirectly, have taken a snapshot of Heaven and displayed it through their eyes, as they see as Christ does; through their mouth, as they speak as Christ would; and through their feet, as they walk as Christ would.

A recognition of these truly beautiful people leads me to reflect on the purpose that I have as a result of knowing them and receiving the "property" which has "descended" to me. It would be irresponsible, and arguably wrong, of me to recognize the gifts which have been given to me and not make a firm resolution to devote every one of them to the spiritual utility of those I encounter.

Would it not be selfish to take the gifts which we receive and use them only for ourselves? If we do believe that it is in "giving that we receive," as St. Francis of Assisi put so beautifully in his prayer, then it is not just an ability, but a responsibility to take all of the gifts we have received and throw them back into the world for the benefit of others. This is not a defense of the utilitarian thought that humans are only good for the social benefit they create with their capital. In fact, my claim is a repudiation of that thought because the assumption comes from the recognition of every human person’s inviolable dignity and human’s responsibility to give as a choice, not a coerced act. This is the heritage we are called to introduce to the next generation across all walks of life.

This is my heritage. It would be disingenuous to even consider any material possessions or national bloodline as a significant part of my heritage without first recognizing the immeasurable positive consequences of knowing the people whom Our Lord has introduced to me over the past eighteen years. It is because of these people that I can even write these words. It is because of them that I can have hope for the future, introduced by faith and buttressed by reason. It is because of them that I can conceive of my purpose, and it is through them that I can even start to act it out.

Read other articles by Harry Scherer

Things money can’t buy

Angela Guiao
MSMU Class of 2021

Growing up, my mother loved to remind me how easy I had it growing up in America. I used to think she was so silly. Every single little thing seemed to be absolutely amazing, sometimes to just look at; every small action something I should wholly appreciate being able to do. I didn’t understand.

Sometimes, we’d be eating dinner and she’d tell me just how lucky I was to have food to eat. Huh? Food is so plentiful here in America. The thought of hunger and not eating didn’t strike me as familiar. The thought itself was reserved for the few homeless I saw on the street or scenes of poverty in movies. It wasn’t a real thing for me.

Every now and then, my mother would tell me stories of her growing up in the Philippines. It was a very rags-to-riches tale, but even then, the riches side didn’t seem as great as the ones we enjoy while living here in America. My grandfather was a farmer. He and my grandmother had nine children, including my mother. For the majority of my mother’s childhood, they grew up poor. She told me how my grandparents valued education and would save up money each year just so they could send all their children to private school.

Paying tuition meant they had very little for anything else. Each year, my mother had a total of three shirts and one skirt, and they were hand-me-downs from her older sisters. She also had a pair of shoes, but when they got too old and fell apart, she’d go to school without any. My grandmother was only able to give her 15 pesos for lunch each week. It was a struggle, but she made sacrifices to prioritize her family. Now for us Americans, imagine one American dollar is the equivalent of approximately 50 Philippine pesos. It seems little for us, but even for her then, it meant she could only afford the cheapest food being sold on the street market.

When my mother got older and went off to college, my grandparents had earned enough money to buy some land. They started a citrus farm, and it turned out to be very successful. After that, they were considered "well-to-do."

But my mother and her siblings never forgot the times when they were poor. I didn’t fully understand the extent of what she meant until I visited the Philippines a few years ago. When my grandparents died, their wealth and land was divided between the nine siblings. But despite their wealth, my aunts and uncles appeared to have completely ignored their newly acquired wealth. My uncles’ hands were calloused and dirty and their skin sunbeaten and tan from working on the farms. My aunts would wake early in the morning to head to school to teach and be awake late into the night preparing for their class the next day. They had enough money to live comfortably in the Philippines without having to work, but made the choice not to. I didn’t understand why.

When I asked my mother, she told me it was because of how they were raised. Growing up poor in the Philippines was hard. It was much harder than the poverty we know in America. When you were poor in the Philippines, you had nothing. No food. No shelter. And no government to provide assistance. The jobs were very scarce, even in the provinces, and they paid only a few pesos each day. There were no programs to help those in need, whether they be children, disabled, or veterans. If you were poor, you were poor.

Being poor allowed my mother and her siblings to realize the importance of education and of working hard. Every single one of them graduated from college. They understood that money can come and can go, but more importantly, that money doesn’t teach you anything. Despite their inheritances, they all chose to continue working simply because they wanted their children to learn from their example. It was important to be a good role model.

Life in the Philippines is community- and family-centric. It is about helping one another and learning how to support yourself. It is about valuing things other than money and material things. I didn’t fully realize what that meant until I spent a whole month there without air conditioning. I sometimes forget that the Philippines is still considered to be a third world country.

While I was there, I realized just how much more in-touch the people there were with their surroundings. The streets were lined with fruit-bearing trees, and their cuisine was always cooked from fresh seafood and meat.

The roads in our province were still made of dirt, and cars were scarce. Instead, people traveled in side carriages that were pulled along by motorcycles called tricycles, or decorated open-air buses called jeepneys. It was obvious that the older people were respected more than everyone else because they were always prioritized or being helped.

The streets in the city were always full of people, and street shops were everywhere. But what intrigued me the most was this: although the majority of regular folk in the Philippines were considered poor because of their lack of material possessions or wealth, they always seemed to be smiling. The majority of the people there were happy.

Growing up in America, I was surrounded by the newest technology and the next coolest toy. The streets were too dangerous to roam around without parents and my mother was always at work. I got everything I wanted as long as it could be bought. And you know, there’s nothing wrong with that. The fast-paced, innovative environment of America helped shape who I am today. But I am forever grateful for my roots in the Philippines for teaching me the importance also of family and community, and self-awareness- the things money can’t buy.

Read other articles by Angela (Tongohan) Guiano

The making of me

Morgan Rooney
MSMU Class of 2020

Growing up, I always knew the general origins of my ancestors. My mom is mostly Norwegian and my dad is mostly Irish. It’s not something I thought much about at the beginning, but as I got older, and as a fifth generation American, I began to wonder more about how I ended up here.

My grandma had always researched into our family history on my maternal side, but I wanted to learn more. I knew that it was much more complicated than just fifty percent this and fifty percent that. Alike most people in this country (and in the world for that matter) I’m just a mixture of so many different cultures; at this point in time, it’s very difficult to figure out exactly what you are, although DNA testing is growing more common and the science is improving quickly.

I’ve researched into my dad’s family and found out about my many other Scandinavian ancestors and of the immigration story of my Irish ancestors to northern Wisconsin in the 1840s. I learned of their families, their jobs as laborers and lumberjacks, and even visited the town they settled in where many generations of my family lived, including my grandparents. Most people in my family have already visited Ireland, or hope to visit sometime in their life. I was given that opportunity as well which gave me a lot to think about.

Every year when I was growing up, my mom’s side of the family had a tradition pertaining to the Norwegian roots in my family. On New Year’s Eve, as we sat at the dining room table, she would light a burgundy candle which sat in a wooden carved lamp. She would say that whoever sat in the lamp’s light New Year’s Eve would be blessed for the following year. This Norwegian Blessing Lamp still exists throughout my mom’s family is a tradition that we practice each year to this day. It’s the only specific thing that I can trace back to Norway in my family. That, and the distant relatives that are my Facebook friends. I have read through all my grandma’s research on my great-great-grandparents from Norway and learned of their jobs as cobblers and their reasoning for coming to the United States. I also know about how they died young and even my grandfather never got to meet them.

Last year, in a history class I was taking, we were asked to write a paper on a migration story for a family member considering that we live in a country where 99 percent of people are immigrants or descendants of immigrants. I didn’t know exactly whom I’d write about but I knew exactly who could help me out. I gave my maternal grandma a call and instead of telling me a story, she sent me an entire book which was published by a distant cousin in our family who shared a common ancestor. The book was written about my fifth great grandfather and his migration journey from Lisburn in modern day Northern Ireland to the mountainous west in the United States.

Reading the book gave me a thought that was new to me. This is just one of thousands of ancestors I have and his story was so elaborate. There are so many more stories there were never recorded and written down, so I will never know them, but they all existed and I wouldn’t be here without a single one of them. The probability of my birth was miniscule, but I am here thanks to them. I try to remember that as much as I can.

It wasn’t until three or four years ago that I ended up getting a DNA test out of curiosity of my identity. This was before it became very popular to get DNA testing, so I had never known someone who had gotten one done before. Unlike most people, I can’t say I saw anything particularly surprising. There were no surprising discoveries of Native American blood. With the assumption that my results are not flawed in any way and are completely accurate (which is unlikely considering how much my results have changed with updates) I am 100 percent western European with a mixture of Irish, Norwegian, English, and a dash of French (which was actually a slight surprise). Just being able to look at the pie chart of everything that I am was an awesome purchase. I would definitely recommend this to anyone curious in their family history and identity.

As these tests are growing more popular, I have been able to connect with many relatives who have appeared as DNA matches. My family has had some very interesting discoveries with DNA matches, including discovering family members we never even knew existed.

I definitely feel like its important to acknowledge those who have died, especially those who are responsible for our existence and complicated lives.

As St. Paddy’s day approaches, many of us will get in touch with the Irish in us, whether or not there’s a lot, to connect with another fun holiday to celebrate (which there is no shame in). Either way, it is important to think back to how we got here and who made it possible. So many lives contributed to you, so you are a mix of so many different people from the past. When I learn of their struggles, it gives me a different perspective of life and what I think of as my own struggles today. Some things I struggle over are so small in comparison to the life-or-death situations of the past. Of course, there are different issues that have came to be with time, but they are so different.

As I finished my family tree several years ago and showed my grandma how far back I went, her response was, "And each one of those people love you." That comment made me smile because they are what made me, me.

Read other articles by Morgan Rooney

Among the living

Shea Rowell
MSMU Class of 2019

St. Patrick’s Day (St. Paddy to friends and family) is fast approaching, and soon every American will be Irish-for-a-day, or at least we will feast like we are! Irish blood runs thick in my family, as my maternal grandmother’s family was nearly exclusively of Irish descent until my grandmother, Nana as we call her, married my late Italian grandfather, Papa, whose name was Ronald Alessi. According to the dinnertime stories shared since my childhood, both of my grandparents’ families maintained the rich cultural traditions of their homelands, in everything from the family slang to their holiday celebrations. They were each raised in neighborhoods divided by culture. My grandmother grew up surrounded by "The Irish" and my grandfather "The Italians." They had their own churches and stores, respective "parts of town." It must have raised a few eyebrows when an Irish woman married an Italian man!

And so, I was raised in an Irish-Italian family, at least on my mother’s side. The residual cultural practices from our European past are easiest to see in our religion, as most of the family is still Catholic, and our appetites, as Italian food is always on the menu at holiday gatherings, the recipes passed down by memory through the generations. Yet, there is great distance between who I am and who my ancestors were. I do not share their struggles or their joys. My Italian vocabulary is limited to cuisine, and my pronunciations would likely be appalling to a native. I could not tell the difference between a northern and southern Irish accent. I do not know what Ireland looks like in the summer, nor could I name the towns where distant relatives might still live. I have never prayed in an Italian church or eaten at an Italian table. I have never felt the hunger pangs or persecutions which pushed them to give it all up and board a boat to a new world.

While someday I hope to travel to these places, I can never share the experience of my grandmother’s grandmother, who travelled on a boat from Ireland to the United States alone as a teenage girl. I will never feel the alienation of walking unfamiliar streets with no one to ask for directions, or making a new life in a land full of strangers. I will never know the guilt and the terror of losing the old culture in exchange for a new one that doesn’t quite understand where I’ve been. This is the part of my heritage that I will never share.

While my connections to the lands of my ancestors grow weaker by the generation, I have grown into an American, simply by being born and raised here, a feat that was much more difficult for my grandparents and their grandparents to achieve. The nation has, thankfully, changed since their time. My world is not divided into the "Irish" and "Italian" sides of town. Barriers that once divided America into a world-at-war are breaking down at last. My Americanness is a gift given to me by those brave ancestors who came for the freedom, the opportunity, the fresh start. I was born here because they wanted to live here; they wanted their children to live here, and their children’s children, too.

I’ll never know them, but I am grateful for their gift. They have given me a new culture, American culture, to embrace. American culture, while imperfect in many ways, has a beauty all its own. As Americans, we have maintained the grit of the immigrants who came and still come to our shores ready to work for a new life. We aim to be a nation where all cultures are embraced and appreciated for their unique contribution, even though sometimes we fall short. We have the beauty of the Rocky Mountains, the Eastern forests, and the Western shores. We proudly claim our status as the nation that has valued democracy since its birth. It is a heritage to be proud of.

Even in a nation that values cultural difference, many of the cultures we once knew have fallen behind the advancement of time. There are, however, a few ways to remember the heritage we value from our families, especially the heritage given to us by our family members while they were alive. I will never know my Irish or Italian ancestors, but I can remember and retell Nana’s stories about who they were, the phrases they used to say, the parties they used to throw, the meals they used to cook. I may never touch a skein of authentic Irish wool, but I cherish the memories of Nana teaching me to crochet with wool from the local craft store. I can share the work of her hands and mine with my children and their children, and teach them the skill that is a part of my heritage. I will never sit at Papa’s Christmas dinner, but I can learn the recipes from Nana that were served at the table, and one day serve them at my own.

My heritage still lives in my grandmother and my parents. While I live and while my children live, that heritage will not be forgotten, for it is too precious to abandon to time’s eventual obscurity. Their stories will one day be my responsibility to remember and tell, their traditions my duty to pass on. I will remember my heritage, and forever be grateful for the gift that it has been to me.

I leave you with an Irish blessing (found on irelands-hidden-gems.com) dedicated to Papa, the Italian man who turned an Irish woman into my Italian Nana who gives me my heritage each time I see her.

May the road rise to meet you,
and the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm on your face
and the rains fall softly on your fields.
And until we meet again
May God hold you gently in the palm of his hand.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Read other articles by Shea Rowell

Read Past Editions of Four Years at the Mount