I’ve always had this problem of wanting to be part of something I wasn’t. I coveted Rudy’s place in the Huxtable family for the first 10 years of my life. The next decade was consumed with my longing to be part of MTV’s “The Real World” and have my life taped and set to the spirited sounds of the Goo Goo Dolls and Boyz II Men. As I approached my 20s, my daily rigamarole began to have its own soundtrack of my desire to be Irish. Two years later, nothing has changed.

Now, I can’t say I did my best to counteract this new way of thinking. I failed to join that 12-step program, Irish Wannabes Anonymous. In fact, I probably did the worst thing someone can do when faced with a budding obsession–I took it head on.

Last summer, I spent three glorious months in Ireland on an Irish-assimilation binge.

Before I really get going here, let me tell you I appreciate every aspect of my genealogical make-up. Swiss, German, Welsh–it’s great, but it’s just not Irish.

Back to the binge. During those sweet summer months, I got a buzz from the country’s beauty, tipsy due to its hospitality and downright plastered on its personality. Because of its diminutive size, Ireland can be traversed coast to coast, east to west, north to south in less than a day. But its natural and diverse scenery begs to be viewed for much longer.

Punctuating these settings are the equally pleasant people. Jolly, warm and helpful one minute, cynically and sharply curt the next, the Irish are more real and strong than most Americans I’ve met. These attributes, coupled with the very air and essence of the country, overtook my bloodstream as the summer of 2001 was spent in a dizzy and perpetual state of happiness.

I am now utterly convinced that I am Irish. Good Irish. True Irish. The kind of Irish you can’t buy at Hallmark or on a button that starts with “Kiss Me . . .” The kind of Irish that is more than a cute refrigerator magnet, an engraved crystal and a ring. I have been to my adopted motherland, danced on the sand of its beaches and raised my glass in its pubs.

I sympathize with my foster brothers and sisters, for I have studied the history of the country and witnessed the results firsthand. The English in me cringed when I learned of how Ireland lived in its protective shadow only to be dropped at the first sign of famine.

The two countries had a relationship not unlike ’80s super-duo Wham!. But as soon as the Andrew Ridgeley-esque Ireland showed a little weakness, George Michael England took off for a debut-album regime of its own.

But unlike Ridgeley, Ireland has had a better solo career. The booming Celtic Tiger economy, the young blood remaining in the country (the past few decades have seen a mass exodus of those under 40–think L.A. “Real World-er” Dominic), and increased (yet unsuccessful) peace efforts in the North–and it makes me proud to be “Irish.”

My mind and heart now lie with the Emerald Isle. I roll my eyes at Notre Dame’s mascot and the obnoxious “Paddys” that dance over pots of gold on greeting cards.

The Lucky Charms leprechaun? He haunts me. “Frosted Perpetuated Stereotypes–they’re magically offensive!” Blue diamonds, pink hearts, green clovers and a punch in the neck–how ’bout a spoonful of that, buddy?

The “drink like the Irish” banners that adorn the walls of State Street drinking establishments make me want to take my toasting elsewhere on Sunday nights. I am even slightly offended at my own alcohol metaphor and Wham! allusion earlier in this column. My desire to be Irish blends with self loathing–that’s how bad I have it.

So this Sunday won’t be much out of the norm for me. I celebrate my Irish-ness on a daily basis, no matter how much of a stretch it may be. Moreover, I celebrate the Irish themselves. I will raise a glass to those I met, the places I saw and make my St. Patrick’s Day wish to return one day.

My ancestors might have only been to Ireland once or twice or maybe not at all. There may not be a “Mc” in my signature, and the “O” in my last name may come after the first letter and not before. These are just details. My heart is shaped like the Blarney Stone and my soul hangs out by the Cliffs of Moher. The things that matter most belong to Ireland.

Anna Roberts ([email protected]) is a senior majoring in Comm. Arts.