“Saint” Patrick’s Day

 

Sometimes people ask me how I stay ahead of the news. Well, I have many trusted sources, but I’ve been reading one publication in particular for longer than all the others. The periodical both informs and entertains. Its prose is simple and clear, but not without style. Their news stories cut to the chase. There is a focus on the natural world. And their puzzles keep me razor sharp. That’s why I still read Highlights magazine.

This month I have learned some big news from Highlights magazine: Kelly green, the color we associate with St. Patrick’s Day, began as a blue, chosen by Henry VIII. Over time the Irish people rejected the blue and chose Kelly green as a symbol of their rebellion against the crown. Thank you, Highlights magazine! This is why we read long form.

Anyway, this got me thinking. What else don’t I know about Saint Patrick’s Day? It turns out – I was asking the wrong question. The better question is – do I know anything about Saint Patrick’s Day? Sadly, no. Not really. Nothing.

It turns out Saint Patrick’s Day celebrates the death, not the life, but the death of Saint Patrick who brought Christianity to Ireland in the fifth century. Saint Patrick predates the Catholic church by about 1000 years, so it turns out he was never actually canonized. So, and this may ruffle a few feathers, but that means Saint Patrick isn’t actually, technically, at least in the Catholic Church, well, a Saint. I’m not talking about his behavior, which was, by all accounts, above reproach. But I’m talking about the actual sainthood part. They’re very strict about becoming a saint. There’s a bunch of paperwork to fill out. In triplicate, I think. There are fees, filing deadlines. Your application has to be notarized. It’s a whole deal. Saint Patrick didn’t do any of it. So, Saint Patrick, it turns out, is just, well, a guy named Patrick. Now, he’s well thought of in the Catholic church. But that’s not the same thing as being a saint. At all.

Wait. There’s more.

The careful reader will have noted that I said: Saint Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland. So, um, this might hurt even more than the not-being-a-saint thing. This means that Saint Patrick, who is really just a guy named Patrick, is not even, um, Irish. He is British. Which is not the same thing as being Irish. At all.

So, let’s recap. Saint Patrick’s Day, a day that celebrates both the arrival of Christianity in Ireland and Irish culture in general, is named after some guy who’s neither a saint, nor, in fact, Irish. And, thanks to Highlights magazine, we know that the Kelly green we associate with the day and the Patrick guy was really, actually blue.

Look, this is not the column I thought I was going to write. I figured I’d make a couple of shamrock/ Kiss me I’m Irish/Riverdance jokes. If I got crazy, I might write an actual limerick. Never in a million years did I think this piece would evolve into investigative journalism where I unearth the deeper, unseen, hitherto unknown truths. But that’s just the kind of journalist I am. I follow the story wherever it takes me. All the way. To the end. No matter what. Unless, of course, a story is hard. Or long. Or if it requires a bunch of reading. Or writing. But otherwise, I’m all in. (Luckily this story was built on a couple of very quick internet searches.)

Look, I genuinely like Ireland. I’m rooting for them. The emerald isle has given the world some seriously funny writers. In my mind, I might have been Jonathan Swift, the master of understatement, had I lived about three-hundred years ago – and been a much better writer. I legitimately find Oscar Wilde funny today. And Samuel Beckett, a personal hero whose most well-known play, En Attendant Godot, “a play in which nothing happens, twice” first written in French, can outwrite me in two languages.

My favorite whiskey is Irish (Redbreast 12). I’m a big fan of the Irish goodbye (Hey, where’s Eric?). And, though I’ve never seen either, I like the idea of that the end of the rainbow might have both a pot of gold and a leprechaun. The Irish also gave the world Irish Dance, a form of, um, movement so stilted, so upright, so… white, that the name alone usually evokes joy. In full disclosure, I do not, however, care for the ubiquitous, Kelly green. I have nothing against green in general. There seems an infinite number of shades of greens that are the verdant essence of grasses, trees, leaves, summer, of life itself. So why the heck did the Irish chose the one shade of green that looks plasticky and fake? There are plenty of “not blues” out there that would irritate a king. But I’m nitpicking.

Look, this Saint Patrick’s Day story will no doubt be big. In fact, I happen to know this is the kind of hard-hitting kind of stuff they give Pulitzers for. So now I guess I’ll have to get a new sport coat and write a speech. Now, ordinarily a journalist wouldn’t insert his acceptance speech into the award-winning journalism itself, but I think we can agree that there’s nothing ordinary about my journalism. Also, I think I’ve shown my willingness to go, when convenient, to where this column gets its name: beyond. Thus, I give you an excerpted version of my imminent, forthcoming, acceptance speech:

– I want to thank so many people for this opportunity, my parents, my wife. I was able to write this piece in spite of my kids, so I’ll leave them out of it. I want to thank my agent, Rudy, who has left me so unburdened with other opportunities that I was able to really focus. I’d like to thank the internet that allowed me to research this thing in about ninety seconds. But the ultimate thanks has to go to the good people at the wonderful Highlights magazine which broke the Kelly-green-was-originally blue thread of this story. Thank you, one and all, and, of course, Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.