On Nationality and Identity

I’m a first-generation immigrant. Fortunately, as of last year, I’m a Lawful Permanent Resident of the United States of America. I’m lucky :) I don’t look like what the media frames an immigrant to be like. I’ve white skin, I speak English fluently, and I sort of fit the narrative of what it means to be American.

I’m also Irish; born and bred, from the capital. Dublin City. It’s my true home and I love it with all my heart — warts an’ all. But my family are also immigrants, and I’m a descendent of immigrants. My genetic heritage puts me at over a quarter continental European — French / Belgian — along with a not insignificant amount of North African. This all came as a bit of a shocker to me, but genetics don’t lie. I don’t even fit the picture of what it means to be genetically “Irish” (61% vs. 97%) but Irish I am, without even having known all this until recently.

My family are invaders of Ireland (Normans), are visitors (Libyan) and refugees (Huguenots). My ancestors arrived as recently as 100 years ago, and as distant as 3,000 years ago. I’m a product of their own heritage, and I’m a “mongrel” — truly a mix of ethnicities from around Europe and elsewhere. We all are, when we peel back the layers. But we’re still Irish.

I also speak Irish fluently, and interchange Gaeilge and Béarla in my head all the time. Things are not always as they seem.

Nationality is complex. Ethnicity is complex. It’s not nearly as simple as US vs. THEM. Insularity makes no sense to me. This applies to myself and my own country, as it does to others. I know what it feels like to be Irish, born and bred, and to feel that belonging, even though I’m a product of many nations myself. I also know what it feels like to be an outsider, to be an immigrant, to be pushed through a painful ten-year process before I can be allowed to live in a foreign country. That stuff hurts. And leaving my birth nation left a painful wound in my very soul. But immigrate/emigrate we must.