My mother and her “Irish twin” brother participated in a minstrel play on St. Patrick’s Day 1950 in a new suburban parish in the Archdiocese of Philadelphia. They were, of course, too little to be dressed in blackface. However, their names were published in the local newspaper the next day, along with the names of the all-male chorus and cosmetics team.
The show was drenched with nostalgia. Parishioners yearned for a land that many in that church hall had never realised existed, yet sentiments of displacement were also caused by voluntary shifts. Many urban Catholics were enticed by postwar government subsidies for white homeownership to quit their city parishes and flock like a nationally subsidised diaspora to neighbourhoods in freshly green-lined suburbs. Despite, or perhaps because of, their Irish Catholicism, a taste of blackface minstrelsy reassured them of their white Americanness.
Ironically, I came upon this disturbing part of my family’s Irish Catholic American history just as I was about to excavate another. When I went seeking for an advertising my grandpa had likely put for his new whites-only neighbourhood in suburban Philadelphia, I ended up finding Mom in a minstrel act. The two are not unconnected. Minstrel shows at Catholic parish halls enabled families like mine to remain connected to an important part of our cultural identity as Irish American Catholics.particularly in developing suburban environments My grandparents could defend their faith against Protestant anti-Catholicism by reversing America’s minstrelsy script and establishing their Americanness through their anti-Blackness. They could also protect their turf — church, school, and house — against Black Americans, whom many blamed for the demise of treasured metropolitan parishes.
Although minstrelsy is no longer a component of church celebrations, white Irish American Catholics remain cautious when it comes to racism. To shelter ourselves from the brutality of the bigotry that has wrapped itself around many Irish Catholic family trees like a choke vine, we revert to old platitudes like “my family didn’t own slaves,” “we were discriminated against, too,” or “all lives count.”
But there is a better way to spend St. Patrick’s Day in America, one that links us deeply with those who want for liberty.
To begin, on St. Patrick’s Day, we may let go of our protective or guilty feelings regarding racism in our Irish American Catholic heritage and just tell the truth about it. Certainly, investigating my own genealogy has thrown up a few surprises. Some relatives lived in a city parish built on land bequeathed to the church by an Irish-born slave owner who had two enslaved people baptised while living there, while others kept their heads down in a rural parish less than 15 miles from the Mason-Dixon Line, while Black slave refugees were secreted by on the Underground Railroad. Some resided in largely Irish parishes that banded together to prevent Black families out.and some went to predominately Irish Catholic universities, such as my current job, La Salle, that were hesitant to admit Black students.
The aim of recognising this dark side of Irish Catholic American history is to learn and develop, not to condemn and humiliate. As the cliche goes, we can’t change what we can’t identify. Furthermore, by remembering the ugly, we can reclaim the beautiful white Irish American Catholic souls who defied anti-Blackness conventions: parishioners who refused to sign racial covenants, white college students who insisted on Black lives mattering before it became a mantra, and my housing developer grandfather who paid into the family’s Black housekeeper’s Social Security even though he was not legally required to.
We might also celebrate the multifaceted nature of Irish American Catholicism. According to the African American Irish Diaspora Network, up to 40% of Black Americans may have Irish ancestors. We may rejoice that Ireland’s Daniel O’Connell, dubbed “The Liberator,” backed Frederick Douglass’ battle to eradicate slavery. In fact, he is said to have referred to Douglass as “The Black O’Connell.” This nugget serves as another another reminder of Irish and Black America’s common cultural origins in resistance movements. Perhaps we might add some chard to our corned beef and cabbage; I heard from a fellow parishioner, a Black urban farmer with family origins in Mississippi, that we may need to broaden our list of veggies deemed basic for “our” people in America.
Some may regret the sacrifice of St. Patrick’s Day on the altar of “critical race theory.” A re-calibrated party will need to include certain healing practises in addition to drinking and singing drinking songs. This course adjustment is required for a variety of reasons. When our wonderful cultural tradition of battling for the abolition of the caste system in Ireland is reduced to green gimmicks, we all suffer.
My mother had no recollection of the 1950 minstrel show. Ignorance of the past is not an excuse. But, while we must remember our history, both good and terrible, we must also look forward. Let us turn St. Patrick’s Day into an ongoing pledge of radical solidarity with those who sing liberation songs. Let’s put those in the spotlight.