“A family of Irish birth will argue and fight,
but let a shout come from without and watch them all unite!”
Irish Proverb
Both sides of my southern Appalachia family hail from Irish and Scots-Irish roots and both sides are almost insanely proud of the fact! I was born a Russell but took my paternal grandmother's maiden name, McKeehan, in her honor in 2015. When I was growing up she would continually impress upon me how I had inherited important blessings from those who immigrated from Ireland some generations past (I confess I have not traced my family to any great extent insofar as immigration dates). Those blessings are, most notably, my being a writer, a singer, and a tireless storyteller. Not to mention I simply love to talk and enjoy a glass of St. Brendan's on New Years!
On my mother's side, our Irish blood goes back to before places like Ellis Island existed but has never been forgotten. They, too, are musicians and talkers with a love of Irish whiskey (not to mention moonshine). When the Cherokee married into the family, I'm told, they adopted the family's identification as being of the “Black Irish” so as to hide their true ethnicity from those who would remove them to reservations in the west. Apparently the ruse worked because none of them ever left Appalachia unwillingly.
It's interesting that neither side of the family speak much of our non-Celtic roots. They speak almost exclusively of our Irish, Scots, and Scots-Irish ancestry and there are a few hints of Welsh in there as well. I can't think of a single time when they've extolled the English names, though I do admit that I enjoyed sharing with my brother, Eric, once that the name “Russell” traces back to Old French and means “the red.” As kids, we would often tease him by calling him Eric the Red, something he passionately hated. Imagine my glee when I found out he really is “Eric the Red!” This despite the fact that in appearance he is definitely a descendant of our “Black Irish” forebears.
Perhaps one of our most notable traditions is how we approach the loss of loved ones. More than one critical comment has been made as to how much laughter is heard in the funeral home when my family gathers there to bid farewell. We remember and retell stories that bring chuckles and have even incited outbreaks of song. Many who attend cannot fathom such behavior as they believe funerals are meant for mourning. But we've shown we can mourn even as we laugh. I have a small magnet that I picked up at Milwaukee Irish Fest some years ago that reads, “It's a four-day celebration with singing, dancing, drinking and telling stories. So who died?” That about says it all.
One day I will visit Ireland. Friends of mine who have gone either as tourists or as students have warned me that there may well be those who will remember my family who left so many generations ago and, more importantly, I'll not want to leave once I'm there.
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