Woodlawn

About my experience finding out my Irish roots in Woodlawn. Please do not take this as an ethnicity or racial thing. It's something we all go through when brought up in America.

Woodlawn

 

When you think Bronx,

You don’t think of Woodlawn

A mystical place, a wondrous place

Time has seemingly stopped here.

 

It’s where the Irish drink during soccer games

In soccer jerseys

And perhaps

Most nights, maybe, at home

Never alone

There’s always somebody

To lean

On

When you stumble out the bar

Or your own backyard

 

The Americans drink any time it pours

Or rains

Or there’s football games

Or at 1 or 2 or 3 AM out in the streets

They sprawl

(Last call is at four, better get a cab)

Or brawl with the tender

The po-po

The cops

 

However, smoking in the bar is perfectly fine

You can smoke in these bars, in Woodlawn

No one will complain

And if there be a tattle taler

Well,

They would surely be slapped one

 

It’s as though time has stopped here.

Silent, still, time is, in Woodlawn

The cemetery’s eerie

Angel statues

Stand upright

For hours

Days

Months

Years

Decades

Centuries

 

For a moment,

At least

This moment.

It’s mine.

And no one can mess

With my moment.

It’s frozen

In time.

 

Hey, it’s the city.

 

Sure,

It’s where I'll learn how to fiddle

Where I'll learn to take a chance

I may even learn the old Irish jigs

Or at least one ole Irish dance

 

Discover my culture, although it is currently

Blurry

And I have a

Feigned future glance

I’m not O’ Grady or

Murphy

 

But, I am Kelly

Or as the Irish would say

Ceallaigh

 

Can I call my daughter that

Name without being…

Self-indulgent?

 

It’s a surname

In Ireland

But, in America

It’s just

Me

My name

My first name

 

I am Kelly

Ceallaigh

 

As for my grandma and grandpa…

Is this how they lived?

Working from dawn til dusk

But, everything is gonna be okay

At the end of the day

 

With a pint o’ Guinness

A little sex

A couple kids

And love…love

All the way…

Let’s have a Scotch Egg

Or ham on

Rye

It’s all okay

 

From here to eternity.

The luck of the Irish

Is never at bay.

 

From Ireland, my ancestors came

Well-mannered on the boat?

I don’t think so

I doubt

The whiskey sure flowed and egos still rose

And I’m allowed to say it

Cause I’m Irish

I suppose

 

But, don’t insult these people

Or pretend to be them

On St. Patrick’s Day

 

For they are just glad

For the pint or the glass or

Their wee little lad

For their family

Their friends

Their music

Their dance

They are who they are

 

It goes on and on

And I’d bet they would dance

A bit drunk, but that’s fine

They would dance when you wouldn’t

Or cry when you wouldn’t

Or laugh when you wouldn’t

Or die… well this one’s no good

For they die rather old

They wouldn’t die!

When you would, probably

 

Get up when they fall down

Alone, never

Whiskey, sure

Happy, maybe

Patient, sure

Sad, maybe

 

Once I learn the fiddle tunes

The happy songs

The gloomy songs

Of my great-great-great Grandfather

I will play the ole tunes

He might have known

 

Sang, played, passed down

Through his house

I’ll make the audience dance

Like their minds are

Blown

And I will do you all

Proud.

 

I promise I will,

Grandpa.

 

I promise I will,

Ceallaigh