I’m not Irish and I don’t think there’s even Irish in the family line. Victoria isn’t well known for its Irish community, either. Still, when St. Patrick’s Day rolls around, everybody shouts “Top o’ the mornin’!” and talks of leprechauns, pots of gold, and shamrocks.
In school, this meant March 17th was a gauntlet of sorts: wear green or prepare to be pinched. I know more than once I forgot. I lost track of what day it was got to school without green, and after the first cruel pinch would try to fend people off by yelling, “My underwear is green!” which worked well until someone dared me to prove it. I recall bruised arms after a day of sanctioned bullying. I presume the pinching went out of style along with other physical contact on the school grounds, but I am sure there is some other cruelty that has sprouted in its place.
In my undergrad years, I recall the green-wearing yahoos who took advantage of the day’s association with beer to start early and drink to excess. The same kids who pinched me for not wearing green when I was nine were now calling me a “party-pooper” at nineteen. The good-natured ribbing was a lesser threat, but still annoying.
So now, I just wear green.
I wear green as camouflage; I become one of many “Irish-for-a-day” and can go about my business without harassment. Sure, if the 17th falls on a weekend, I’ve been known to join in with pub crawls, but I draw the line at green beer — that’s just nasty.