The Letter
I shut the door of the stone Airbnb cottage. I am jetlagged after having made the road trip from Dublin to southwestern corner of Ireland. Here lies the tiny port town of Dingle, County Kerry. Here is where the multiple DNA tests, taken months prior, determined where my ancestors were born. Here is where I was set out to visit once I found this fact out. Karen attempts to sleep the fatigue off. Although tempting, I decide to go out and explore my native land.
Instead of heading into the tourist trap of the port, I set my sites on an uphill trail that overlooks bay. I jog past the middle school and firehouse, and finally hop on the single track. I tied a rain jacket around my waist, preparing for the looming gray beasts that appear to be on a collision course where I am headed.
As I head up the hill at a pedestrian pace, I feel the envelope on my right hamstring. AirPods in, I set the mood for what I have anticipated for what feels like the last three decades of my life. I press play on the “Celtic Sounds” playlist and look up into the green.
It is a moderate grade, but my Colorado lungs make the sea level hike much easier that I had anticipated. The violins and drums all seem to be in cadence with my hiking steps as I march up the hill. That familiar rhythm always giving me the urge to beat a Guinness to a wooden table.
Maybe 7 minutes into the trail run I meet an older man with the checkered driving hat, wooden walking sticks, and a wool sweater, all well-worn, going about the trail at his own pace. If one could imagine what a local Irishman would be dressed as a caricature, this would be it. In the States, I probably would have blown past him, more concentrated on my workout than enjoying the scenery. As I approach, I take out my AirPods, shutting off the music.
“What’yer doing up here, young man?” he says with a thick accent.
“Going for a hike and run; beautiful day for it,” I say jokingly, looking up at the clouds.
“Ah, good man! You look like you are you from ‘round here,” he states.
This catches me off guard. I explained that the DNA results show that my ancestors are from the Dingle Peninsula and have traveled to come see my home.
“Does ya have a last name?” he responded. “I know every family in Dingle and can point you to them.”
I didn't.
“Shite! Well welcome home and enjoy your walk, good man.” He takes his walking sticks and makes the final descent of his hike.
The rest of the hike up the Dingle hill is uneventful, my eyes constantly monitoring the storm clouds threatening my journey. I pass a herd of sheep, spray painted to demarcate their owners with blue markings that I could not decipher.
Past the town's visual, I descend and ascend over the adjacent drainage. Massive granite boulders appear, which I imagine to be ancient walls or shelter from another world. I imagine ancient magical druids first walking this land underfoot, discovering this point thousands of years ago. Druids and warlocks and witches that I have I have a blood relation. My people…
I've always believed in the magical element of life: there are certain things that just can't be explained from the Scientific Method. There is communication with the Natural World that we humans have seem to have lost - listening to “Celtic Sounds” instead of enjoying nature and my own footsteps, for example. Ireland, in my short time here, has reaffirmed that position. These green hills are where Magic lives: if not literally, then inspirationally through the works of Tolkien and Martin.
I reach the summit of the Dingle hill, take the AirPods off and breathe deeply in and out. The cool breeze turns my sweat into a chill on my back. I sit down next to one of these granite outcroppings, take off my jacket and reach inside the front pocket. I take off the envelope, TO MY SON written with faded pencil. Cursive. I turn the letter around, open the back.
For the first time in 42 years, I'm going to read something directly from my mother who gave me up for adoption. I take out the pages, hand trembling, unfolding their contents with a single tear running down my right cheek.
My mind is racing a million miles a second. I think of a Plinko Board from the Price is Right, where the contestant puts the hockey puck in the top and a matrix of needles determines the fate of the prize waiting at the end. So many possibilities in this letter that will determine my fate.
Most of these possibilities are downright frightening: what is my worst fear? My dad was a serial killer, and that is in my blood. My dad is Darth Vader. My dad was a piece of shit: drunk, lazy, never took himself seriously, was selfish, always blamed others, was afraid, and a coward to the end. He had a raging temper. In short: all the negative aspects of my life, I am destined to be. Any of the successes that I have had has been a fluke, a freak of nature.
The opposite end of the spectrum: I come from royalty. I am a fucking Jedi Knight. I am Neo. I am the chosen one. I am next generation of great things. This is a quick thought, and I dwell more on the latter than the former. Funny how that is.
For some reason, it all comes back to the Father and questions of him. Perhaps that is because I Facebook-stalked my mother a while back, and it was underwhelming: a left-leaning-and-going-to-make-it-a-point-that-you-know-that Cardinal fan, all of which I despise.
One fact that seems to be popping up in her feed was that she was an artist, performance maybe, and her family looks happy. They share their passion of art together. I knew from a while back that I had a calling towards the arts but was either talked out of it by myself or others around me: you will never make anything significant. That dirty word of Resistance now had a foe: for Art is in my bloodline, and I am not crazy for wanting to pursue this, even if I am good at math and engineering. There was always something missing. This gave me the courage to explore further.
On top of the hill, I cannot seem to unfold the letter. And I think:
What is identity, anyway? I have thought a lot about it since the DNA test. I have grown up in suburban Kansas City, to an upper middle-class family, attended Catholic school all my childhood, failed at my first shot at college, ultimately succeeded, ended up in Colorado by way of Seattle. I was raised Italian, my father born in Sicily. I got the drunkest I have ever gotten when Italy won the World Cup in 2006. I honestly thought that my DNA test would come back saying I was 90% Italian, instead showing exactly 0%. Instead: 50% Irish, 30% English, 20% Western European. I responded by getting Celtic themed tattoos to prove my heritage, that I was proud of being Irish, that I knew deep down when I listened to Irish music that it ran through my veins, that it all made sense in retrospect. I have always loved flags, family crests, family traditions, history. Now I had my own flag to raise.
So, the list of identity:
· American
· Kansan and Missourian
· Kansas Citian
· KU alum and fan
· UMKC alum
· Chiefs and Royals fans
· Professional Engineer and Structural Engineer
· A decent father and husband, although I have my faults at both
· Open to most opinions if they are not hurting me or my family
· Pretty laid back regarding most things
· Appreciate other’s opinions
· Avid reader
· Trying to find my place in the world
· Now, an Irishman
What does all the above have to do with whatever is in this letter that I can’t seem to open?
The thing that I love most about myself is a willingness to be wrong, to explore, to know that I am changing in the literal sense: I am not physically the same person that I was a mere month ago due to the exchange of molecules in and out of my body. I take pride in this fact. That I am not tied down to one belief.
Take, for example, my thoughts on religion. I am absolutely influenced by the teachings of the Bible and more specifically, the Catholic and Jesuit teachings of Christ and Christianity. I believe that they both are a pretty damn good model on how to live your life and treat others. However, I believe that this is a STORY that needs to be interpreted for the user. I do not believe that God himself had impregnated Mary with some holy semen and that Jesus was a half-man-half-God. I get that makes me a shitty person of faith. But there are too many similarities with other religions that I find suspect. Organized religion itself seems to be a form of political party that is granted tax right offs. More importantly, there are equally as great stories in the Eastern religions that we all can take lessons from, and that the individual should be free to take what they need from these great religions without repercussion.
Because at different times in our lives we need to hear the Buddha, or Jacob, or Jesus, or Muhammad, or John, or Paul, or George, or Ringo. When it strikes, their words and actions will be PROFOUND. There is more in common with these religions than not common. And most people seem are simply unwilling to explore this fact or are too lazy to explore their own truths, instead just blindly following something that their parents told them.
Stop thinking about religion and open the letter, Joe.
I see the scribbling of the pencil bleeding through the wide ruled lines. There is INFORMATION there.
So I rip the fucking thing up.
I am not bound by your thoughts of who I should or shouldn’t be. I am free to move, to think what I want, free to get these tattoos, free to cover them up if I fucking feel like it. You can look at me all you want, paint the picture of who you think I am and judge.
You can write me off.
But: Know that I am not doing that to you, at least I am trying. Because we are not simply what others say we are. We are something better than that. We are brothers and sisters of Earth, of consciousness, and we all deserve love.
It is your own choice if you do not give that to me.
I make a hole in the top of the Dingle hill with my hands. I bury that letter with the judgement of myself that went along with it.
I went up this hill one man. I came down a different one.
I know that I will be yet a different one tomorrow.
No letter can change that.