A Brief History of the Boston Irish
A while back I was talking to a guy about some grudge he was harboring toward a co-worker over some ancient wrong the other guy had done to him. And he said something that’s stuck with me ever since. He said “My problem is I’m an Irishman. So I forget the things I should remember, and I remember the things I should forget.” If I had to find an all-encompassing phrase to sum up my people in twenty-five words or less, that would do it as well as any.
Besides faulty memories, the things that distinguish the Irish is that, more than any other people, we like:
1. Telling stories.
2. Talking about ourselves, and
3. Telling stories about ourselves.
And as stories about ourselves go, Irish history, and in particular the history of the Irish in Boston, is a humdinger. It must be, because not only have we been telling it for a couple of centuries now, we can’t stop cranking out sequels. The story of the Boston Irish was passed down to me by my folks who learned it from my grandparents, so I’m sure it’s entirely accurate; no embellishments, no exaggerations. Anyway it’s the story I’m telling my kids. And if say it, it has to be true.
12th Century A.D. This is the best place to start. Because by this time Ireland had developed a reputation as the wild, drunken, raucous party animals of Europe... if you can imagine that. And the landlord, King Henry II of England, was getting plenty damned sick of the noise coming from next door. Since this was about a millennium before utilities, shutting the gas & electric off wasn’t an option. So he did the next best thing. He sent the troops over with orders to knock on the door and as soon as the Irish answered, slaughter everyone in the place. But the “disordered and undisciplined Irish” kicked the crap out the British army, sent them packing, raised a glass and turned the stereo up to 11.
14th Century A.D. But no matter how much “the wild Irish” wanted to be left alone to await the invention of the giant green novelty leprechaun hat, the Brits just couldn’t bring themselves to live and let live. Henry II was succeeded by a series of nosy, cantankerous old farts, the Mr. Furleys to his Mr. Roper. Edward III, Richard II, Henry VII and a host of guys with names like Super Bowls and Stallone movies followed in his wake, trying to subdue the Irish so they could get back to the much more satisfying business of killing Frenchmen. Then in move of GradyLittle-esque stupidity, Parliament passed a law outlawing Papal authority in Ireland, only to find out that the only things the Irish like more than the Church are grudges and fights. And this particular grudge-fight is now in its 700th big year.
Early 1800s. At the height of their empire, the Brits endeavored to make all their subjects live like they do. Hundreds of thousands of Irish, refusing to put cucumbers in their sandwiches, belittle aspiring American singers and join a religion Henry VIII made up because he was sick of his wife’s nagging, moved to the U.S instead. Many who were sick of the boat trip got off at the first exit, which was Boston. And possibly nowhere on Earth could have been less hospitable. It was literally like living in a WASPs nest, as the Brahmin bluebloods ran Boston at the time. And they gave the newcomers the kind of welcome you’d expect wearing a “Jeter Sucks” shirt in the Yankee Stadium bleachers. (Looking for a term to describe the Brahmins, an empire that was once powerful and intimidating, but was now an aging, decrepit shadow of its former glory and hostile to outsiders, the term “Yankee” was born.) The Irish were force to live in squalor down by the Boston waterfront, long before the Barking Crab and the Bank of America pavilion made life there tolerable.
1834 . Anti-Irish, Anti-Catholic hatred was the new black. The newspapers were full of cartoons depicting the Irish as pie-faced, uni-browed, drunken monkeys. The term “Paddy Wagon” was invented. A boarding school in Charlestown run by Ursuline nuns was burned to the ground out of fear that they were whacking kids on the knuckles with rulers to teach good penmanship. Boston’s Irish population wanted to get good & drunk and fight back, but was talked out of it by Bishop John Bernard Fitzpatrick. The bishop, unlike some of his successors, was focused on bettering his people through temperance, education and political activism rather than covering up pedophile priest scandals.
1846 . The Potato Blight struck, wiping out Ireland’s staple crop. Years earlier, British clergyman Thomas Malthus had preached that if you cut off their food supply, the Irish, like any vermin, would either leave or die, and it was a jump ball as to which was preferable. And “die” had the possession arrow. “Orkin Man” Malthus’ Corn Laws saw to it that Britain was exporting grain while one million Irish starved to death. Millions more chose to leave in the great “diaspora,” a Gaelic word meaning. “I am so out of here.” My ancestors were among them, and badly in need of a beer, jumped ship the first place they could, Boston.
Late 1800s . As more immigrants arrived, the Brahmins tried to prevent them from gaining any sort of power. And they were sneaky about it, passing laws that said you couldn’t vote if you were born in a country that rhymed with “Mireland” and so forth They formed the secretive “Know Nothing” party for the sole purpose of keeping the Irish out of the political process. The guy who invented the “Irish Need Not Apply” sign became the Mark Cuban of his day. But the Irish realized the strength in numbers. And while babies might be a pain in the ass to take care of, making them is fun. And lots of babies means lots of future voters. Soon the Irish outnumbered the bluebloods.
Early 1900s. The Irish were running Boston, and giving out jobs to their own kind. They weren’t the cushiest; you could work as a cop or a fireman, or like my grandfather Jeremiah, haul dead bodies around for the medical examiner’s office. But it beat the “No Irish” signs by a country mile. Some prominent but ethically-challenged political machines emerged, including James Michael Curley, who once won an election from prison. And during Prohibition Joe Kennedy made a fortune doing the Lord’s work, shipping whiskey from Ireland to Hyannisport.
1946 . Boston got an NBA team and called it the Celtics. But since diversity advocates and multi-cultural awareness groups hadn’t been invented yet, no one howls in protest over the racism inherent in the team name and its stereotypical leprechaun logo, the Chief Wahoo of basketball.
1960. Joe Kennedy bought a championship and a Boston Irishman actually became leader of the free world when JFK got elected. And a dynasty was born, baby. Unfortunately, it ended horribly. And again five years later with his brother Bobby, and two subsequent generations of Bostonians were reduced to trying to admire the lesser Kennedys while they stumbled drunkenly through life bothering girls. And you wonder why we’ve got a chip on our shoulder.
1970s. Corporate America realized the power, influence and disposable income possessed by the Irish. So they responded by offering Irish culture, music and literature. Just kidding. They gave us Lucky Charms, the Shamrock Shake and Cookie O’Puss.
1975. A federal judge came to the conclusion that people choose to live near people who look like themselves. And they have children who look like they do. Therefore the local schools are filled with kids who like the people in their neighborhoods. And that’s bad. So he came up with this plan called “Desegregation” by some, “Forced Busing” by others, and “An Hour and a Half Each Way to School” by the people who’s lives were rearranged by this nonsense. The South Boston Irish led the protest, and it was an ugly time for all. But as is usually the case, only the poor and middle class were getting screwed. Southie was being called the world’s leading manufacturer of hatred and intolerance by people who were shipping their kids to boarding school. (I’m looking at you, Globe editorial page.)
1990s. Six people claiming to be an Irish gay group announced they wanted to march in the Southie St. Patrick’s Day parade. The parade committee said no. As it dragged out in the courts for years, the million or so who line the parade route were bored to tears by the whole topic, but the news cameras always seemed to find the one old lady with a voice like Estelle Costanza shrieking, “It’s supposed to be Adam & Eve, not ADAM & STEVE!!!” and once again Southie was being called the City of Hate. Eventually the Supreme Court ruled 9-0 in Southie’s favor. That would be the same Court that splits 6-3 on a question like “What color are oranges?” And Boston’s Irish are still waiting for those apologies.
Present day. It’s actually not a bad time to be an Irish Bostonian. With the exception of the mayor’s office, we pretty much have the run of the place. The financial institutions, places of higher learning, the State House, the mob... all have Hibernian names on the masthead. Most importantly, Fenway is a sea of green Red Sox hats. Not a bad accomplishment to show for two centuries of struggling. And it’s worth remembering where we came from. Just don’t forget about the grudges. Happy St. Patrick’s Day.