View ProfileEvery year I swear I won’t go again (the weather’s usually bad; the drunk Long Island teens worse, and the crowds impossible to navigate), but then I worry that I am failing my son by not allowing him to celebrate his Irish heritage.
When I do go, I worry that he will think that what he saw at the parade has something to do with being Irish. I want it to be a dignified celebration of the Irish who landed on these shores after the famine, and their massive contributions to this great city. I want it to be a day of music, poetry, and culture.
At the very least I want the parade itself to distract my impressionable young son from the teenager in the leprechaun hat throwing up all over himself and his loud friends, or the group of neon green eejits mispronouncing “Erin Go Bragh,” while a cop threatens to arrest them for public intoxication.
It’s none of these things, but it’s a lot of other things: it’s a crowd of happy people dressed in green; it’s an excuse to talk (and yell at) strangers in a city of cold shoulders; it’s bagpipes and Aran, uniforms and costumes, and the perfect spot in the sun on the corner of 71st and Fifth Avenue.
The bagpiper organizations brought color and entertainment to an otherwise dull parade. I sometimes think the main reason I come is to hear the haunting call of the bagpipe … and to see men in skirts!
Whatever about men in skirts, you just can’t beat men in uniform and there was no shortage this year. Last year some were relegated to the back of the parade for showing up drunk. This year they were restored to their rightful place and behaved like officers and gentlemen.
My family kept warm by shouting “Go on ye boya!” at the parading officers!
The biggest cheer from our corner (70th and Fifth Avenue) went to the sanitation crew …
who followed the horses!
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