THE IRISHMAN WHO WASN’T QUITE ME

By J. Paddy Spaight

Anyone who has spent more than fifteen minutes in my company knows that I’m Irish.

Not just a little Irish. Not the sort of Irish who suddenly discovers his heritage every March 17th, puts on a green necktie, and orders a pint of Guinness.

No, I’m Irish all year round. Three hundred and sixty-five days of shamrocks, leprechauns, and an unreasonable affection for the color green. Naturally, I decided that being an American of Irish descent wasn’t enough. I wanted to make it official. I wanted dual citizenship.

How difficult could that be?

As it turned out, considerably more difficult than I imagined. The Irish government required documentation proving my ancestry. Birth certificates, marriage certificates, baptismal records, death certificates. Documents belonging to my grandfather, my father, and myself.

Essentially, I had to prove that three generations of my family had actually existed.

And apparently, simply pointing to myself and saying, “Well, here I am,” wasn’t sufficient.

The adventure began in earnest in 2017. While other people were spending their vacations lounging on beaches, sipping tropical drinks, and wondering whether to order another piña colada, I was spending mine wandering through government archives in New York.

I became intimately acquainted with microfilm machines, dusty records, government clerks, and the peculiar pleasure of discovering that the document I’d spent three hours searching for was located in another building. I walked from one government office to another, requesting certificates, obtaining notarizations, and paying fees. Lots of fees.

I learned that finding a document was only half the battle. The other half involved convincing someone behind a counter that the document was the document I needed.

Eventually, after months that stretched into years, I assembled enough paperwork to convince even the most skeptical government official that my ancestors had indeed been Irish.

I sent everything off to Ireland. And waited.

Then something happened that nobody had anticipated. COVID-19.

Suddenly, government offices were closing, employees were working from home, and the entire world seemed to have misplaced its paperwork.

My application disappeared into the great bureaucratic unknown.

Another year passed. Nothing.

I tried calling. No answer.

I waited some more. Still nothing.

At one point, I began to wonder whether the Irish government had decided that Ireland already had enough Irishmen and didn’t particularly need another one. But I persevered.

After approximately three years of researching, collecting, microfilming, notarizing, mailing, waiting, and occasionally questioning my sanity, a very important envelope finally arrived. From Ireland. Inside was my certificate of Irish citizenship.

I had done it! I was officially a citizen of Ireland!

I imagined framing the certificate and hanging it prominently on my wall, where visitors could admire it. Perhaps I’d place a small Irish flag beside it. Maybe even install a spotlight. After all, this wasn’t just a certificate. It was the culmination of years of research, determination, and enough government paperwork to deforest a small country.

I carefully removed the certificate from its envelope and admired the official markings. Then I read the impressive wording and noticed something peculiar.

My middle name, Patrick.

Except it wasn’t Patrick.

It was PARICK.

That’s right. After three years of research, countless documents, endless paperwork, and enough bureaucratic aggravation to drive a leprechaun to drink, the Irish government had misspelled one of the most common names in Ireland.

PATRICK! The name of Ireland’s patron saint!

They hadn’t misspelled Aloysius, Bartholomew, or some obscure Gaelic name requiring seventeen consonants and a pronunciation guide. They had misspelled PATRICK.

I stared at the certificate in disbelief. Apparently, I’d spent three years proving I was Irish, only to have the Irish government inform me that I was actually somebody named James Parick Spaight.

I considered requesting a correction. Then I remembered how long it had taken to get the original At my age, I wasn’t particularly interested in waiting another three years to find out whether they’d spell James correctly.

So I put the certificate away. And there it remains.

Somewhere in Ireland, there’s an official record of a fellow named James Parick Spaight.

I hope he’s happy.

Because after all that trouble, I’m beginning to think he’s more Irish than I am.