It’s not easy being me. Kermit the Frog used to croon “it’s not easy being green”. He might try being Irish and named after a non-national. I was called after St Patrick, son of an official in the Roman administration of Britain, probably from Wales – a once proud rugby nation. (Let’s not go there!)
Worse, he was brought to Ireland forcibly that first time, by slave traders – those damned O’Neills – and made watch sheep in Antrim for six years. He escaped and, inexplicably, returned, as this was before Bushmills whiskey was invented or hurling in the Glens.
Soon he had almost as many connections all over the island as the late Charlie Haughey. Miraculous. Only a saint, or Charlie Haughey, could have done it.
Consistent with our generations before, as first born I was named Patrick; as was my grandfather (Patsy) and my great-grandfather (Patrick). Trials came soon. At school, with “Ó Pheann an Phiarsaigh”, where the 1916 leader wrote about Nora Pheatsaí (Nora the daughter of Patsy).
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My grandfather died by suicide. I work in the same Irish university where he taught history
Mortifying at that age – the idea of having had sex and a daughter, but a gift to merciless teenage classmates. It was also the beginnings of life-long misgivings about Pearse.
Then there was that old lady in New York of my student years who refused to call me Patsy, as “it’s a gurl’s name”, and the pirate radio owner who preferred I call myself “Padraig” in broadcasts, or the Sunday newspaper editor who believed Patsy was “too country and western” and insisted I use the byline “Patrick”.
So, when I joined this newspaper years ago, I announced: “I am Patsy and by this name shall I be known heretofore. Hear ye me!” And, lo, so it has been. Even if, at the time, many felt The Irish Times was hardly a natural home for a boy named “Patsy”, a name associated with men from the west and north-west. But that was in distant days when the paper was perceived as dominated by a Pale cast of thought.
“Patrick” fell out of favour among the succeeding generations, even in my own family but, gladly, has made a comeback among our grand(er) kids. So, welcome Patrick in Philadelphia and Paddy in Ballaghaderreen.
“Patsy”, however, remains the one and only!
Patrick, from Latin Patricius, meaning “of the nobles” (of course!).
