St. Patrick’s Day puts me on a guilt trip and not because I’m Irish or Catholic; I’m neither, which is a shame as this would kind of explain the self-inflicted guilt. And while I’m embarrassed by the commercialization of the Irish sacred holiday – no, the patron saint of Ireland did not drink green beer and dress like a leprechaun – I can cut our green-clad friends some slack. What gets me about this day is that it reminds me I’ve been a negligent mother.
I married into an Irish family, the Mangans. I have now shared the extent of my knowledge about my children’s Irish roots. My side of the family, the Yearys, hailed from Scotland, what part I do not know. The part where it’s cold, I think.
Through the years, I’ve intended to read some of our personal history researched by other family members. When St. Patrick’s Day rolls around, it usually prompts my children to ask about their heritage. I tell them they are Scotch-Irish and then give them shamrock shirts I bought at Target. However, my daughter is taking a children’s literature class in college, and the professor assigned a personal folklore project. She asked me if we have an Irish family story. Go ask your dad, I told her.
OK, Gillian, this much I know:
Your dad, Michael George Mangan, was born with a good Irish name as was his sister, Theresa Ann, and brother Patrick James. Their father, George Francis, raised his sons as practicing altar boys in their Catholic school and church. Their Uncle Jimmy, James Joseph Mangan, visited Ireland once and returned with copies of the Mangan crest for everyone. As far as family coats of arms go, it’s not the worst, but not the best. The center of the crest bears a hand with two circles above it and a crescent shield beneath like something you’d see in law enforcement that could come in handy if you’re pulled over by a police officer, but only if he’s an Irish cop.
The Mangan name is the Anglicized form of the Gaelic O Mongain meaning a descendant of Mongan, which was originally a byname for someone with a luxuriant head of hair, a thick “mane,” which explains your dad and uncle’s thick, wavy hair. Most of the original Mangans were born in Connacht, County Limerick. Once, your dad and I visited the local Catholic priest in his church office. He pulled out a large book about Ireland and showed us beautiful photos of the County Limerick, home of “many a Mangan,” he said.
We have a famous writer on your dad’s side of the family, James Clarence Mangan, a Dublin-born poet in the early 19th century. James Joyce and William Butler Yeats considered Mangan one of the best Irish poets so you get your love of verse naturally.
Your dad will share with you the time your Papa George and Uncle Jimmy were reunited as young soldiers fighting at the Battle of Anzio in Italy in World War II. The brothers were in separate army divisions. George found his little brother in the valley and got him a hot meal and shower. Jimmy returned to his battalion and was later wounded in the battle, but survived. Both brothers spoke often about what it meant to find each other during war.
But I also know this: A family name only means something when there is love that defines it, a bond that keeps us together through good and difficult times. And you and your brother have that in spades, or rather shamrocks, something worth celebrating every day of the year.
