For the past week, I've been listening to an unabridged audio recording of Johnathan Wells' "The Politically Incorrect Guide to Dawinism and Intelligent Design." And any reader can guess my opinion of Mr. Wells book from the quotation marks around the word "science" in the title of this post. I'm no scientist, but even I could see some flaws in Mr. Wells' book, only two of which I'm going to mention.
Wells writes about Darwin and his supporters "ignoring the work of Gregor Mendl" (the man who discovered the laws of heredity) when a glance at an encyclopedia would show him that Brother Mendl's work was only published in a very obscure German/Austrian journal and lost to the scientific community for decades because the editor of that journal didn't know what a treasure he had on his hands.
And then there is his constant reference to "the Designer" who Wells protests isn't God but never says who/what (s)he may be. He reminds me very much of our Victorian grandparents who couldn't say the words "pregnant" or "sex" though they spent hours talking about how their children and grandchildren resembled this or that relative.
As for my own opinion--since "a day to God is as a thousand years," I don't have a problem with the idea that the world we have today took several billion years to build, or the idea that we humans aren't the be-all and end-all of life. I'm only sorry I won't be around to see what comes next.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Crows
We had a visitor in church this morning in the person of our organist's father. Mr. B. is a very hale gentleman with a powerful voice who enthusiastically joined in the hymns although he's somewhat deaf--at least he's tone deaf--and wasn't gifted with sense of rhythm. Nevertheless, his joy at being with us was so obvious, no one even considered dropping a discrete word in his ear to sing just a little softer.
Mr. B. reminded me that the
Mr. B. reminded me that the
crow's spring canticle
off key from the other birds'
is just as joyous
from Haiku at 3 a. m.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Cats III
birds and the cat sing
"Reveille" before it's light
they know it's morning
occasionally
cats do Teddy Bear Duty
when they see the need
from Haiku at 3 a. m.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Courage
River runs fastest
just before it dives. Is it
afraid of falling?
Does it hide its fear with speed
so it has no time to think?
from Haiku at 3 a. m.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Crossword Puzzles or Tricks My Father Taught Me
There are a couple of tricks to doing crossword puzzles.
My dad, who did the New York Times Crossword in ink for most of his life, taught me some. Like most people, I started by doing all clues going across, then the ones going down, then back to those going across, then down, etc. Dad told me, "What you want to do is work in blocks. Try answering all the questions in one section, then move on to the next. If you fill in a couple of letters when the question is still fresh in your head, you have a better chance of remembering the answer."
It took me a few weeks of getting lost and filling answers in the wrong boxes, but he was right--the "block system" made things a lot easier.
Another trick isn't really a trick at all--it's just learning to recognize the designer's tricks and shortcuts. Like "awn" means the bristles on a head of wheat, while "seta" is the proper term for the bristles on a pig. Or that some designers use puns and some like slang--the more obscure, the better.
Dad said he learned the block system from his Uncle Henry, my grandmother's brother. He also passed on another piece of advice from Uncle Henry, who was a college professor of English: "When you're taking a test and you come to a question you can't answer, leave it and go on to the next one. By sitting on the question, not only do you waste your valuable time, but you may find a related question you can answer, which will trigger your memory." That one earned me a respectable GPA through high school.
It's also good advice for doing crossword puzzles. If you can't figure out a clue, leave it and come back to it later--you'll usually find the answer.
And yes, I do the NYC Times crossword in ink. Most days. Saturdays are a bear.
My dad, who did the New York Times Crossword in ink for most of his life, taught me some. Like most people, I started by doing all clues going across, then the ones going down, then back to those going across, then down, etc. Dad told me, "What you want to do is work in blocks. Try answering all the questions in one section, then move on to the next. If you fill in a couple of letters when the question is still fresh in your head, you have a better chance of remembering the answer."
It took me a few weeks of getting lost and filling answers in the wrong boxes, but he was right--the "block system" made things a lot easier.
Another trick isn't really a trick at all--it's just learning to recognize the designer's tricks and shortcuts. Like "awn" means the bristles on a head of wheat, while "seta" is the proper term for the bristles on a pig. Or that some designers use puns and some like slang--the more obscure, the better.
Dad said he learned the block system from his Uncle Henry, my grandmother's brother. He also passed on another piece of advice from Uncle Henry, who was a college professor of English: "When you're taking a test and you come to a question you can't answer, leave it and go on to the next one. By sitting on the question, not only do you waste your valuable time, but you may find a related question you can answer, which will trigger your memory." That one earned me a respectable GPA through high school.
It's also good advice for doing crossword puzzles. If you can't figure out a clue, leave it and come back to it later--you'll usually find the answer.
And yes, I do the NYC Times crossword in ink. Most days. Saturdays are a bear.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Children's Middle Names
When I was a kid, I didn't give much thought to the custom of giving children second names. I did know that mine, Lee, was my grandfather's first name (I was the first grandchild--for both Mother's and Dad's families) and that some of my friends had either a collection of names between their first and last, or some real doozers that they only shared after I'd taken blood oaths of secrecy.
I didn't know that my best friend went by her middle name, Anne, until her wedding day. I nearly fell over when the J. P. asked "Do you, Dorothy Anne, take..." She hated her first name so much, she'd pretended it didn't exist.
Then, when I was pregnant with my first child, first and middle names suddenly became very important. If we had a son, William was the traditional first name in my husband's familyand had been for at least four generations. We automatically went with Richard, my father's name, for the second.
But what would we name a girl?
I liked my mother's name, Esther, but loathed my mother-in-law's name, Bessie. (She did, too, and wasn't particularly happy with its diminutive, Bess.) I'd have been happy to give our daughter her middle name, Irene, but my husband insisted on Bessie or nothing if I chose Esther. He wouldn't even compromise on Elizabeth, of which Bessie is a diminutive--he said it sounded too much like we were aping the royals.
Back to the dictionary of baby names.
The Lord of the Rings was just coming into mainstream consciousness and there were some interesting names that might work. My husband's middle name was Warren, which, with a little rearrangement, could become Arwen. Arwen it was.
But what about a middle name? We went through every name we could think of, but nothing sounded right to either of us. And then I saw Veronica Tennant dance The Sleeping Beauty and thought the name went well with Arwen (the woman being tall, blonde and beautiful didn't hurt, either). Later that evening, I broached the subject of middle names again. He said he'd just been reminded of the Archie comics and what did I think of Veronica, one of Archie's girl friends, as a possible girl's name?
Bingo.
I don't know what we'd have done if we'd had two boys or two girls, but we had a son followed by a daughter two years later. William Richard and Arwen Veronica.
I didn't know that my best friend went by her middle name, Anne, until her wedding day. I nearly fell over when the J. P. asked "Do you, Dorothy Anne, take..." She hated her first name so much, she'd pretended it didn't exist.
Then, when I was pregnant with my first child, first and middle names suddenly became very important. If we had a son, William was the traditional first name in my husband's familyand had been for at least four generations. We automatically went with Richard, my father's name, for the second.
But what would we name a girl?
I liked my mother's name, Esther, but loathed my mother-in-law's name, Bessie. (She did, too, and wasn't particularly happy with its diminutive, Bess.) I'd have been happy to give our daughter her middle name, Irene, but my husband insisted on Bessie or nothing if I chose Esther. He wouldn't even compromise on Elizabeth, of which Bessie is a diminutive--he said it sounded too much like we were aping the royals.
Back to the dictionary of baby names.
The Lord of the Rings was just coming into mainstream consciousness and there were some interesting names that might work. My husband's middle name was Warren, which, with a little rearrangement, could become Arwen. Arwen it was.
But what about a middle name? We went through every name we could think of, but nothing sounded right to either of us. And then I saw Veronica Tennant dance The Sleeping Beauty and thought the name went well with Arwen (the woman being tall, blonde and beautiful didn't hurt, either). Later that evening, I broached the subject of middle names again. He said he'd just been reminded of the Archie comics and what did I think of Veronica, one of Archie's girl friends, as a possible girl's name?
Bingo.
I don't know what we'd have done if we'd had two boys or two girls, but we had a son followed by a daughter two years later. William Richard and Arwen Veronica.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Flowering the Cross
Since I've only been attending St. Paul's United Church for a few months, their tradition of "flowering the cross" on Easter Sunday came as a bit of a surprise--a lovely one, but it's something I've never seen before.
Everyone is asked to bring at least one flower--any kind--to the service: several, if possible, so any guests can participate if they choose. A plain white cross is set up in front of the communion table and, usually, someone has also left a vase of flowers next to it. What no one can see from the pews is that the cross is covered with chicken wire.
During "the children's time" between the opening hymns and the sermon, the children are told that Jesus was killed using the cross, but, since their families and friends believe he came back to life, decorating the structure with flowers is a way of remembering that. They're asked if they want to do that themselves and are invited to stay long enough to watch all the grown ups do the same before going off to Sunday school in another part of the church.
By the time everyone who wants to has tucked their flowers under the chicken wire, a lovely mixed bouquet is standing in front of the communion table and the service goes on as usual.
As I said, it's a lovely custom. But, somehow, I wasn't in a celebratory mood. Perhaps it's the rotten weather today, or the hesitant appearance of spring this year, or Linus' battle with cancer, or Mother's with congestive heart failure--any number of things. The following poem is what came to mind:
Everyone is asked to bring at least one flower--any kind--to the service: several, if possible, so any guests can participate if they choose. A plain white cross is set up in front of the communion table and, usually, someone has also left a vase of flowers next to it. What no one can see from the pews is that the cross is covered with chicken wire.
During "the children's time" between the opening hymns and the sermon, the children are told that Jesus was killed using the cross, but, since their families and friends believe he came back to life, decorating the structure with flowers is a way of remembering that. They're asked if they want to do that themselves and are invited to stay long enough to watch all the grown ups do the same before going off to Sunday school in another part of the church.
By the time everyone who wants to has tucked their flowers under the chicken wire, a lovely mixed bouquet is standing in front of the communion table and the service goes on as usual.
As I said, it's a lovely custom. But, somehow, I wasn't in a celebratory mood. Perhaps it's the rotten weather today, or the hesitant appearance of spring this year, or Linus' battle with cancer, or Mother's with congestive heart failure--any number of things. The following poem is what came to mind:
some cover the cross
with flowers
on Easter Sunday
hide pain under joy
turn bad memories
and old hurts
that can’t heal into
something beautiful
denying the pain or
flaunting it
the old soldiers’ wounds
are bandaged
as they smile at praise
and honors
they know what
poison is
with flowers
on Easter Sunday
hide pain under joy
turn bad memories
and old hurts
that can’t heal into
something beautiful
denying the pain or
flaunting it
the old soldiers’ wounds
are bandaged
as they smile at praise
and honors
they know what
poison is
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Good Friday--the Crucifixion
I'm probably one of the few people who haven't seen Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ." For two reasons:
The Romans designed crucifixion as a deterrent to rebellion, and, to their way of thinking, the more tortuous the death, the less likely anyone would want to end up dying that way. (Reminds me of the arguments for the death penalty in today's politics, but that's another story).
We've cleaned things up--a lot. People wear plain crucifixes, jeweled crucifixes, elaborate ones and simple ones. Very few think about what a cross actually meant to the people who died on them or, just as bad, watched their loved ones suffer, unable to do anything about it.
I'm not a traditional Christian--some would say I'm not a Christian at all--but I had an opportunity to see the crucifixion in all its horror through someone else's eyes, and I have never forgotten it.
My children were three and five when our family was invited to their cousin's wedding at St. Peter's Catholic Church in New Westminster, B. C. We arrived early because their father was the family photographer and he wanted to "scope out" the best places. Most Catholic churches have at least a simulacrum of a person on the cross over their altars, but St. Peter's was like nothing I'd ever seen. The Christ figure, had he been standing, would have been at least 9 feet tall, and as lifelike as the artist could make him.
I noted him, but I was my husband's "designated assistant," and I had other things to do. I was setting up camera equipment when my son came up to me and said, very softly, "Mommy, why is that man hanging there?" I started to ask "What man?" but didn't; Dee's eyes looked like he was wearing magnifying spectacles and I could see the altar, the cross and the figure behind him.
I think I said we were not a religious household, but my kids had been taught that Christmas was the celebration of the birth of a very special teacher and Easter was, if not a celebration of his resurrection, a commemoration of his death and of new life. But we had not told a three and five year old how he died.
I put the camera gear down. "Dee, that man isn't alive. He's a statue." I knelt down so our eyes were on the same level. "Do you remember the story of Jesus? That he was a very great teacher?" Dee nodded. "And that the authorities of his time didn't like what he taught and killed him?" He nodded again and whispered, "But why..." and couldn't find any more words. I said, "Why did they make that statue?" He nodded again. "That cross is how they killed him. And people don't want to ever forget what happened or why. So they made that statue."
"He really is a statue?" Dee asked; his eyes were still dilated and almost black, but they were back to their normal size.
"Absolutely." I stood up. "Do you want to come with me and we'll see?" He nodded and took my hand. I'm don't know where his sister had been while we were talking, but she materialized on my other side and the three of us walked the length of the church and up the steps to the altar. I don't remember the rest of our conversation, but it was long enough for their father to set up his camera in the balcony and take a time-lapse photo of the altar, the cross and the three of us standing there.
(a)I don't agree with Gibson's anti-Semitism;
and
(b) while I do agree with his portrayal of the crucifixion in all it's horror, I don't need to see fake pain and blood when I've seen enough of the real stuff.
The Romans designed crucifixion as a deterrent to rebellion, and, to their way of thinking, the more tortuous the death, the less likely anyone would want to end up dying that way. (Reminds me of the arguments for the death penalty in today's politics, but that's another story).
We've cleaned things up--a lot. People wear plain crucifixes, jeweled crucifixes, elaborate ones and simple ones. Very few think about what a cross actually meant to the people who died on them or, just as bad, watched their loved ones suffer, unable to do anything about it.
I'm not a traditional Christian--some would say I'm not a Christian at all--but I had an opportunity to see the crucifixion in all its horror through someone else's eyes, and I have never forgotten it.
My children were three and five when our family was invited to their cousin's wedding at St. Peter's Catholic Church in New Westminster, B. C. We arrived early because their father was the family photographer and he wanted to "scope out" the best places. Most Catholic churches have at least a simulacrum of a person on the cross over their altars, but St. Peter's was like nothing I'd ever seen. The Christ figure, had he been standing, would have been at least 9 feet tall, and as lifelike as the artist could make him.
I noted him, but I was my husband's "designated assistant," and I had other things to do. I was setting up camera equipment when my son came up to me and said, very softly, "Mommy, why is that man hanging there?" I started to ask "What man?" but didn't; Dee's eyes looked like he was wearing magnifying spectacles and I could see the altar, the cross and the figure behind him.
I think I said we were not a religious household, but my kids had been taught that Christmas was the celebration of the birth of a very special teacher and Easter was, if not a celebration of his resurrection, a commemoration of his death and of new life. But we had not told a three and five year old how he died.
I put the camera gear down. "Dee, that man isn't alive. He's a statue." I knelt down so our eyes were on the same level. "Do you remember the story of Jesus? That he was a very great teacher?" Dee nodded. "And that the authorities of his time didn't like what he taught and killed him?" He nodded again and whispered, "But why..." and couldn't find any more words. I said, "Why did they make that statue?" He nodded again. "That cross is how they killed him. And people don't want to ever forget what happened or why. So they made that statue."
"He really is a statue?" Dee asked; his eyes were still dilated and almost black, but they were back to their normal size.
"Absolutely." I stood up. "Do you want to come with me and we'll see?" He nodded and took my hand. I'm don't know where his sister had been while we were talking, but she materialized on my other side and the three of us walked the length of the church and up the steps to the altar. I don't remember the rest of our conversation, but it was long enough for their father to set up his camera in the balcony and take a time-lapse photo of the altar, the cross and the three of us standing there.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Colors
green's not spring's color
it's winter's--that and brown if
the ground has no snow
spring shows every color
before the green takes over
from Haiku at 3 a. m.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Pussywillows, Cattails
I can't speak for anyone else, but my memory is stuffed with odd scraps of songs, poems, "wise" adages, quotes from the famous and not-so-famous and (surprisingly!) long passages from favorite books. One of these is the refrain from Gordon Lightfoot's "Pussywillows, Cattails":
Which is a lovely phrase, evoking various stages of spring after a long cold winter, but, besides the tune, it's all I can remember.Pussywillows, cattails, soft winds and roses
One of the really nice things about being connected to the internet is how easy it can be to find things like words to songs. I just typed in "Gordon Lightfoot" and went from his bio to a list of his songs to the songs themselves
And what did I find? The song is like an exercise in Freud' s free association technique, where one phrase evokes another and that evokes a third and so on and so on. Since no one's mind works exactly like another's, Lightfoot's patterns are different from mine. No wonder I couldn't follow it.
Given that spring has finally arrived to stay, and that is an event worth celebrating, here's the opening and closing stanza:
Pussy willows, cattails, soft winds and rosesRainpools in the woodland, water to my kneesShivering, quivering, the warm breath of springPussy willows, cat tails, soft winds and roses
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Cats II--Rufus
Bella, Besame, and Zoe aren't the only cats we've had in our lives. For me, the most memorable was Rufus.
Rufus was a chartreuse, one of the oldest breeds in the world. He looked like a Russian Blue, with the same short, rumpled-looking gray coat, but, instead of being long and lean, he looked like a full potato sack on old man legs. He wasn't a "show" cat--his eyes weren't the proper gold/copper color, but the light green of the liqueur that was first made in the French Monastery of Chartreuse. Whoever had owned him previously had neutered him to make certain the "faulty" genes weren't passed on to the next generation.
Rufus appeared at our back door one day and immediately made himself at home. My then- husband said, "we have enough cats in this house" (we had two), took him off to the new housing development a couple of miles away and left him there, telling everyone that "He'll find a good home on his own. He found us, didn't he?"
Are you familiar with the children's song, "The Cat Came Back"? In each verse, a cranky old man tries to get rid of a cat by various ingenious means while the chorus counterpoints with "The cat came back the very next day." So did Rufus, once again walking in the back door as though he owned the place, talking all the while. I could almost hear him saying, "That was an interesting car ride, but I wouldn't want to take another one, thanks. And by the way, I'm starved. When's dinner?"
Well, "Any cat who can find his way back here deserves to stay," and stay he did.
Rufus is the only cat I've ever known who hugged you. Seriously. When someone picked him up, he'd reach as far as he could around that person's neck and purr like a motorcycle climbing a steep hill. Anyone could pick him up, even if he was in the middle of a meal or a nap. With a houseful of teenagers, our own and assorted "strays" (neighborhood kids, foster kids, the foster kids' siblings, etc.) he was the favorite.
He loved humans, but no other life form. Within a week, he was "top cat" and brooked no opposition from anything with more than two legs. He was a great hunter and I was often given "presents" of mice, birds and garter snakes. (Don't ask why I was so favored, I haven't the slightest idea.)
He lived with us for two years, but disappeared the week before we were to move away, as suddenly as he'd appeared. It was January, bitterly cold with an unusual fall of snow. The neighbors' dogs had formed a loose hunting pack and we think he ran afoul of them, or possibly a hungry raccoon. We never even found a tuft of gray fur on the snow or under the trees to tell us what happened.
Rufus was a chartreuse, one of the oldest breeds in the world. He looked like a Russian Blue, with the same short, rumpled-looking gray coat, but, instead of being long and lean, he looked like a full potato sack on old man legs. He wasn't a "show" cat--his eyes weren't the proper gold/copper color, but the light green of the liqueur that was first made in the French Monastery of Chartreuse. Whoever had owned him previously had neutered him to make certain the "faulty" genes weren't passed on to the next generation.
Rufus appeared at our back door one day and immediately made himself at home. My then- husband said, "we have enough cats in this house" (we had two), took him off to the new housing development a couple of miles away and left him there, telling everyone that "He'll find a good home on his own. He found us, didn't he?"
Are you familiar with the children's song, "The Cat Came Back"? In each verse, a cranky old man tries to get rid of a cat by various ingenious means while the chorus counterpoints with "The cat came back the very next day." So did Rufus, once again walking in the back door as though he owned the place, talking all the while. I could almost hear him saying, "That was an interesting car ride, but I wouldn't want to take another one, thanks. And by the way, I'm starved. When's dinner?"
Well, "Any cat who can find his way back here deserves to stay," and stay he did.
Rufus is the only cat I've ever known who hugged you. Seriously. When someone picked him up, he'd reach as far as he could around that person's neck and purr like a motorcycle climbing a steep hill. Anyone could pick him up, even if he was in the middle of a meal or a nap. With a houseful of teenagers, our own and assorted "strays" (neighborhood kids, foster kids, the foster kids' siblings, etc.) he was the favorite.
He loved humans, but no other life form. Within a week, he was "top cat" and brooked no opposition from anything with more than two legs. He was a great hunter and I was often given "presents" of mice, birds and garter snakes. (Don't ask why I was so favored, I haven't the slightest idea.)
He lived with us for two years, but disappeared the week before we were to move away, as suddenly as he'd appeared. It was January, bitterly cold with an unusual fall of snow. The neighbors' dogs had formed a loose hunting pack and we think he ran afoul of them, or possibly a hungry raccoon. We never even found a tuft of gray fur on the snow or under the trees to tell us what happened.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Cradle Songs
sister to sister
mother to daughter
mother to son
to Canada and back
smooth polished wood
medium brown
carved spindles
define windows
to look outward
bronze hooks and eyes
to swing on
soothe to sleep
craftsman to friend
mother to son
father to son
from Mexico to here
knotted rope
rust colored
define diamonds
wide enough
for small hands
to reach through
heavier rope
to hang from the ceiling
swing in the breeze
mother to daughter
mother to son
to Canada and back
smooth polished wood
medium brown
carved spindles
define windows
to look outward
bronze hooks and eyes
to swing on
soothe to sleep
craftsman to friend
mother to son
father to son
from Mexico to here
knotted rope
rust colored
define diamonds
wide enough
for small hands
to reach through
heavier rope
to hang from the ceiling
swing in the breeze
protected places
to start our lives
2001
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
On Being Celtic
I've noticed a lot of mail order catalogs offer books and clothing, jewelry and other do-dads with "Celtic" themes or motifs. And by "Celtic," they don't mean Scots or Welsh, they mean Irish. Shamrocks abound, as do the color green and references to St. Patrick, Blarney Castle and leprechauns.
I'm not knocking this, you understand--with a last name like "Delaney," it's the last thing I want to do--but I do want to note that we've come a long way from the days when businesses posted signs in their windows or put ads in the newspapers saying "Help Wanted. No Irish Need Apply."
A long, long way from my great great grandfather who drove his tinker's wagon into the little town of North Tama, Iowa, with a wife and the name of "DeLaney." Note the capital "L." He didn't want to be considered just a half step above the "colored" people who were less than a generation away from slavery and if capitalizing a letter in the middle of his last name to make it look French would make his family respectable, then that's what he'd do.
Right up into John Kennedy's presidency, you never heard an Irishman called a "Mick" without the name being preceded by "dumb" or "stupid."
So I have to wonder at my father, who went into the Army Air Corps in 1941 as Dick DeLaney and came home in 1945 as Mick Delaney. He said he hated the name "Dick": that when in the service, he'd palled around with 3 other Irishmen whom everyone called "the four Micks" and the name just stuck. He said he thought the capital "L" in the middle of his name was a stupid affectation and went back to the original spelling.
But it must have taken a whole lot of nerve to take two pejoratives and flaunt them in the face of that unspoken but pervasive prejudice. He said it just made sense.
He could put on a brogue that sounded like he'd just stepped off the boat from County Derry, yet he desparaged what he called "professional Irishmen" who got teary eyed over "Danny Boy" on St. Patrick's Day, but never got closer to the "Ould Sod" than New York City; and, though he enjoyed seeing all the "Celtic" artifacts in the catalogues, he'd never buy them. Yet, just before he died, my sister, M. J., gave him a license plate frame that said, "I brake for leprechauns," which he promptly installed on a car that he always kept free of any sort of bumper sticker or aerial ornament.
We wouldn't think of removing it.
I'm not knocking this, you understand--with a last name like "Delaney," it's the last thing I want to do--but I do want to note that we've come a long way from the days when businesses posted signs in their windows or put ads in the newspapers saying "Help Wanted. No Irish Need Apply."
A long, long way from my great great grandfather who drove his tinker's wagon into the little town of North Tama, Iowa, with a wife and the name of "DeLaney." Note the capital "L." He didn't want to be considered just a half step above the "colored" people who were less than a generation away from slavery and if capitalizing a letter in the middle of his last name to make it look French would make his family respectable, then that's what he'd do.
Right up into John Kennedy's presidency, you never heard an Irishman called a "Mick" without the name being preceded by "dumb" or "stupid."
So I have to wonder at my father, who went into the Army Air Corps in 1941 as Dick DeLaney and came home in 1945 as Mick Delaney. He said he hated the name "Dick": that when in the service, he'd palled around with 3 other Irishmen whom everyone called "the four Micks" and the name just stuck. He said he thought the capital "L" in the middle of his name was a stupid affectation and went back to the original spelling.
But it must have taken a whole lot of nerve to take two pejoratives and flaunt them in the face of that unspoken but pervasive prejudice. He said it just made sense.
He could put on a brogue that sounded like he'd just stepped off the boat from County Derry, yet he desparaged what he called "professional Irishmen" who got teary eyed over "Danny Boy" on St. Patrick's Day, but never got closer to the "Ould Sod" than New York City; and, though he enjoyed seeing all the "Celtic" artifacts in the catalogues, he'd never buy them. Yet, just before he died, my sister, M. J., gave him a license plate frame that said, "I brake for leprechauns," which he promptly installed on a car that he always kept free of any sort of bumper sticker or aerial ornament.
We wouldn't think of removing it.
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