Carrie

“Come on, hurry up, she’s just being rude and stupid.  But what can you expect?”  My friend Pamela was urging me away from Carrie Kavanaugh on the playground.  It was March 16th, 1959 and I was 9 years old and once again in another new school—after five others in three different countries and languages.  I had never before, however, encountered a demand by anyone that I must wear green.  Carrie had approached me at the swings and said that I had to wear that color tomorrow because it was going to be Saint Patrick’s Day.  As I began questioning her on this Pam pulled me away to play jump rope with a bunch of other girls.  Our dresses twirled and billowed as we jumped double-Dutch—my specialty—and we giggled at the entanglements that kept happening as the cords twisted or we lost rhythm.  Carrie came over and wanted to loudly remind us again of the impending green requirements for tomorrow.  The other girls laughed derisively as she walked away, but I was stumped.  So, I asked about this.  “Well, she's Irish,” Sally said rolling her eyes.  Cathy then continued, “My mother says that all Irish kids have dirty blood and we have to stay away from them.  There are even signs that warn us about them.”  I had seen those “Irish Need Not Apply” signs downtown, but I didn’t understand why.  Cathy continued, “They have a holiday where they’re supposed to wear green to honor this Saint Patrick.  They think it’s good luck or something.”
I didn’t understand why they seemed against her.  She was a smart girl and a whiz at arithmetic, and her beautiful crisp white dresses with lace were the envy of all the fifth-grade girls.  So I asked.  “We’re just not supposed to be around ‘that sort’—but I don’t know why,” was Karen’s answer as she shrugged her shoulders.  “Come on,” she continued, “we’re going to be late for lunch.”
I needed to know more.  To everyone’s surprise, I went over to sit with Carrie at the long table where she was eating almost by herself.  “Hi,” I began, “can I sit here?”  She looked up in astonished and nodded a yes.  “I’m sort of new here and I  don’t understand about green tomorrow.  Why is it so important?”  She looked at me wearily and softly said, “Do you really want to know?”  When she was sure I was sincere she explained to me why it was so important for her and her family to celebrate the day and why she just wished everyone did so they too could all have good luck.  She told me about her grandfather who had been beaten up badly when he first came to America years ago, just for being Irish.  And she talked about her mother whose red hair and freckles were the stuff of such mockery through her school years that she quit after grade 8 and helped her own mother take in laundry.  Having been new in so many places myself, I quickly understood how difficult this must have all been.
“Do you know about John F. Kennedy?” She asked.  I did not.  “My folks say that he’s a real ‘up and comer’ in politics and he might even run for president one day.  He’s Irish.  And he’s Catholic, like us.  Maybe if he gets really important then people will stop making fun of us.”  I saw that she looked down and was trying not to cry.  I knew how that was—hoping that the feelings inside my chest wouldn’t spill out into my eyes.  I quickly changed the subject. “Do you like peanut butter?” I asked pointing at her sandwich.  “Oh I love it, “ she answered.  “Well, everyone laughs at me because I think I’m the only kid who doesn’t,” I answered.  “I’m just strange.”  We both giggled at this as the end-of lunch bell clanged.
Our afternoon classes were long and tiring and after being reminded that the next day we’d have a test on the names of  all the presidents (“One at a time, in turns, you will each recite one name in order.”) we were dismissed to walk home.  Walking with books in my arms and with all my friends was one of my favorite things to do.  On the way I started talking about Carrie and Saint Patrick’s Day.  I asked them about traditions in their families.  It turned out there were lots of different ones.  “So, I don’t understand,” I blurted,” why is it so wrong for Carrie to want us to wear green?  Shouldn’t we help her celebrate? And she just wants us to have good luck too. And there’s even a parade in New York.  I’m not Irish and I’m not Catholic, but I think I am going to wear green because I want to respect all those people who think it’s important.  Why not?”  That question stumped my friends.  I continued, “Do you know that she likes peanut butter?” At this a great burst of laughter came from them all—my aversion to this food was well known.  “See, I am much stranger than Carrie.” They nodded in their hilarity.  Cathy spoke, “You know, maybe Sylvia is right.  I mean, we’re not that different—we’re all just people.  Maybe I’ll wear some green ribbons in my hair tomorrow.” In a rousing chorus of “Yay!” it was decided.
The next day, Tuesday, March 17th, 1959, a very delighted Carrie saw a whole bunch of her classmates wearing green hair ribbons as we each stood up during our history test reciting first one then the next of the names of all the 34 presidents.  She sat with us at lunch where we talked about scary snakes, and the impossibility of alligators living where there was snow, and if blue was really a color women would put on they eyelids, and if hair-perms were important.
The next year I moved to yet another school far away.   I understood nothing about politics, but when John F. Kennedy was elected the 35th president that November, I proudly wore a bright green sweater to school the next day.
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