By the time the last float crawled past and the crowd thinned, I was wrecked. It had been a long day of St. Patrick’s Day parades, all spectacle and sponsorships, green branding stamped over everything like a corporate seal of approval.
My son marched in the community band, and to be fair, they were excellent. Tight, disciplined, the kind of thing that makes you stand up a bit straighter watching. I was proud of him. But even then, something bugged me. Not one of the tunes was Irish. Not one. And when I thought back over the whole day, it struck me I didn’t hear a single Irish tune at all. Or focal.
It was all imported noise. Pop anthems and movie soundtracks. And then the flegs. Today I saw US, EU, Ukraine, Ireland (and a few Ivory Coast flegs) fluttering in neat, acceptable harmony. There was one bloc for India, with Modi fans waving the India flag proudly. So, here I am, trying to park politics for the day, trying to just be happy for my lad taking part in our national day, but also imagining, just for a second if a Palestine bloc had turned up, or if someone flying an Iran flag showed up. You don’t need to be told. You can already feel the discomfort, the quiet refusal, can’t you.
Paddy’s day isn’t culture unfolding. It’s culture being managed by local authorities and compliant community organisers. A kind of soft curation where some symbols glide through as universal, or inclusive, or diversity, while others are edged out for being too real, too political, too likely to interrupt the show.
You don’t need force when you’ve got a script everyone sticks to. Walking home, ears ringing with Brit and American pop songs and eyes full of approved colours, I couldn’t help asking, if we’re not even setting the tune, or the terms, on our own day, then whose tune are we dancing to?