My parents were both born in Belfast, Northern Ireland but St. Patrick’s day was never celebrated in our house. Why, you ask? Because we are proud Orange-Irish!
Growing up, my sister Jacqueline and I were NEVER allowed to wear green to school. We would try to sneak out the door and Daddy would turn us about saying, “No child of mine is wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day. Go and put on your orange.” No matter how we pleaded about getting pinched, Daddy was always true to his heritage. And I passed that on to my children and grandchildren.
And now, my annual explanation on why this 100% Irish, first generation American, wears Orange on St. Patrick’s Day.
A Brief History of the Convoluted Difference Between Being Orange and Green Irish
Somewhere around the 5th Century, Christianity was brought to Ireland by a British missionary, Bishop Patrick, who became the patron saint of Ireland long after his death. Irish natives converted (or were forced to convert) to Roman Catholicism, which is still the predominate religion in Ireland.
Fast forward to the 17th Century. English and Scottish farmers settled in northern Ireland and established a Protestant stronghold, encouraged by the British faction that was working to oust the Catholic monarchy.
In 1685, King James, a staunch Catholic, was crowned monarch of England, Scotland and Ireland, angering the Protestant majority in Britain. Prince William of Orange, a staunch Protestant, was nephew to King James and married to James’ daughter. He garnered the support of influential political and Protestant leaders and led an invasion of England in 1688, taking the crown.
Ireland refused to accept the new King and deposed King James attempted to take back the crown in a bloody battle in 1690 famously known as the “Battle of the Boyne.” King William handily won and Ireland was added to his territory of reign. This marked the beginning of the change from personal rule of the Stuarts towards a Parliament rule in Britain. An interesting side note: William had his wife Mary, a born and raised Catholic, named as co-sovereign in an attempt to ease political tension. They reigned together until her death in 1694.
So what does all this fighting over religion have to do with being “Orange?”
The meaning behind the orange comes from the Orange Order, a fraternal organization established in 1795 to protect the Protestant ascendancy in the monarchy. To this day, Protestants commemorate the Battle of the Boyne on July 11th with bonfires and July 12th with parades and much fanfare. And because King William was once Prince of Orange, orange became the defining colour.
A few hundred years pass, amidst much more political and religious strife.
Finally, in 1921, Ireland officially split into two republics: Ireland with it’s own government, and Northern Ireland which is governed by the United Kingdom. This split, unfortunately, didn’t heal the political and religious tension that it had hoped to achieve.
The Irish flag, designed in 1848 and adopted as the national flag in 1921, consists of three stripes: orange for the Protestants, green for the Catholics, and a white strip in between signifying the hope for Peace. The British flag combines the red cross of of St George of the Kingdom of England, the white saltire of St Andrew for Scotland, and the red saltire of St Patrick, patron saint of Ireland.
So, being a proud descendant of Protestants from Northern Ireland, I will be wearing my orange today, but will also raise a toast to all of my green-wearing Catholic Irish friends. Peace does exist in the middle.
And now you know that not all Irish wear green on St. Patrick’s Day! (And why my Sister, Kids & Grandkids BETTER be sporting some Orange today in honour of John Benson! 😉)
For a really awesome corned beef recipe, check out my recent blogpost: GO To Tuesday: Baked Mustard Crusted Corned Beef & Roasted Veggies.
The sour-faced woman raised her eyebrows after scanning my ID card. “I’m sorry, we can’t accept your vote.”
Amy stretched languidly, enjoying the morning quiet.
He considered himself immortal. He’d had plenty of broken bones and visits to the emergency room in his 33 years as a stuntman. In each of the three near-death experiences, he was drawn to a light but it always dimmed before he reached it. And then he woke to excruciating pain.
“Fort Awsome,” the sign read. In all actuality, it wasn’t a “fort” and “awsome” was spelled wrong. Both were mortal sins in her book and she felt no remorse in ripping the shoddily made wooden plaque off the rickety beach shelter, placing it in the garbage bag she carried. 
Charlie’s trained eyes peered through the binoculars from his vantage point at the top of the playground castle. He had a full view of the park and the turret shielded him from view of onlookers. He jotted notes in a little pad with a pencil, kept tucked in his suit pocket.
We grew up sailing San Francisco Bay, indisputably the best sailing in the world and one we generally take for granted. On a typical day on the water we’ll motor up the estuary (which we fondly refer to as the “Alameda Riviera”) raising sails just beyond the Port of Oakland. We know all the stories associated with the local landmarks such as President Roosevelt’s refurbished USS Potomac and Jack London Square, the old Navy Base and the various Coast Guard stations.
Laura stepped off the bus and headed towards home. If you could call it that. An illegally converted garage wasn’t much of a home. She shared the single bathroom with three others and had to keep her food in a cooler so it wouldn’t be stolen from the community kitchen. It was all she could afford but was far better than the house she used to live in with her alcoholic husband.
Amy saw the poster tacked to the phone pole at the bus stop.
Every weekday morning Mama would walk us to school and chat on the schoolyard with the other mothers, discussing their supper menus and any juicy news they had heard since the day before. We lived in a small town where walls were thin and lips were loose. Today’s hot topic was the recent sale of the old Dorst home to a couple from out of town.
