Back in the days of my naif Pagan youth, it was generally understood that the legend of St. Patrick chasing the snakes out of Ireland was a metaphor for the oppression of Paganism. And we all felt very strongly about that.
But then, right around the onset of social media, we learned that Christianity had already spread into Ireland well before St. Patrick arrived, and that his legend was probably just an imaginative way to explain why there weren’t any snakes around. Or dragons. Sea monsters, maybe? Something reptilian. It’s been awhile since I’ve looked it up.
Anyway, now we all feel very strongly about that, and every year on St. Patrick’s Day, people share memes to debunk the myth. I don’t really have anything to add to that subject, although my heritage is predominantly Irish, and that is definitely worth celebrating. So instead of trying to deconstruct St. Patrick any further than he already has been, I’m going to share a quick anecdote about the time I’m pretty sure I met a leprechaun.
One fine evening, many summers ago, some friends and I decided to check out this underground club in downtown Houston we’d been hearing about. And I mean literally underground — an entrepreneur had located a vast, seedy basement warehouse and converted it into a vast, seedy, gay dancehall. The whole aesthetic was very Cruising, and a lovely, mostly legal time was had by all.
It was 2 a.m. before we knew it, and after last call, we climbed the stairs to the street level. We were standing on a corner and trying to remember where we parked, when this homeless guy huddled under the awning of a nearby office building called out to us.
“Got any change?” he asked. He was kind of short, with a big, bushy red beard, and he was wearing a tan parka with the hood pulled up, which struck me as kind of odd for July.
“I don’t have any cash on me,” I said. “But would you like a cigarette?”
“Sure!” he said. I fished one out of my pack and handed it to him.
“Thanks, buddy,” he said. “I appreciate it. We Irish, we gotta stick together.”
“Wait… how did you know I was Irish?” I asked. But before he could reply, my friend Casey lumbered over and threw his arms around me.
Casey looked exactly like Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, if Wolverine really liked vodka tonics and accidentally broke people’s ribs when he hugged them. A hero at heart, Casey assumed a) that the homeless guy was hassling me, and b) that I needed to be rescued immediately.
“HEY, THUMPER,” he boomed, squeezing the breath out of me. “HOW THE HELL ARE YA, MY OLD PAL? COME WITH ME.” And he dragged me away.
“Wait, no…” I gasped, trying to break free. “The oracle…”
“YOU’RE WELCOME,” he roared with a cheerful grin, his arm still around my neck. “ANYTIME.”
And that was it. The homeless guy didn’t mysteriously disappear behind a passing bus, nor did he trail after us and dare me to answer his Riddles Three. But he recognized me as Irish, which had never happened before. It was pretty cool for someone to see that there was more to me than meets the eye. And more to him, too, apparently.
Plus there’s more to March 17: If St. Patrick doesn’t do it for you, today is also the feast of Gertrude of Nivelles, the patron saint of cats, who is definitely worth more attention from Pagans.
And it’s also Sarah’s birthday! If you haven’t already sent her a card, signing up for her newsletters would be a wonderful way to offer happy returns of the day.
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