Hugo Schwyzer

I’ve got a great many things to do this Saturday afternoon, but not so busy that I couldn’t go digging through my closet to make sure I had a green shirt to wear for teaching on Monday, St. Patrick’s Day.

There are very few annual holiday rituals with which I have always been consistent. I’ve decorated a Christmas tree almost every year in my memory, but I can recall one or two years where I missed out on that tradition. I’ve hid or hunted for eggs every Easter Sunday for perhaps 37 out of the last 40 years, but my memory tells me I didn’t have that chance in 1995, 1996, or 2000. And I’ve worn red or pink on the Fourth of July almost as consistently, but do remember being resplendent in blue seer-sucker in 1993 or ‘94.

Yet every single March 17 in my memory — which extends at least back to kindergarten 35 years ago — I’ve worn green. In elementary school and middle school, failing to wear green was an invitation to being pinched and pummeled. A few times, the green I wore was of the wrong hue; I learned as early as six or seven that the bullies reserved the right to make a final assessment about the sufficiency of the green in which I was clad. And, to be honest, I joined gleefully (and fairly gently) in the pinching of those who through forgetfulness or the desire for attention had nothing verdant upon them.

In high school and especially in college, the pinching often took on a subtly flirtatious tone. (Sometimes it wasn’t so subtle; I remember one particular drunken bash around this time in 1986, during which… oh heck, for once, I won’t tell a TMI-replete story.) Anyhow, my sophomore year at Cal, I lived in a co-op which was roughly divided between US and international students. Most of the international students were Indian or Chinese; to our delight they adopted St. Patrick’s day with more enthusiasm than any other holiday in the American calendar. (Though my attempts at explaining the political significance of green and orange in Irish politics just confused everyone). To our chagrin, many of our foreign friends were quite sharp with the pinching, and proved to be especially strict about the “correct” shade of green we wore. One lad, “Norman” (who had taken his name when he watched the movie “On Golden Pond” during his flight to the States) declared that the green had to be in plain view. The old trick of having green piping on one’s boxers or panties or socks was not sufficient in his mind, and he left small bruises on those of us who fell short of his exacting mark.

I always joke that I’m “1/32nd” Irish. One great-great-great grandmother was surnamed O’Melveny, and she contributed a drop of DNA from the Emerald Isle into my Scottish, English, German, and Jewish gene pool. I don’t wear green out of any sense of connection to Ireland (what little “Celtophilia” I have is directed towards the Welsh, anyway). I wear it out of habit, and out of that tiny and not-at-all unpleasant frisson of fear at the thought of being pinched if I don’t.

Let me note, too, that I don’t pinch my students who don’t wear green. And though I can’t imagine that any of them would pinch me if I showed up insufficiently verdurous, I don’t want to find out.