As you’re reading this, I am sitting in a field of four-leaf clovers waiting for the rain to subside and the sun to come out so I can follow the ensuing rainbow to my pot of gold. In the meantime my little leprechaun friends and I are playing poker and drinking green beer while listening to an Irish ditty.
My mother always claimed we were a mixture of Scottish, Irish, Cherokee and Apache. My father-in-law said he had never met an Okie who didn’t claim to be part Indian. My husband’s family is pure blood Native American, whereas my family is a bunch of mutts. The funny thing is I am OK with that; you can pick your friends but your family gets assigned by a higher power.
My family didn’t have a load of traditions or rituals associated with a nationality. The only language we spoke was English with a touch of Southern drawl thrown in. I am proud that both my husband and I are native Maderans.
While he attended a variety of local schools including terms at St. Joachim, I attended just three schools: James Monroe, Thomas Jefferson and Madera High. Some of the kids I graduated high school with were the same ones from my kindergarten. Looking at class photos from Monroe, I can see there are many of us who progressed from childhood through all that teenage angst to come out on the other side...