Celtic music. Clapping hands. Curly wigs. Clacking shoes. These are what I remember most of St. Patrick’s day. The thrill of walking on stage and dancing before an audience–whether they were students or elderly folk or drunk adults–will forever be with me.
Every year, since the age of five, I Irish dance for schools, nursing-homes, stores, bars, and restaurants on St. Patrick’s Day. At 6:30 a.m. in the morning, my mom brushes my hair into two tight buns where a curly, wig that matches my blond hair attaches to. By 6:45, my pink eye-shadow, dark mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick are applied–we are out the door. Then, by 7:15 a.m. I am at my first performance.
I remember driving all around Colorado–from Denver to Castle Rock to Denver, again, to Aurora–performing from five to seven performances each St. Patrick’s Day. Sometimes I would ride with my friend Mary, and we would act like goofballs together: showing off our wigs, cracking jokes, and playing the game “sweet ‘n sour” to passing cars. Yet, most of the time, it was my mother–and I thank her so much for her hard work–who drove me to each show.
I will never forget her yelling at me to not get food on my $700 dress.
It will not be until nine thirty when my mom and I return home. My legs aching and feet burning from several blisters. However, a smile plasters my face, and I cannot wait until the next St. Patrick’s Day. For as I pound the ground with my hard-shoes or leap into the air with my gillies, a wave of awe sweeps the air around me. A mouth drops open. A gasp escapes a mouth. For a moment, I am looked up to. Envied. I become someone that the audience wants to become:
Known.