Ok, perhaps hate is too strong a word. Can't stand is more appropriate.
I grew up on the South Side of Chicago in the 70's and 80's. The neighborhood was made up of various groups of people. There were those of Polish, Irish, Mexican, Lithuanian, Bohemian/Moravian (what you would call Czech) and German descent. If I had to guess ratios in 1980, I'd say 30%, 25%, 15%, 7.5%, 7.5%, 5% , 10% other (Slovakian, Slovenian, Croatian, Greek, French, Puerto Rican, Scandinavian are some I recall), repectively.
There were two types of Mexicans: those whose families had been in America for generations, and recent immigrants. Those who had been here a while lived among the rest of us. The newcomers, however, moved into their own sections near Western Avenue, or around Kedzie Avenue. These areas were shitholes. Their kids were usually sent to the public schools, which were quickly becoming bad, too. Parents who had money paid for their kids to go to the local Catholic schools. It wasn't a problem for most families, because almost all of them were Catholic. The Greeks, of course always sent their kids to Greek school. I have yet to meet a Greek who didn't go to Greek school. I don't think any exist. Since my parents' options were limited, I, along with my brother and sister, went to the nearby Catholic school (one out of about a dozen).
We were the only non-Catholics in our classes, and the only ones of English descent. It wasn't bad. We all got along with one another - that is, of course, until we started getting old enough to discuss global issues, probably around 6th or 7th grade. The Irish kids in class were all keenly aware of the situation in the Emerald Isle. Occasionally I would be teased. But they were friends, so I wasn't really offended. I'd called them drunken micks too, so there was no real offense given or taken.
Soon, 1984 came around and we all graduated from 8th grade. Most of us continued on to Catholic high school, me included. I ended up going to a high school run by Irish Christian brothers, which are pretty much the male equivalents of nuns. Many of the students came from a big Irish neighborhood. They too were very aware of their Irishness and of the goings on in Northern Ireland. Quite a few of them were open in their admiration for the IRA, and upon finding out my ancestry, they made their opinions about me known. I don't recall ever being called "Saxon Scum" or "Saxon Shithead" before. Keep in mind my English forefathers were in America since colonial times. The earliest I know of was in the very late 1600's. After months of this, I just had enough. The next person I saw say something to me was going to get it.
My sophomore year, about a week before Christmas vacation. I was walking down the sidewalk toward to bus stop so I could get home. It was almost winter, and it got dark early. My last class let out at 2:45, and the sun went down between 4:15 or 4:30. It usually took me a little over an hour to get home if I caught the earliest bus. Before I could get to the bus stop, Sean stepped in my way. I was already tall by this point (6'2"), but I hadn't put on much weight yet. I was a telephone pole. Sean had a menacing grin on his face, like he was aching to start trouble.
"Not so fast, you Saxon Shithead."
I didn't have time to stick around and deal with this. I wanted to get home. I was tired and hungry and I had plenty of homework to do. The teachers liked to cram it in before vacation. I tried to push him out of my way tried to continue along. But Sean would have none of that. He was a little to massive for me.
"You motherfuckin' pussy!" I heard him coming closer. I expected to be tackled from behind.
It was then that I turned, and as I was doing so, I took a swing. A shot to the adam's apple. I wasted no time in following up. Punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch! I kept swinging until he fell down. Then I got down and punched him about five times more, until one of the faculty members in the parking lot saw us and began shouting for us to stop. He ran towards us and then grabbed us both by the collars. I was exhausted. I was shaking from excess adrenaline. My right hand was sore and swelling up. Sean's face was bruising, and he had a bloody lip and nose. We were both taken to the Dean's office, where we were separated and told to write down our version of the events on a sheet of paper.
I detailed the situation going back several months - how it had reached this point. I even asked for a second page to write on. The Dean was unimpressed. He called our parents and told them what had happened. His punishment was already decided. I was suspended for two days. Sean, upon knowledge of his harassment, was to serve an in-school suspension for the three. Suspensions in either case resulted in 0 credit for all work to be turned in during that time.
When I got home, my mom was pretty upset, but my dad wasn't. He congratulated me for standing up for myself, and kicking the shit out of someone bigger than me.
It didn't all end after that incident, though, but it did become rare. The only time any trouble resulted was on, you guessed it (or maybe you didn't...who gives a fuck), St. Patrick's Day. St. Patrick's Day 1986 was nothing more than talk. They said they would kick my ass. But they didn't.
That summer, I got a job working as a waiter and busboy in a restaurant, and I easily saved up to buy a car. It was an boxy old black '80 model Volkswagen Jetta. On St. Patrick's Day 1987 (it was a Tuesday, I remember clearly), I walked back to my car after school let out to find a couple eggs splattered on my windshield.
Sean and a few of his IRA-loving paddy friends were kicked out senior year after they got caught smoking up in the parking lot while they were supposed to be in class. That was pretty much the end of the problems. Whenever I think of these fools, this picture often comes to mind:
When I went to college, the school I went to had a celebration called "Unofficial St. Patrick's Day." Usually the real holiday occurred during spring Break, so the mick drunks, and the wannabes, wanted an excuse to drink from 8am throughout the day and all night. They made up this obnoxious holiday where drunk 18 year old freshman roam the streets pissing all over the place, starting fights, and generally causing problems. At least there was one redeeming feature: drunk college girls eager to show off their breasts.
My last year in college I befriended a classmate from southern Ireland. He had nothing but disdain for these Irish-Americans and their sudden pride in Ireland, when most of them knew jackshit about the country.
Like I said, I don't hate St. Patrick's Day, and I've found it tolerable now that I'm not around runken idiots. But I have little reason to find any real
joy in it. I'm just content that it will be officially over in three hours, and it won't be around again for another 8760.
Have a good evening
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