So You’re Irish — Lace-Curtain or Shanty?

As we prepare to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day (the day commemorating “all things Irish” and the date of the saint’s death, not his birth, mind you), it might be interesting to lay claim to your proper state of Irish class. Yes, class-consciousness is an old part of Irish history. Why, St. Patrick himself started off Shanty Irish (a slave), and ended up both the Bishop of Ireland and finally, its Patron Saint (definitely Lace-Curtain). Not that these are hard and fast demarcations that have stood the test of time. Many a young peat-bog farmboy has aspired and won the Princess, and many a young lass has beguiled the charming Prince, the results of these couplings often mixing the marked heritage.

In America, the connotation of upper-class Lace-Curtain Irish is also referred to as Fruit-on-the-Table Irish, or Cut-Glass Irish (or even, sometimes, the modern derivative, Two-Toilet Irish); whereas the Shanty are sometimes simply known otherwise as Brick-Throwin’ Irish. I imagine that every true born and bred Irishman residing in the Homeland of Eire believes that all Irish-Americans (save maybe the Kennedys) are Shanty by nature. On the other side, we Americans still picture every small rock-cottage with a thatched roof and a lone cow along a rarely-trotted lane in every farmstead in Ireland to have lace-curtains in the open windows, wafting in the morning breeze.

I’ve never been able to substantiate this story anywhere else, but my father once said that his family name “Brewer” didn’t come from beer-making, as everyone imagined, but was an Anglicization of being a “Boru-er,” or descendant of those class of warriors loyal to Brian Boru, the semi-legendary First King of Ireland. The combined family legend then was that, being descended from the Brewers (“Boru-ers”) on one side and the O’Briens (clan o’ Brian Boru) on my mother’s, we were thus descended from the Kings of Ireland on both sides of the family. But that’s where the twain of the familia ceased to meet.

Mom’s family, the O’Briens, were definitely Lace-Curtain Fruit-on-the-Table Irish, second-generation off the boat. Her Dad worked for the Beverage Commission in Detroit during Prohibition, and he was one of those rarities, a teetotaling Irishman. Since he worked for City Hall they lived in a large brick house (thus, Lace-Curtain) and often entertained notables travelling through the city, including the famous prizefighter James J. Braddock, the last Irish-American heavyweight champ. My Dad’s family, however, lived (literally) on the other side of the tracks in crowded wooden tenements (ergo, Shanty), and were noted both for their drinking and brawling skills. So, at one and the same time during the 1930s I had one grandfather working for the Beverage Commission enforcing the Volstead Act, while the other was driving trucks across the frozen expanse of Lake Erie and the narrow Detroit River at night, delivering Canadian “supplies.” My uncle on my Dad’s side once asked me, jokingly, “What’s the lowest thing you ever heard of?” and I answered with the old southern expression “Well, there’s nothin’ lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.” He said “Well, we were lower than that. We were considered lower than whale dung,” and he laughed and laughed with Irish audacity, a twinkle in his eyes.

Whereas the Lace-Curtain Irish are undoubtedly descended from royalty, and the Shanty, or Brick-Throwin’ Irish are remnants of the warrior class, there is a third rail in the Irish caste system, but very few attain its grandeur, and therefore, it’s really not a part of this particular discussion. I’m speaking of course, of the Stage Irish, the poets, balladeers, singers, and writers who were famous in their own right and inviolable to either of the other two. It’s said that even the king wasn’t allowed to ask his court poet to leave his presence, but that the lyricist would decide when to leave on his own, and when he felt like it. Any who raised a hand against a Poet, Balladeer, or Storyteller did so at his life’s peril, no matter how scurrilous or insulting the rhyme.

So, how will you know whether you’re Lace-Curtain or Shanty? Here’s a little primer:

The Chieftains (Lace-Curtain) vs. The Pogues (Shanty)

Oscar Wilde (too much Lace) vs. James Joyce (not quite Shanty)

“Tip” O’Neill (Lace-Shanty) vs. Ronald Reagan (Shanty-Lace)

“The Foggy Dew” (Lace-Curtain) vs. “Whiskey in the Jar” (Shanty)

Maureen O’Hara (Lace w/ Shanty) vs. Sinnead O’Connor (Shanty w/ Lace)

So, when you’re wondering why the Irish are so feisty (and we never got into any of the other business of religion, politics, sex, or money, per se), when considering the lines often drawn between Lace-Curtain and Shanty, one might keep in mind the old Irish proverb, “Why do the Irish always fight amongst themselves?” The answer, plainly enough, is “Because they can find no worthier opponent!” Lace -Curtain or Shanty, which are you?