A tale of two awkwardnesses

Being Irish and American, a visit to an Embassy and why I shouldn’t be let in the same room as cool TikTok celebrities.

This has been a week of me wrestling with the awkwardness — and insubstantiality — of my national identity.

Identities.

See what I mean?

I am American. I am also Irish. But, being both, I’m neither of those things. It’s very awkward.

If I say to an Irish person that I’m Irish, they will without exception give me an indulgent eyeroll (yeh, course ye are, luv) and assume I’m one of the visiting Americans shopping for last name plaques in House of Names on Nassau Street.

Protesting that I grew up in Dublin only makes it worse. There are basically only about four schools in Dublin and I went to one of them. So, yes, I probably do know your cousin Jacko in Newpark and I probably kissed him one messy night at Wesley circa 2001. I know what a Brown Thomas is, I can walk to Teddy’s from my house and I remember when Spin 103.8 first came on the scene (pretentious upstart to FM 104.4, hallowed be thy name.)

But the thing is, nothing — no amount of rugby club discos, Supermacs, West Coast coolers, hou…