My family has never been that in-tune with our heritage.  I suppose it’s because we’ve lived in Staten Island and Brooklyn, on both my mom and dad’s sides, for so long that we’ve become more attached to New York than to an abroad place of origin.

My dad can only accurately identity England as the original home of his great grandmother, and my mom knows that her great grandparents were from Cork, Ireland.  For generations my family has overwhelmingly identified as Irish whenever asked, “So where are you from?”  I knew that I didn’t have family to visit in Ireland or a town to name where my great great grandparents grew up, but it was comforting to have a place I could say part my me came from long, long ago.

Being Irish was also an identity developed in my neighborhood.  I’ve lived in the same house for my entire life in West Brighton, Staten Island, a predominantly Irish Catholic neighborhood in the northern shore of borough.  We’re home to multiple Irish themed bars and our very own Saint Patrick’s Day Parade, so popular within the Island’s community that even south shore-ers migrate to the north for a day.

While being Irish may not have meant visiting relatives across the Atlantic Ocean or having grandparents tell me and my brothers stories from their childhoods with thick brogues, my parents became involved in Irish culture on a much deeper level than the crazy March festivities our neighbors took up.  From 1999 to 2007, my family worked with Political Prisoners Children’s Holiday program in Belfast, an organization where for the summer, Northern Irish children who had a parent who was a political prisoner due to Irish-British conflict, were matched with host families in New York to avoid the trauma of seeing their parents during “Marching Season,” where their prisoner parents would be paraded through their neighborhoods.  This direct connection my family developed with Irish children was a bond so strong it was almost as if I had blood relations there.  My early exposure to the history of Ireland and its people inspired me embrace my Irish heritage, and I did so by taking up Irish Step Dancing when I was seven years old.

The item I chose is one that I’ve owned different versions of my entire life.  A claddagh ring is a very common piece of jewelry in any Irish family.  I still have a small one from my childhood, my current one, and my mom has one, which may be passed onto me one day.  The claddagh ring itself is full of intended symbolism through its images: the heart for love, the hands for friendship, and the crown for loyalty.  Even the place and orientation you wear the ring on either hand has a specific meaning about the wearer’s relationship.  The rings were originally meant as engagement and wedding rings, but have progressed to be shared in all relationships, even those outside of the typical domestic bond between two spouses.

I love my claddagh ring.  Wearing it makes me feel like I’m a part of some secret place, a distinct group yet made up of diverse wearers.  All over the world, I know there are others who share this one common band with me.