March 17th 2020.

I can remember my last St Patrick's Day in Boston, five years ago.

At that time, I was working for an online English company, teaching Koreans, most of whom were employees of Samsung. After my morning shift, which lasted from 6 am to 11 am, I met my friend Olu. He was my first friend I made when I entered university in 2010. We lived in the same dormitory and shared a common living space for one year. Since that time, we basically spent the rest of my college days, except the one year I came to Tokyo, together, sharing an apartment twice. In 2015, we had been living apart for a couple of months, but still made it a point to meet every once and a while. I have a very clear memory of him coming to my new place for an expats thanksgiving party. That was a very good time.

On this St Patrick's Day, he came to visit me at Central Station. Even though it was lunch time, we went to an Irish bar and ate some breakfast and had a beer. On the table were green shamrock shaped plastic beads strung together on a string.

I still have these beads. Actually, every St Patrick's day, I take them out. For some reason, they serve as a reminder of my roots.

What are my roots? Sitting at that bar, eating an Irish breakfast, and sipping on a Guinness, with one of the people who has helped me transverse, and more importantly, survive my twenties, I was excited. I was about to embark on my next adventure. On March 23rd, I would arrive in Tokyo, ready to start my new life. 

A few generations ago, my family came from Ireland. My name is a testament to the pride my parents have for their heritage. While my feelings towards American culture is complicated, I am happy I was able to surround myself with a great group of friends with various backgrounds during my last few years there. I imagine this sort of internationalism is the kind of melting pot some idealists hope the US would be. Well, I guess I am proud of this for myself. It has given me a much more widened perspective. 

I have never been to Ireland, but it is my goal. So little is known about my family and where they actually came from. I really would like to figure it out. Why did they leave? Why was I born in America? And how would they feel to know that I have now moved to Japan?

Going back far enough, I can claim that my family roots originate in Ireland. But my personal roots, what shaped me to be who I am, partially reside in that bar in Boston, one early afternoon, eating the last Irish breakfast I've had in five years, with one of my closest friends. This is, however, in no way to say that I consider the US to be my roots. Instead, it was a mere stepping stone in my life journey. The mystery that surrounds my family in Ireland maintains a special place in my heart. But until I discover more about my family's past, every March 17th, my precious memories of my youth and the conditions that shaped who I have become are what I recall and reflect upon.