March 2003, Trenton
A man knocks the helium-filled balloon from my hand.
He stands in front of his stroller-bound daughter, and leans over so his face is at the same level as mine. The grey stubble on his chin glistens in the sun, somehow making him more threatening.
“Is he a Republican?” the man demands, pointing at a name on the balloon.
It’s March 2003. I’m a senior in high school, and volunteering for a political campaign as part of a government class. The campaign has me and some friends attend the Trenton St. Patrick’s Day parade, and hand out balloons screened with the candidates’ names. We are given green T-shirts to wear that read, in large, sans-serif letters, “Senator Peter Inverso. Bill Baroni for Assembly.”
The man in front of me has never heard of Bill Baroni.
“Yes, Bill is a Republican,” I say.
The man pats me on the back and smiles. He grabs several balloons, and ties them to the handlebar of the stroller.
“Do you mind?” he asks.
I don’t. I just want an A in my class.
* * *
The parade ends, and our group gathers at a friend’s car parked on Newkirk Avenue. I notice, of our group of 10, two friends and I are the only ones still wearing the green Baroni T-shirt.
“Why do you guys still have your shirts?” asks one of our friends, who somehow has achieved a higher status than the rest of us within the campaign.
No one asked for them back, we tell him, which is true.
“Go give them back!” he says.
We say we will. He leaves. We don’t know who wants the shirts back, so we stuff them under a seat in my friend’s SUV instead.
March 2011, Hamilton
I haven’t been to a St. Patrick’s Day parade in a long time, so I decide to go this year.
It’s 2011, and the Trenton parade has moved to Hamilton. And there’s a new parade in Trenton. Or maybe the parade in Hamilton is new? There’s controversy. It’s confusing.
I think about picking sides before settling on the Hamilton parade. It’s closer.
* * *
This parade seems less to do with Ireland and more about mummers and fire trucks. I wonder about the difficulty of distilling an entire heritage into an event that lasts just a few hours and consists solely of people and vehicles following a straight line.
I consider leaving early. I’m approached by a giant pint of Guinness with arms and legs. It waves to me.
The Pint of Guinness mascot sells me on St. Patrick’s Day parades. I decide to return in 2012.
March 2012, Hamilton
I return in 2012, and find a spot on the sidewalk near some people who seem to have spent the hours prior to the parade, um, preparing.
Dignitaries approach. Mayor John Bencivengo, the parade’s grand marshal, wears a suit and vest and carries a cane. He waves at the people with cameras.
Next comes township council. One of the “prepared” men darts into the street, straight at a member of council. He gives the politician a handshake.
The man returns to his place, and does a jig as a pipe and drum band passes. The contents of his red plastic cup slosh in rhythm with his steps. Later, he notices a mummer band up Nottingham Way. He runs to them, and dances down the parade route.
“There goes the mayor,” someone says, not talking about Bencivengo or any politician.
March 2013, Hamilton
I’m stuck in traffic.
I guess that’s fitting retribution for forgetting about the 2013 Hamilton St. Patrick’s Day parade.
My car hasn’t moved for awhile. Route 33’s at a standstill. I decide to roll down my windows, listen to the pipe bands and relax. The weather’s really nice, at least.
It’s the best idea I have today. It takes me an hour to drive 10 miles.
Good thing there are a lot of pipe bands in this area.
March 2013, Trenton
I decide to give Trenton another try. It’s been 10 years.
Snow falls in a hurry, coating Hamilton Avenue in a matter of minutes. I am one of maybe 50 people who have turned out for the parade. It feels like the event is just for us.
The parade ends with a Guatemalan marching band. I believe the group’s official name is the Guatemalan Marching Band.
Intermixed with the musicians in typical marching band garb are young women wearing ballgowns, tiaras and strappy, shiny high heels. They are part of the band apparently.
Some of the young women don’t have anything on over their gowns, just sashes that say which award they’ve won.
The drummers and the guys with brass instruments have heavy coats. The uniforms must be miserable on a warm day. Not today. Today, even beauty queens should wear a coat.
I’m wearing a coat and a green winter hat with a giant white shamrock and the word “Irish” on it.
The beauty queens stare at me as they pass. One turns to another. She gestures toward the handful of parade spectators along the route.
“These people are crazy,” she says.
I consider her critique for a moment before deciding she’s wrong.
“We’re not crazy,” I think. “We’re Irish.”
