Overwhelmed by Irish culture after hearing Kinky Boots once
Though I’ve always considered myself an admirer of Irish culture, I am ashamed to admit I was quite ignorant of its complexities. My appreciation was limited to wearing green on St. Patrick's Day, making offhand comments about leprechauns whenever I saw a rainbow, and eating the occasional potato.
I am ignorant no longer. After being kicked out of Hunt Library when it closed last Friday, I was walking back to my apartment in Oakland when I heard Kinky Boots playing from one of the pubs. It was like a reckoning. Immediately, I was overwhelmed by Irish culture. No longer did I only have a watered down version of Irish culture of leprechauns and four leaf clovers, I was granted an inside look into what Irish culture actually is. I laid in the street, unable to get up, dreaming about spending afternoons in a pub in Dublin, Guinness in hand, watching ships come to port through the fog.
Eventually, I was woken from my stupor when the song ended. I raced back to my apartment to play Kinky Boots in private. I threw out my microwave mashed potatoes, dyed my head red, bought a khaki suit, a flak jacket and a pair of kinky boots.
Now, all I want is to own a farm in rural Ireland. Instead of waking up at 8 AM for 15-213, I want to wake up at dawn to herd my sheep to green pastures with my border collie. Instead of walking through the tunnel system from Gates to Wean, I want to take my Saracen to town through cobbled roads.
I’ve become a changed man. I’ve started eating from Schatz just to try their mashed potatoes and cornbread. I sit in the back of lecture halls, headphones plugged in, listening to Kinky Boots. All I want is to be a part of the jolly Irish culture so beautifully depicted in that song.
Wait. What do you mean it’s about the British?