I have tried inquiring into my racial heritage. The only clues that I came upon are: 1. that my mom insisted Mr. M and I had a bagpipe player at our wedding and 2. my short temper. Joining those two clues together in a cultural context, I came to the conclusion that I must be Irish. (Oh, and my blue eyes and white skin ruled out any African descent.) This hasn't been confirmed nor denied by any family. However, friends have tried to throw doubt on my logical conclusion by pointing out that they have never noticed any temper tantrums from me. I knocked them out. We're not the Fighting Irish for nothin'!
DECEMBER 20
My dad used to ride motorcycles. He was in a group known as the Shamrocks, and their logo was, unsurprisingly, a green shamrock. He raced in the desert. In the early 60s, my dad was the AMA (American Motorcycle Association)champion. Now I not only have another clue pointing to Irish heritage, but also another clue as to why the desert is where my heart is.
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Didn't someone at church once ask you if you and a Mexican friend of yours were sisters?
Whatever you are, you aren't plastic but real
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