Pacific Northwestern transplant Andrea Goto writes about how she’s come to love the Irish holiday thanks to Savannah.
Written by ANDREA GOTO
GROWING UP, MY FAVORITE HOLIDAY WAS VALENTINE’S DAY (oh, the possibilities for love!), and my least favorite was St. Patrick’s Day. Now, before you go shaking your shamrock or threatening to throw me off the Cliffs of Moher, hear me out.
I didn’t grow up in Savannah. I grew up nearly 3,000 miles directly northwest of the Hostess City where St. Patrick’s Day meant you dug some green socks out of your drawer to avoid being physically assaulted by the elementary school boys whose fingers had seemingly transformed into lobster claws overnight.
Of course, this was before Title IX, #MeToo or evidence-based parenting, so green socks be damned, their claws would inevitably find my tender flesh.
“Oh, sorry, I guess I didn’t see your green,” Matt Lopez (real name, please share) would say with a giggle as I pointed to my verdant knee-high socks with indignation.
When my husband and I moved to Savannah in 2000, we quickly learned that some things were just bigger in the South: college football, food portions, vowels … and, yes, St. Patrick’s Day.
We lived in the Historic District for the first four years — Ground Zero for Savannah’s yearly celebration — which meant we (OK, I) joined in the revelry with wild abandon. Finally, a St. Patrick’s Day worth remembering! (Though, for the aforementioned reason, I have no actual memory of those celebrations.)
We eventually relocated to the Gordonston neighborhood just a couple of miles from downtown, had our daughter and decided the crowded and sometimes rowdy revelries might be best enjoyed from a distance — over cable TV, in a house with A/C and actual toilets. Our daughter, a true Savannahian, disagreed. So, we’d don the green, the beads, the obligatory tacky shamrock headband and bike to the parade.
I remember those years with a bit more clarity. It was pre-COVID, so lipsticked girls (and some older ladies a little too far into their cups) ran out to kiss the cheeks of soldiers marching by. The valiant Clydesdales still clopped along, the Alee Shriners’ infamous belly dancer joyfully shook his thing (I’m proud to say he’s since become a friend of mine), and anyone with one platelet of Irish blood in their veins proudly walked the parade route.
Savannah’s St. Patrick’s Day celebration hasn’t changed much since then — but I have. We relocated to Wilmington Island, making downtown “just too far,” and our daughter attends the parade with friends while I’m left to track her phone and pray for the best. But I will always be thankful to Savannah for hosting the tens of thousands of people who descend upon our city, celebrating our rich Irish heritage, and, on a personal note, saving St. Patrick’s Day by turning it into pleasant memories, instead of thoughts of pinchy boys.
I might even bust out some green socks.
