By Sinead Hultman
When I was in elementary school, I silently hated my parents for giving me such a hard-to-pronounce and foreign name. Every adult I met butchered it and all my peers called me Sha-nay-nay. For years I yearned to change my name to something boring and common like Chelsea. I dreaded the days when we had substitute teachers because I always knew I would have to correct them and it was just such an ordeal. I just wanted to blend in.
Now my name is a strong connection to my heritage. I know people say that everyone in America can claim at least some sort of Irish ancestry, but I feel as though I am a little more Irish than average. After all, my friends are so concerned for my pale complexion they insist I wear sunscreen indoors and at night.
I always knew my paternal great-grandparents immigrated to America in the early 1900s. However it was my grandfather’s ever-so-interesting hobby of genealogy that allowed my family to discover how far our family tree’s roots extend into the Emerald Isle.
I may be equal parts Irish and German, but I have always identified more with my Irish side. So when I discovered I could study in Dublin for a semester, I was ecstatic. Sure, there were programs that were going to places that might be considered more glamorous but this was my chance to learn about my family’s history.
I have been in Dublin for less than a week but I already know coming here was one of the best decisions I have ever made. And when strangers on the street hug me for having such an Irish name, I feel like I have found my long lost home.
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