I’m a mutt. My ancestry consists of a potpourri of peoples. Best I can tell, I’m part German, part Scottish, part English and a few parts unknown. As far as my heritage is concerned, I’m primarily white trash.

Like most of America, I am gearing up to celebrate the Irish heritage that I don’t possess. While I am partial to the holidays that center around drinking – and I’ve been known to throw down a few green beers in honor of St. Patrick’s Day – I always feel a little jealous this time of year.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never minded being a mutt. It’s just that my people don’t get a holiday in our honor during which every bar has a special. There are no parades, or mayors dying rivers. Unlike Italian Americans or African Americans, I don’t have any cultural identity, nothing that makes me feel a part of a larger, special group.

As a white trash American, my people are known primarily for our penchant for living in trailer parks and fighting on Jerry Springer. The closest we get to cultural celebrations are NASCAR races.

In the great American melting pot, I think there are a lot of people out there like me. We’re like a human goolosh, with no background or nation of origin providing the bulk of our cultural identity. So we identify with the environment in which we grew up and we latch on to those bits of others’ culture with which we can identify.

I think that explains why St. Patrick’s Day has become a celebration of the masses whereas other cultural celebrations have not. All that you have to do to enjoy St. Patrick’s Day is drink and wear green. I like to drink, and I look good in green. So it is a celebration of heritage that I can embrace.

So many others are closely tied to religious practices. This requires a heavy investment on the part of the celebrant. I mean, have you ever attended a Passover Seder? With all the reading and ritual, it’s a very participatory … and long … evening. As a Gentile, I don’t exactly feel like I fit right in each year as my wife’s family celebrates Passover. Besides, Maneshevitz is not my drink of choice.

But put a green beer in my hand, and surround me with dozens of green-clad bar flies, and I feel right at home, despite the fact I don’t have a lick o’ Irish blood in me.