Have you read James Webb's Born Fighting – How the Scots-Irish Shaped America?
How about Albion's Seed – Four British Folkways in America by David Hackett Fischer?
I just finished Born Fighting and slogged my way through Albion's Seed a few years ago. Very different in style and written for different audiences, they tell a similar tale. And that tale helped me understand myself a little better. If you're an American of Scottish, Irish, or Scots-Irish descent, you may well want to read these two labors of love for the same reason.
Though Albion's Seed is a bit on the scholarly side (much of its 902 pages are more footnotes, charts, and graphs than body copy), it was well worth wading through. Born Fighting, on the other hand, with 343 pages and nary a footnote, was a much easier, more anecdotal read. Webb's and Fischer's different approaches to Americans' Celtic heritage helped me understand a lot about why my core values are what they are. Oddly enough, it also explained my raging faux-pas – actually two of them! – during our first trip to Scotland nine years ago.
We were exchanging homes with a nice couple in a little village just south of Edinburgh. It was a lovely second-floor flat in an early 1700s stone great house that had been gutted to its stone walls and entirely rebuilt into two mod-con flats. The first-floor owners were an 80-ish mother and her 40-50-ish daughter. Mum was an Englishwoman; I don't recall if daughter had been raised in Scotland or not. They were very hospitable, inviting us down for tea and conversation a couple of times, in a valiant effort to get to know some Yanks up close and personal.
Here's where it gets messy.
During one of these pleasant August-evening conversations, Mum volunteered information about us (meaning US citizens in the aggregate) that was so out in left field, I simply could not let it fly past. Now, if 'd let it go, the rest of the evening might not have been quite so awkward. But noooo, I had to snag that sucker and fling it back.
What did she say that was so offensive? How's this for starters? "You know, you Americans really wish you had a queen."
"A what?? Really? And what makes you think that?"
"Look at how you read all those celebrity magazines that treat Hollywood stars like royalty and how your newspapers cover our royal family so closely. You're just as enthralled with royalty as we are." (You'll remember Princess Di had been killed two years earlier, and she and Dodi were still in the news waaaay too often.)
Yes. Well. I couldn't argue with the whole media thing. That was all true. But to deduce from that that US Americans were pining away for a 1999 version of King George III . . . ? What errant flight of fancy took her to that conclusion? Possibly her very deep English roots?
"Umm, Mrs. _____, I think you may be a little off base there."
"Oh, no. I've read your magazines and watched your movies. We even watch your news reports. You really do wish you had a queen and king, just like ours." This, from a woman who'd never set foot on the Lower 48, much less Hawaii or Alaska!
"Okay, Mrs. ______, I'm going to try to make this as plain as possible. When we learn someone is wealthy, we're impressed. Unless, of course, we learn that he/she didn't make the money; they just inherited it. They don't do anything. They don't work. They didn't create a nifty little widget and get filthy rich from it. They don't contribute to society. They just live off others' work and contributions – like Dad's successful widget business. Then we're not so impressed. Actually, we're not impressed at all. In fact, we're just plain disgusted with them and their trust-fund money. We're not into old money, old aristocracy, or old lineage as a power tool. We Americans may have very long wish lists, but "king and queen" isn't on any of them. Trust me."
I was just winding up for my a killer pitch when I noticed my husband's level-hand, across-the-neck motion. The horrified look on his face told me I'd probably breached some kind of polite-conversation rule. I didn't throw the pitch after all. That didn't stop Mum from taking another swing. I politely ignored it, and we moved on to the weather. Now there's a safe one, especially in a country where it swings radically from light gray to dark gray.
What made me break all the rules of polite conversation? I'm normally fairly well behaved. Answer: the same thing that made me do something equally aberrant two days later.
We were visiting nearby Rosslyn chapel, well before Da Vinci Code hit the bookstores, back when it was still a quiet, out-of-the-way tourist spot. We decided we hadn't seen enough when they locked us out at 5:00 on the dot. Furthermore, there was supposed to be a path through the woods to Rosslyn Castle, which we couldn't seem to locate. We wanted more.
The next day was Sunday, so we shamelessly decided to take the cheap route: attend an Episcopalian worship service in the chapel that morning. After services, we'd already be "inside" as the tour guides opened the site at noon to the lesser, godless mortals who would have to pay what we'd paid the day before.
We bought a booklet about the chapel in the gift shop, which I read that Saturday night. After services Sunday morning, who do I spy but the author of the booklet, the current Earl of Rosslyn? Though I know he lives and works in England and only occasionally holidays in the restored portion of Rosslyn Castle, I'm still pleasantly surprised to see him there. What luck!
Or not.
I saunter over to ask some questions. After all, we're practically kin, seeing as how the first of my ancestors to enter The Colonies (before they were officially The Colonies) was a Sinclair, and Sir William St. Clair – the current Earl's descendant – started building Rosslyn Chapel in 1446. The fact that my Sinclair ancestor sailed on the ship Ye Loyalty in 1698 as an indentured servant is a small matter. His will shows he died a rather well-to-do man, for his time, and his son did even better. (Reread my reply to Mrs. _____ for an explanation as to why this information makes the indentured-servant thing seem a "small matter" in my little Yank mind.)
By the time I arrive at the Earl's pew, he's chatting with someone else, so I introduce myself to his wife. Now, let's just back up a bit. The first page of the little booklet I'd read the night before shows a charming, smiling, young earl and his equally charming and smiling young wife, complete with charming and smiling children gathered 'round. I explain who I am and why I'm there, and get ready for an interesting conversation.
Or not.
Nope. Definitely not. Instead, it's ice. Crisp, rock-hard, chip-it-off ice.
Right here I need to point out that as conversationalists go, I'm right up there with the best of them. But no matter what I say, there's to be no conversation with Mrs. Earl of Rosslyn. Apparently, one does not introduce oneself to descendants of the landed aristocracy – even today – even if they're practically kin (well, maybe not strictly kin) – even in a Christ-centered building where the sinners' playing field is supposedly level. Apparently, one cowers on the outskirts (near the memorials honoring ancient St. Clairs) and hopes the aristocracy will greet one, and then – and only then – one might ask one's questions.
This one was so American and so naive, she was totally unprepared for this holdover of English snobbishness. This one was very disappointed. Not only did she never get a chance to ask her questions of the Earl, she also had the first-time pleasure of being icily dismissed. Dismissed. Yes, dismissed, as in all those corny old movies you've seen depicting the English jet-set – before there were jets – at their snootiest.
I was livid. I was seething. I was ranting – quietly, but ranting nevertheless – all the way out the picturesque West Door, as my husband hurried me along.
Why? Why had that little episode prompted the same over-the-top, heated response as Mum's certain knowledge that all we Americans ever really wanted for Christmas was a king and queen? I’ve pondered these two incidents many times since that unpleasant event, and I could never give myself a reasonable answer. For a while, I blamed myself for being unfamiliar with royalty protocol, though I certainly never thought I was approaching royalty or breaking the rules. Not till I read Webb’s and Fischer’s books (and several other British and Scottish history books) did I understand what sent me into such a heated fury.
James Webb in his Born Fighting says it better than I ever could, so let me quote him.
“These conflicts [from Roman times down to current times], from which they [the Scots-Irish] have never in two thousand years of history retreated, have followed a consistent cycle of, among other things, a values-based combativeness, an insistent egalitarianism, and a refusal to be dominated from above, no matter the cost.” – p. 20 (italics mine)
“The Scottish people did not care much for the larger world, and they especially did not care much for elites.” – p. 42 (italics mine)
“Who are we [the descendants of the Scots-Irish]? We are the molten core at the very center of the unbridled, raw, rebellious spirit of America. We helped build this nation, from the bottom up. We face the world on our feet and not on our knees. We were born fighting. And if the cause is right, we will never retreat.” – p. 343 (italics mine)
And that, dear reader, is why I’m quite certain neither I nor any of my Scots-Irish-descended, fellow Americans have “king and queen” on our collective wish list. It's why I’m equally certain we will never stand for impolite dismissal from someone who considers herself superior by right of landed-aristocracy lineage – or marriage into same – or anything else, for that matter.
