🍀 St. Patrick’s Day: A Love Letter to My Irish Roots, One Green Sno Ball at a Time

St. Patrick’s Day is creeping up again, which means it’s time for me to lean all the way into my Irish heritage—the freckles, the pale skin, the whole McGee lineage on my dad’s side. If the name didn’t give it away, my melanin-deficient complexion certainly does. I haven’t made it to Ireland yet (bucket list item # 47, right between “learn to make croissants” and “stop apologizing for things that aren’t my fault”), but you better believe I’m working on it.

🍀 The McGee Legacy (and the Freckles That Prove It)

My dad’s mom was a McGee, and my great-grandmother was a McGee, which means I come from a long line of people who could sunburn under a fluorescent light. But what I really inherited was a deep, joyful love for St. Paddy’s Day—thanks entirely to my parents.

My dad had a tradition: every March, he’d bring home those Hostess Sno Balls. You know the ones—normally pink, but dyed a radioactive shade of green for the holiday. I never liked the taste (marshmallow-coated sponge cake is a texture journey I did not sign up for), but I loved the gesture. Years later, he even carried that tradition on for my daughter. That’s the thing about dads—they’ll buy you weird seasonal snack cakes just to make you smile.

🍀 The Shamrock Saga of My Youth

Now, let’s talk about the shamrock situation.

Back in my day—before Party City, before Amazon Prime, before every store had a “seasonal aisle” that looked like St. Patrick’s Day threw up glitter everywhere—we had to get creative. And by “we,” I mean my mom.

Every March, she’d pull out the green construction paper, cut out shamrocks, and write in her best mom-handwriting: “Kiss me, I’m a McGee.”

Then she’d safety-pin it to my shirt like a badge of honor and send me off to catch the bus, proud as could be.

What she didn’t know was that there was an actual McGee girl at my school. And every year, without fail, she’d march right up to me and say, “You’re not a McGee. What does that even mean?”

The other kids didn’t get it either. And being the rule-following, feelings-protecting child I was, it never even crossed my mind to take the shamrock off at school and re-pin it before I got home. And I would never have told my mom—because that shamrock was made with love, and I wasn’t about to break her heart over a little playground identity crisis.

Did it sting? Sure. Did it ruin St. Patrick’s Day for me? Absolutely not. If anything, it gave me fortitude—and a sense of humor, which every Irish-descended woman needs in her toolkit.

🍀 What I Carry Forward

So, here’s to my mom and dad, who taught me to be proud of my Irish roots long before I understood what heritage even meant. Here’s to Great-Grandma Marie McGee and Grandma Margaret Isabel McGee Render, whose names I carry like a soft, steady drumbeat. Here’s to green Sno Balls, construction paper shamrocks, and the kind of childhood traditions that become emotional heirlooms.

The Irish are known for many things—storytelling, stubbornness, and a wicked sense of humor. I like to think I inherited all three. So now, when life hands me a moment that could bum me out, I try to laugh it off… just like I did with that shamrock pinned proudly to my shirt.

🍀 From One East Tennessee Leprechaun to You

Get your green on, friends. Wear it loud. Wear it proud. And if anyone questions your Irish credentials, just smile and keep walking.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day from this little East Tennessee leprechaun. 🍀