“Rusty was earthy and vulgar at times, but he was very real.”
-From Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep.

Somewhere around ten years old I got a sense what a stereotypical Irishman was, and I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I bet you conjure the same guy I did:  a good story teller with a quick wit; a little garrulous, maybe, but never annoying; someone you want on your side when a fight breaks out; a pious man, but not one to take himself too seriously; a drinker, fun to be around, always quick to break into song or to tell one of those great stories. 

Each one of those stereotypes has its negative side, and in the time of Irish Need Not Apply formed a basis of discrimination:  an Irishman is a tiresome blowhard, a deadly brawler, and a superstitious Papist who’ll drink anything he can get his hands on.  And yet even with the prejudices we Irish face, we got luck on our side.  If someone who's never met me wants to assume I’ll bring a tad much to a party—hey, go right ahead.

There was a guy in my neighborhood who jogged each December in a Santa Claus outfit.  I'll call him E.  E. ran a landscaping business and mowed each lawn alongside his staff, which included several of his sons and (my parents tell me) unemployed men from the neighborhood eager or desperate for a paycheck.  But that was not his main gig.  He taught high school English in a poor neighborhood on the South Side.