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Why I’m a Dropkick Murphys fan
bostonglobe.com/magazine/2015/03/12/why-dropkick-murphys-fan/bR3od1khN7pIudbsMf702H/story.html
By Arvin TemkarMarch 19, 2015, 2:16 p.m. Email to a Friend Share on Facebook Share on Twitter Print this Article View Comments
They say everyone’s Irish on Saint Patrick’s Day. I like the sentiment, probably because, literally speaking, I’m not even a little Irish on Saint Patrick’s Day — or any other day. But for several years in Boston I certainly felt Irish, or at least kindred to something Irish-like, in a very particular, very Boston, very American way: I was (and am) a Dropkick Murphys fan.
Let me put that into perspective. I’m a skinny, mild-mannered half-Indian, half-Filipino guy who grew up on an Army base in Japan. The Dropkick Murphys are a rowdy Quincy Celtic punk band whose core audience seems to be burly, aggressive white punk rockers.
This wouldn’t usually matter — half the appeal of punk shows are the burly, aggressive white punk rockers — but as a brown guy it can be weird, initially, to cheer on a band that closes shows with the song “Skinhead on the MBTA” (a raucous take on the classic “Charlie on the MTA”).
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When I discovered the Murphys in high school, I was a bit worried about, well, racism. Particularly because of the whole skinhead thing. I know that not all skinheads are racist and that there’s an anti-racism movement within the subculture. But, just to be sure, I looked through the Murphys’ music videos for evidence of nonwhite people and searched online for things like “Dropkick Murphys and Nazis.” I eventually decided it was cool — they’re just a punk band full of white guys, like almost every other punk band I listened to. (These days if you do a similar Google search, you’ll find a video of singer and bassist Ken Casey punching out a guy doing a Nazi salute at a show. Which is both reassuring and not at all.)
When it came time to pick a college in the mid-2000s, I decided on Boston, not in small part because it’s where the Murphys are from. I made the most of those years: I saw the band every Saint Patrick’s Day, and sometimes more often. I took classes in Irish fiddle and tin whistle (regrettably for my roommates’ ears). I felt like more than just a Murphys fan, I felt like a part of the Irish family — at least, that’s what I wanted to be.
The Murphys spoke to something missing in me. They sang songs about family, legacy, honor. (And beer, though in my college years, that wasn’t missing.) One of my favorite songs was “Boys on the Docks,” about Casey’s union leader grandfather, who helped immigrants navigate a new land.
I’m not so far removed from an immigrant story myself: My dad’s from India, my mom from the Philippines, and they met in Missouri. But, unlike the band I was listening to, I had no sense of my own history.
My parents were the type of head-down immigrants who focused on the future, not the past. They didn’t tell stories about the old land — they’d come here to get away, after all. So I grew up adrift, both unsure of my heritage and wary of my parents’ expectations (they saw in me a future doctor, lawyer, engineer — yeah, right). While other kids made family trees reaching to the Mayflower, I could trace mine only one branch back. I knew next to nothing about my own grandparents.
But the Murphys knew exactly who they were, and when I listened to them, I knew exactly who I wanted to be. For a while I thought I wanted to be Irish. But I later realized I just wanted to be proud: of myself, of my parents, of my family. And pride is a big part of what Saint Patrick’s Day is all about.
After my mother died two years ago, I finally had a chance to learn about where I come from. She had remained reticent about the past, but I spent a few days in the Philippines in January interviewing relatives after visiting her grave. Someday I’ll get to know my family in India.
For now, at least I know this: Everyone’s Irish on Saint Patrick’s Day. Even me.
Arvin Temkar is a journalist in San Francisco. Send comments to connections@globe.com.
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