To me, a “monster” is a being whose innate characteristics cause instinctual
ly cause a repulsion, forcing the “monster” to become an outcast from society. The aspect of my identity that I believe often causes this repulsion is my splitdual national heritage. My younger brother and I are the only members of my mother's family to be born in the U united S states. , B because of this, I've always struggled with what to I should call myself. I am Irish. Or, more precisely, I'm half Irish. The definition of this group varies depending on whom and when you ask, from just those born on Irish soil to about everybody on St.Patrick's D day. With fifty percent Irish blood, I’m usually close enough to be considered “authentically Irish.” But this identity often clashes with my other half—passing through down not only my last name, but also a heritage of blood spilled in the name of the stars and stripes. While they it may not be as obvious as Frankenstein's monster’s deformities, these two competing identities make me perpetually feel like an outsider.
Growing up, I spent most of my summers
growing up in Limerick, Ireland. I feel at home there. I've gone out with my cousins at night. I've made friends. The shopkeepers know my name. But still, I’m always afraid to open my mouth. When the words flow out, the extended vowels and monotonous tones of my M midwestern accent force any existing conversation to a halt; , as all eyes turn to me. I'm then forced to run through what is now a my well-rehearsed speech, —explaining how my connection and heritage are genuine: a mother with citizenship, not an “ance serst ery.com” report. The smiles return, but the warmth is often gone. It's hard to overcome the stereotype of being a rich American trying to “connect with his their roots.”