The point of remembering this shadow side of Irish Catholic American history is not to blame and shame but to learn and grow.
A dose of blackface minstrelsy reassured them of their white Americanness despite, or perhaps in addition to, their Irish Catholicity.
Ironically, I stumbled upon this unsettling tidbit of my family’s Irish Catholic American history while bracing to unearth another. I went looking for an advertisement my grandfather had likely placed for his new whites-only subdivision in suburban Philadelphia and found Mom in a minstrel show, instead. The two are not unrelated. Minstrel shows in Catholic parish halls allowed families like mine to stay tethered to a key part of our cultural identity as Irish American Catholics, especially in new suburban landscapes. My grandparents could defend their faith from Protestant anti-Catholicism by flipping America’s minstrelsy script, proving Americanness via their anti-Blackness. And they could defend their territory — parish, school and home — against Black Americans, whom many blamed for the downfall of beloved urban parishes.
Minstrelsy might not be part of church celebrations anymore, but white Irish American Catholics still get defensive about racism. We resort to familiar tropes like “my family didn’t own slaves” or “we were discriminated against, too,” or “all lives matter” to protect ourselves from the ugliness of the racism that has wrapped itself around many Irish Catholic family trees like a choke vine.
A dose of blackface minstrelsy reassured them of their white Americanness despite, or perhaps in addition to, their Irish Catholicity.
Ironically, I stumbled upon this unsettling tidbit of my family’s Irish Catholic American history while bracing to unearth another. I went looking for an advertisement my grandfather had likely placed for his new whites-only subdivision in suburban Philadelphia and found Mom in a minstrel show, instead. The two are not unrelated. Minstrel shows in Catholic parish halls allowed families like mine to stay tethered to a key part of our cultural identity as Irish American Catholics, especially in new suburban landscapes. My grandparents could defend their faith from Protestant anti-Catholicism by flipping America’s minstrelsy script, proving Americanness via their anti-Blackness. And they could defend their territory — parish, school and home — against Black Americans, whom many blamed for the downfall of beloved urban parishes.
Minstrelsy might not be part of church celebrations anymore, but white Irish American Catholics still get defensive about racism. We resort to familiar tropes like “my family didn’t own slaves” or “we were discriminated against, too,” or “all lives matter” to protect ourselves from the ugliness of the racism that has wrapped itself around many Irish Catholic family trees like a choke vine.
