A long long time ago it was made very clear to me that I was “different”. My family were often not very nice to me. I was too tall, too skinny and too ugly to ever be considered for anything worth having in in their opinion. I ended up proving to everyone that they were wrong. I discovered lipstick, high heels and vodka for becoming more sexually attractive and then I discovered books for making me downright smart. So I might be ugly under all the make-up but I aint’ dumb. As far as the tall and skinny part; still tall but way less skinny thanks to the new fandangled invention called “a slowing metabolism.”

Everyone in my family has a family name. Except, little ‘ol me. I’m Chantel and its French for something I can’t do; which is sing. Everyone and, I mean everyone in my family is named after someone else all the way back to Ireland. My mother always told me it was because I was half French. Was this the affair she never admitted to? Did I truly belong to someone else and not this wild bunch of hillbilly’s I’ve been left behind with? Even funnier; I soaked it up. I believed it; I wanted to believe it. I needed to believe that because I was different my life would also be different than; theirs.

After many years went by I had convinced myself yes, I was indeed part French. Ignoring all the facts; I wanted to believe something so much that I threw all logic out of the window and continued to hope, hope, hope that I was truly, found under a rock. There is another factor in there. Like me, my mother liked the fellas; its always possible that we don’t belong to the guy who’s name adorns our birth certificate. I think the actual statistic is 70% of us aren’t really who we think we are. That doesn’t include those of us who have psychological identity disorders. If that were the case the percentage would be so much higher.

A few years later one of my cousins wives. I don’t remember which and if this one was the one in jail or the one not in jail but one of them decided to do some genealogy research. Turns out he was having an identity crisis but I was the one who was secure in the fact that “I AM FRENCH GOTDAMMIT.” Actually I wasn’t . My damn family name can be traced all the way to Ireland. My mother lied. However, her lie worked; I’m so damn different it hurts sometimes.

And in the end I finally find a way to embrace my inner Irish and I have the pictures to prove it. This is me with a mouthful of Guinness and a handful of something not quite Irish either. Now I’m done with the Irish thing until next year.