My father's parents were Irish. Only a year before my father died, he and I went back to Ireland for a week to look at the old homestead.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
My dad is Irish. I spent my childhood going back and forth between Ireland and America.
My father was totally Irish, and so I went to Ireland once. I found it to be very much like New York, for it was a beautiful country, and both the women and men were good-looking.
My father was a creature of the archaic world, really. He would have been entirely at home in a Gaelic hill-fort. His side of the family, and the houses I associate with his side of the family, belonged to a traditional rural Ireland.
My parents are Irish, my grandparents are Irish, my great-grandparents are Irish. I was born in England; my blood is Irish.
I'm from an Irish Catholic family.
There might well have been an Irish great-great-grandfather of mine back then in the 1800s.
My parents were both first-generation Irish Catholics raised in Brooklyn.
My father was the orphaned son of immigrants to the United States from Ireland. My father never knew his parents. His mother died - we're not sure - either at or shortly after his birth, and he and all of his siblings were placed in orphanages in the Boston area.
My father left Ireland because he did not want to muck horse manure for the rest of his life, and he wanted to come to New York.
My mum's parents were from Ireland, my dad's mum was American-Irish.