Rob Morrison, Anchor
I moved to New York on St. Patrick’s Day nine years ago. It was a Wednesday. I remember because I’d been hired by WNBC to anchor Weekend Today in New York, so it was my good fortune to have that weekday off. I walked across the park to watch the parade alone and ended up having one of those quintessential NYC days that may never be repeated.
My life has changed dramatically since then. I’m married with a beautiful son, Jack. And I’m lucky enough to have become part of WNBC’s annual coverage of the parade. So yesterday, as we were wrapping up our coverage, the director asked if I had any final thoughts to share with the audience.
Having nothing prepared, my mind thought of family. My family. I thought of my great-grandfather, John Herlihy, who moved to New York from County Cork in 1899. He lived on West 51st Street, just blocks from my office, before moving to Boston. The parade was already 137 years old then, and I imagine he enjoyed the celebration while feeling a little homesick at the same time. Fast forward more than a century to his great-great grandson Jack who’s yet to experience his first parade. But he will, of course.
When he’s old enough to understand, I’ll tell him about John Herlihy, heck I may even tell him about my adventures nine years ago…maybe. The point is, those stories form a family’s unique tapestry no matter what race, color or creed. That’s what makes this city great.
Yesterday it was just the Irish’s turn.
You wouldn’t imagine at first glance of my name that I would be paying attention to blogs about St. Patrick’s Day, but consider that my great-grandmother was Nellie O’Reilly from County Clare and you will understand. My mother and I and my dad (German though he may be) have a great love for all things Irish. From Notre Dame football to sincere hope and prayer that the “troubles” in Ireland are truly and finally over. My grandfather, a devout Roman Catholic was the youngest of eight children. Nellie died when he was only 8 years old. But he inherited her black Irish looks – bright blue eyes and jet black hair. And he was so proud of that. Then when he married my grandmother, who was not a Roman Catholic, the church decided to step in. After the birth of my mother, the church demanded that my grandfather annul the marriage and name my mother a bastard child. It didn’t take long for my grandfather to give the bishop of Indianapolis a one-finger salute and left the office and the church. As I watched the St. Patrick’s Day parade from my laptop at my office, and I saw all the great bands and wonderful marchers passing the cathedral, I could only think that almost a century after my grandparents were married, I too am not allowed, as a proud gay man of Irish heritage, to be recognized to march in the parade. Someday. Until then, I will continue to be wearin’ the green every March 17, continue to research my family history and continue to give the Roman Catholic church my grandfather’s one finger salute.