St. David's Day

It turns out I am in an abusive relationship – with Texas. Our new home has showered us with friendship, generosity and hospitality and in return we are flaunting our sense of belonging… to Wales: red rugby shirts are being pressed into service for the national day. It’s a little like moving in with a new girlfriend and then throwing a party for your ex-wife’s birthday. Possibly. And as we are actually English, wilfully commemorating another nation’s holiday might seem like the height of churlishness. But to top it all, we wouldn’t dream of doing anything for St David’s Day if we were in Britain, let alone Wales itself. What’s going on?

Britishness is complicated, but more so for the English than for the other nations. The received wisdom would appear to be that, having had a thousand years or more in which to define themselves as being Not English, the Welsh, Scots and Irish contrived individual cultural identities in the 19th century, a period that saw the invention of, amongst other things, the kilt, and druids. The truth is that it is the English – or rather the Anglo Saxons – which defined themselves as being Not Celtic. The Welsh word ‘Cymry’, which those Celts took to describe themselves in post-Roman Britain, has some link to ‘community’ and means ‘fellow countrymen’. They called us ‘Saesneg’: the Saxons. The English word ‘Welsh’ comes from the Saxon description of the same people: ‘walha’, meaning ‘foreigners’ or ‘aliens’. The Welsh called themselves ‘Us’. We called them ‘Them’.

A 1,000 year old grudge match.

For some, these lines of demarcation are set in stone. But for us, personally, things have become a little blurred. Growing up in the ‘80s I had no real idea that I was English. As far as I knew, I was British; we were all British and any internal distinctions were negligible. When the rubgy came on, matches against the other Home Nations were just appetisers for the game that really mattered: playing France. It was only when I found myself suddenly living in Wales that I discovered that I was English – because the Welsh told me I was in no uncertain times. Rugby in Wales is a religion – no other sporting team in the world (apart from, possibly, the cricket teams of India and Pakistan) is so fervently and passionately supported. And the game that really matters to them is the match against England. Being English in Wales in February and March is to run the gauntlet, to live inside a crucible of ardent Welshness. Everyone is set against you – your colleagues, neighbours, random little old ladies: they are Cymry and you are not. Even Nature is on their side as the parks and verges explode with daffodils and the fields fill with leeks and lambs.

God help you if they actually win that game of rugby.

It’s fair to say that the thirteen years I spent in Wales reinforced my sense of English identity. But somewhere in the middle of all this our boys were born. You can argue that there’s not a drop of Welsh blood in either of them, but you can’t deny they have a claim on Welshness. They were obviously born in Wales. William (you can tell we thought he was English at the time) was born in Cardiff, but Christopher was born up Caerphilly Mountain which meant we had to drive to Ystrad Mynach to register him. If that doesn’t make you Welsh I don’t know what does. And of course they arrived at the end of February and the beginning of March respectively, just either side of St David’s Day. Critically – and this is the acid test – they qualify to play for Wales.

Undeniably, they have claim on a Welsh heritage even if we, their parents, do not. Whilst we lived there, it was easy enough for the schools to nurture this on our behalf. But now we are in America, there’s a definite sense that it is our job to ensure that they have access to this Welshness if they so wish. Some of my attempts at this have been laughable – does making them watch Ivor the Engine count? – but William got packed off to school in his jersey this morning, just like all the boys (and some of the girls) in Cardiff. It feels odd that it matters and I worry, in case I am actually doing this for my benefit and not his.

Weirdly, because this is also the time of year for Rodeo, Friday was ‘Dress Western’ day at school, which means that all the boys and girls wore they ‘duds’, i.e. dressed as cowboys. In a sense, this is just the Texan version of St David’s Day, and Rodeo is just the equivalent of rugby. Instead of daffodils, we have blue bonnets, or will in a few weeks. But there’s something missing here. Why does the Reliant Stadium full of Texans not feel more like the Millennium Stadium full of Welsh people? The difference, I think, is that to be English here is nothing more than a passing novelty in a nation of people that nearly all started off as something else. And our role in the creation of America is largely meaningless 200 years later on. Whereas in Wales, to be English is to be the thing that they are not, the very opposite of Cymry and our role in shaping and defining Them from the outside is still at the centre of our relationship with each other, after over a thousand years. Strangely, perhaps, I think this makes Wales an easier place to love but, then, we are back to abusive relationships aren't we?

Happy St David's Day to all our Welsh friends and, er, family. You'll be simultaneously appalled and delighted to know that I was cheering you all on against Scotland and France but not, of course, against England - better luck next year!