Every March 17th, America turns emerald green. Cities dye their rivers, businesses churn out shamrock-themed promotions, and bars overflow with revelers toasting with pints of Guinness. St. Patrick’s Day—once a solemn religious observance—has become an unabashedly festive, even rowdy, celebration of Irish heritage. But as I watch my fellow Americans clad in Kelly green, pinching those who neglect to participate, I cannot help but wonder: How does a nation that is systematically legislating against diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) so wholeheartedly embrace this cultural holiday?

The contradiction is as striking as it is telling. Today, as America sips green beer and shouts “Sláinte!,” state legislatures across the country are dismantling DEI programs in universities, rolling back protections for marginalized communities, and resisting policies that foster cultural understanding. If diversity is to be celebrated, it must come with a pint glass and a lucky four-leaf clover.

The Irish in America: A History of Exclusion and Inclusion
To understand the paradox of America’s embrace of St. Patrick’s Day, one must first acknowledge that Irish immigrants were not always welcomed with open arms. The narrative of the Irish in America is not one of unbroken luck but of struggle, resilience, and eventual assimilation.

In the mid-19th century, Irish immigrants—many fleeing famine and poverty—arrived in America in droves, only to be met with hostility. Signs that read “No Irish Need Apply” dotted shop windows, and political cartoons caricatured the Irish as lazy, drunken, and violent. The Irish were viewed as a racial underclass, distinct from the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant elite that dominated American society.

Yet, over time, the Irish navigated the complexities of the American melting pot, assimilating into the broader cultural and social fabric in ways that granted them full acceptance within the mainstream. Through political organization, religious alignment with Catholic institutions, and military service, they transitioned from being seen as outsiders to becoming an integral part of the American identity.

The Myth of Irish Luck and the Realities of Selective Inclusion
While seemingly complete, America’s embrace of the Irish is a lesson in selective inclusion. It is easy to celebrate a culture when it is no longer seen as a threat—when it has been sufficiently diluted, commercialized, and palatable for the dominant culture. St. Patrick’s Day, in this regard, is a perfect example of how America prefers its diversity: festive, marketable, and non-threatening.

The same country that paints its streets green every March is actively dismantling DEI programs that seek to create pathways for historically marginalized groups. Florida, Texas, and other states have passed legislation to defund DEI initiatives in higher education, arguing that they promote “division.” Yet these same states enthusiastically embrace cultural celebrations—so long as they are conveniently depoliticized and stripped of any substantive discussion of history, oppression, or ongoing disparities.

Perhaps St. Patrick’s Day has survived because it is seen as harmless. There is no broader demand for Irish reparations, no systemic effort to uplift disenfranchised Irish communities, and no national reckoning with anti-Irish discrimination. It is a holiday that allows for cultural expression without requiring cultural accountability. It is a celebration without a movement.

What America Gets Wrong About Culture
If America were indeed a nation that embraced diversity, it would not require a pint of Guinness to engage with a culture. The Irish, like every ethnic group, bring more to the table than beer and bagpipes. Their history includes literature, labor organizing, religious resilience, and political activism. Yet, on St. Patrick’s Day, the richness of Irish culture is distilled into a commercialized spectacle that reflects a broader American tendency to embrace the surface while rejecting the substance.

This is the same country where Cinco de Mayo is an excuse for tequila-fueled parties but where Latino communities face voter suppression and xenophobic policies. It is the same country where Lunar New Year is celebrated with dragon parades but where Asian Americans are scapegoated for pandemics and attacked in the streets. It is the same country that embraced “Black Panther” at the box office but refuses to teach Black history in schools.

This pattern reveals America’s discomfort with authentic multiculturalism. We love culture when it is fun, performative, and safe. But we reject it when it challenges us, forces us to confront injustice, or demands systemic change.

A Call for Authentic Inclusion
If America truly wants to celebrate diversity, it cannot do so selectively. It cannot embrace the Irish on March 17th while dismantling DEI programs on March 18th. It cannot paint itself green while simultaneously whitewashing history. True diversity means acknowledging the full scope of a people’s experience—the struggles alongside the successes, the oppression alongside the celebration.

St. Patrick’s Day should not be an exception to our national discomfort with race, ethnicity, and culture. Instead, it should be a model for what is possible: a moment when America comes together to honor a heritage. However, it must be done with depth, respect, and the same commitment to equity that DEI programs strive to achieve.

So, as you raise your glass today, ask yourself: What would it mean if we celebrated all cultures—not just when it is convenient or profitable, but because we believe that every culture, history, and identity deserves to be seen, honored, and included?

That, perhaps, would be real luck.

A sickle hangs above my head.

It sways—not with the rhythm of my own making but with the turbulent winds of our social climate. A sickle sharpened by shifting political tides, institutional cowardice, and the increasingly emboldened backlash against diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI). I wake up knowing that with every news headline, every legislative proposal, and every reactionary boardroom decision, the rope frays just a little more. The question is no longer if it will fall but when—and how much it will cut before it does.
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I have watched colleagues fall. Some were severed from their jobs in a swift, corporate culling of DEI departments; others were left dangling, their positions eliminated under the guise of restructuring. The rest? Many have jumped—abandoning the profession altogether, seeking safety in fields where their convictions will not cost them their livelihood. DEI has become the low-hanging fruit of an administration eager to appease disillusioned majorities, and we, the professionals who champion the work, have become easy targets.

Yet, here I stand. A survivor. But surviving is not the same as thriving. There is guilt in watching others fall while I remain. I am guilty of knowing that my paycheck still comes while others have been stripped away. Guilt in witnessing the institutional abandonment of a movement that was deemed indispensable only a short time ago. Guilt, too, in feeling afraid.

And I am afraid.

I feel the sickle above me when I read newspapers that detail yet another organization dismantling its DEI program, capitulating to political pressure or financial expediency. I feel it when I log onto social media and see vitriolic rhetoric framing DEI as a societal ill rather than a moral imperative. I feel it when I hear the news and recognize the growing coalition of lawmakers seeking to legislate us out of existence. Fear is a heavy burden, but an even heavier companion is doubt. I wonder, more often than I care to admit if I have chosen the wrong profession at the worst possible time.

But then I remember: I did not choose DEI as a career. I decided it was a calling.

There is a reason I am here at this precise moment in history. DEI was never meant to be a comfortable field, or one shielded from attack. It is, by its very nature, disruptive work, work that challenges the very foundations of exclusion, inequity, and systemic injustice. History has taught us that when power is challenged, it does not simply yield—it retaliates.

The sickle above me is not new. The same sickle hung above abolitionists in the 19th century, civil rights leaders in the 1960s, activists, educators, and truth-tellers in every era where progress met resistance. It is wielded by those who fear change, mistake equity for oppression, and would rather preserve the status quo than confront its failures.

I cannot control the sickle. I cannot dull its blade nor slow its descent. But I can control what I do while I stand beneath it.

I can speak, even when silence feels safer. I can persist, even when retreat seems rational. I can mentor, organize, educate, and build, even when the structures around me crumble.

And I can prepare.

The reality is that the era of unchecked corporate DEI expansion is over. The floodgates of 2020 have closed, and what remains is the reckoning—who is here for the long fight, and who was merely passing through when the climate was more forgiving? What remains, too, is the imperative to adapt. If history has taught us that power retaliates, it has also taught us that movements evolve. Even when institutions abandon DEI, people do not. Equity and inclusion do not live in departments, job titles, or budgets—they live in the work, communities, and collective action.

So, I remain. Not because I am fearless but because I refuse to be paralyzed by fear. Not because I believe the path ahead is certain, but because I know my journey has meaning. Not because I do not see the sickle above my head but because I refuse to let it silence me before it falls.

And if it falls—when it falls—I will not regret standing where I stood.

For I was made for this time. Right here. Right now.