My American neighbor, Megan, approached me this morning with a grave pronouncement. “You are Irish,” she declared, as if bestowing a new samurai name. "You're not wearing green," said my neighbor Megan, with concern. "You'll get pinched." "On whose authority?" "It's St. Patrick's Day. Everyone's Irish today." "I am from Japan." "Not today you're not. Here." And she handed me a green bead necklace. In my land, joining a clan requires marriage, adoption, or a lifetime of service. Documents are sealed. Ancestors are consulted. It is the work of years. Here, a woman handed me beads, and the adoption was complete. The fastest clan induction in recorded history. I checked our records. Nothing in eight centuries comes close. The town wore green. The bagels were green, which I did not consent to. A man in a giant green hat called me "brother" and meant it. In Chicago, I am told, they dye the entire river green — a nation painting its own waters for the ancestors of SOMEONE ELSE. That is the part I cannot get over. Most of these people are not Irish either. The Italian butcher: green. The Korean church: green. Megan herself is, by her own admission, "like, one-eighth, maybe." One-eighth, maybe. And today, one hundred percent. And so was I. A clan that opens its gates one day a year holds them stronger the other three hundred and sixty-four. I wore the beads until midnight. At 12:01 I became Japanese again, and the beads went on the shelf, beside the helmet of my great-grandfather, who I hope was not watching. He was probably watching. Sláinte, grandfather. I will explain everything when we meet.