My folks cut off my roots. I almost never knew that I’m just four generations removed From fighting with Pearce. Six from being born into genocide. “Ar scath a cheile a mhairean na daoine.” I was placed on dead men’s shoulders. Great men, terrifying men. But they’re not here, where are they? That’s a weird question, here. I don’t pray enough. Hardly ever touch a rosary. Most others don’t even consider the act. But that’s all there is for the last of us. If there are any. Unless we’ve all outlived The last American Irishman.