The Bee gasped, “What happened to your beautiful tail?” Tuna sighed, “Bubbles and I had a fight. I lost.”
Tuna continued, “I wonder why we fight so much. I just want to be her special friend.”
The Bee consoled, “Well, my dear, Bettas gonna fight. Bettas gonna bite. It’s just what y’all do.” Tuna bristled at her words, “Well, my dearest Bee, they say there’s plenty of fish in the sea!”
The Bee took another lap around the fishbowl. And simply said: “Oh my.” And quietly sipped her tea.
Most of my Bee comics are inspired by gardening adventures. Every so often, I find inspiration indoors. Recently, it was in setting up an aquarium in the art corner and my questionable decision to put two Betta fish together: Bubbles, a pretty iridescent blue female, and Tuna the Fish, a male with showy fins: long, flowing fins.
My thinking was that a female and male Betta would get along better than two females. Definitely better than two males! Sure, as an adult, I expected some amorous behavior. However, I didn’t foresee that Tuna’s affections would be neither appreciated nor reciprocated.
Heartbreak
Bubbles’ response to Tuna’s attempts at “friendship” was a rather abrupt trim to the tail fin. His dorsal and anal fins became gnarly splits. Unaware of Bubbles’ objections, I assumed that Tuna had a contagious fin-eating parasite. I promptly removed him from the aquarium and placed him in a fishbowl. You know, to keep Bubbles safe.
OH! THE IRONY!
A couple of tiny drops of blood on his tail revealed the truth: It wasn’t a parasite, but a piranha named Bubbles!
Despite all that he endured, Tuna the Fish is still enamored with Bubbles. He’s even built several “bubble nests” in hopes that she will leap from the comfort of her spacious aquarium to his cozy fishbowl to lay eggs.
Clearly this was a comic in the making! I’ll be soon posting PAGE 189: Tuna the Fish
Before You Go…
Bettas are beautiful fish. I made two small drawings of Bubbles and Tuna the Fish. Click on their names to see the artwork.
In this article, the term Black Irish is not used as a racial nor national identity. It is used as it was in 19th century America: to describe post-famine immigrants from Ireland. (The Great Hunger 1845 – 1852)
Freckles
“Denise, you’ve always had freckles,” my friends teased. Yes, I know. But THAT many?? Zoom’s unflattering close-ups revealed the truth. It turns out that my face is splattered with freckles. Those freckles got me thinking about my mother’s side of the family: the Black Irish.
My mother was born in Gaillard, Georgia, in 1926. Her father, Mitchell Howard, was born in the same area around 1902. He was one of 22 children (including several sets of twins) born to my great-grandfather, the Irishman.
My maternal grandfather, Mitchell Howard. Son of an Irish immigrant. (c.1902 – 1939)
The Stowaways
I know very little about the young Irishman’s arrival in the United States. Only that he did not arrive under the shelter of Lady Liberty to be processed through customs and immigration. Rather, he, his brother, and a friend stowed away on a cargo ship headed to the US. When the cargo ship docked in Georgia (likely Savannah), they made a run for it. Unknown. Undocumented.
The three eventually made their way up to middle Georgia, where they began eking out a living. The two brothers made their money in various ways, including, according to family legend, the making of Moonshine liquor. And forgive the stereotype here; they were skilled craftsmen. Their business thrived. Sadly, the two brothers died relatively young, leaving behind large families. Again, overlook the stereotype—I’m pretty much related to everyone in Crawford County. Anywho… The third stowaway became a minister and enjoyed a quiet, long life.
A Question of Cultural Heritage
It was that dear minister who, as a bedridden elderly man, shared most of this family history with his young nurse. Later, she became my mother and passed it on to me.
I’ve often wondered, “How was it possible for a white man to form a lasting union with a Black woman in the late 19th-century American South?” Recently, I ran across a video clip that finally gave me a clear answer…
From the 1890s to the 1920s in America, Irish immigrants were considered poor, inferior, and denied acceptance into White society, and therefore allowed to intermarry with Blacks. So, when my great-grandparents got together, nobody cared. Wow.
Whew! Let’s pause and lighten the mood for a moment. Here’s a bit of Irish humor appropriate for the occasion.
Help Wanted: No Irish Need Apply
The Great Divide
When the Irish became White, my family was divided into two camps: the Black side and the White side. I grew up knowing Momma’s mother’s side of the family (the Black side) but not her father Mitchell’s (the White side). The vast majority of the Irishman’s and his brother’s children moved farther south in the 1930s.
Somewhere in South Georgia, there’s a White family quietly, perhaps unknowingly, sharing the same ancestors as myself:
Bee Book Pages 