A Black American Woman in Dublin: My Irish Redemption Arc

Title: A Black American Woman in Dublin: My Irish Redemption Arc

When I left the United States—Atlanta, Georgia to be exact—I had one goal: travel. Travel hard, travel long, travel joyfully. I wanted to see every country I could. Eat all the pastries. Drink all the teas. Write all the stories. And I wanted to begin this globe-trotting journey in Ireland. Why Ireland? Why not?

Ireland’s one of those places you always hear about in storybooks and fairytales. Rolling green hills. Sheep just... chilling. Accents that make your knees weak. And honestly, I had some unfinished business with the Irish. I needed to find out for myself if the Irish were saints or absolute menaces. And if I could replace a memory I had buried deep beneath years of southern hospitality and sweet tea. So let’s roll the tape back about seven years...

I was going on a first date with a fella—let’s call him Bryan. Bryan invited me to Johnny’s Hideaway, a dimly lit North Atlanta hotspot where folks over 60 go to relive their Studio 54 glory days. Now listen, I had never been to Johnny’s Hideaway, didn’t want to go to Johnny’s Hideaway, and truly never even drove past it unless I was lost. But I figured—eh, why not? Bryan said his friend was having their wedding reception there. Red flag? Yes. But I was bored, so I went.

Bryan was short, stocky, blonde, and a tennis coach from Britain who’d been living in Atlanta a few years. He seemed sweet. So there we were, standing in the freezing cold for nearly an hour because Bryan didn’t want to pay extra to skip the line. Already, I was giving myself mental side-eye. The crowd looked like a Botox convention for doctors and their wives in Forever 21 dresses. I was in my 30s, used to clubs that played Biggie and 2Pac and had people grinding on beat, not sipping cocktails in orthopedic heels.

Finally, we got inside. It was dark. Packed. Michael Jackson bumping through the speakers (a tiny saving grace). Bryan grabbed us drinks, then led us to the roped-off "wedding reception" area. Roped-off is generous—it was more like a piece of yarn loosely strung across a few tables. Still, I didn't want to intrude. Bryan saw his friend (the groom) and bride across the room and left me to sip my drink at the table while he caught up.

And that’s when it happened.

A man. No, a mountain of a man—Irish, white, 6’5, drunk as a skunk—comes up and starts yelling at me. Not Bryan. Me. The only Black woman in the building. Yelling that I didn’t belong there. That I needed to leave. I calmly (but firmly) explained that I was Bryan’s date, he was talking to the groom, we were invited.

This man was not having it.

He got closer. Louder. Drunker. Red-faced and spitting mad. Told me I didn’t belong. That he paid for the damn reception and didn’t want me there. And I swear, if he had said one more thing, I would’ve gone full-on Mortal Kombat on him. I could see the headline: *Black Woman in Club Stabs Racist Irish Father-of-the-Groom in the Dick with Cocktail Straw.*

Thankfully, two younger Irish guys intervened, told him to back off and that I was invited. That made him even angrier. He shouted that he was the groom’s father and didn’t want me there. I braced myself, thinking he was about to drop a hard N-word and catch these hands.

Then the grandfather of the groom, old and fragile but sweet-eyed, shuffled up to me, held my shoulders like a war veteran about to pass on ancient wisdom and said, "Don’t go. Don’t leave. He’s an arsehole. He’s drunk." He pleaded with me not to let his son's ignorance ruin the night. And y’all... I wanted to stay. But the rage bubbling in my chest was volcanic.

I saw Bryan still chatting, oblivious to the chaos. I snapped. I looked sweet Granddad in the eyes and said, "Get the fuck out my way, Grandpa. I’m leaving." Pulled myself free and stormed off like Beyoncé in "Hold Up." Bryan chased after me, horrified, apologetic, and looking like someone had just shot his puppy. I didn’t blame him—it wasn’t his fault—but I was done.

That night stayed with me. For years.

So yeah, when I planned to travel, I needed to know: *Is that who the Irish are? Or was that just one drunk jerk with issues and an overpour?* I needed to find out.

When I finally left Atlanta and flew to Boston to catch my connecting flight to Dublin, drama followed me like a bad ex. The flight was delayed because the pilot was late—probably laid up with his mistress if you ask me. When we landed in Boston, the pilot told everyone to sit down and let the Dublin crew off first because we were this close to missing the connection.

That’s when I heard it again: Irish men yelling. Two of them going at it mid-flight over who should get off first. I thought, *Lord, not again. Is Ireland just a country of angry ginger men who live to ruin my life?* But I was too far in. Ticket was bought. Flight was boarding. I was sweating and waddling after people like I was running the Olympic 40-yard dash in a trench coat.

We made the flight.

And when I got to Ireland?

Everything changed.

The moment I stepped off that plane, Ireland greeted me like a long-lost daughter. Everywhere I went—Dublin, Galway, castles, libraries, pubs—I was met with kindness. People went out of their way to help me. They asked about my writing. They wanted to know my story. One woman offered to walk me across the city just so I wouldn’t get lost.

It wasn’t performative. It was genuine. It was love in action.

Ireland became the place where my writing flowed. Where I felt held. Where I could walk into a space and not shrink. Where I could dream again.

That hateful memory from Johnny’s Hideaway? Gone. Rewritten. Burned to ash.

And wouldn’t you know it? In Ireland, I began crafting Scarlet Vël. A series I am still working out but wouldn’t have even thought about if not for Ireland. The land inspired me. The people reminded me of who I was and who I could be.

Ireland, I forgive you. And thank you—for showing me that grace can grow where rage once lived. That kindness can be louder than hate. And that healing sometimes wears a brogue and hands you a pint of Guinness.

To any Black women wondering if Ireland is worth the visit: it is. And then some.

With warmth, humor, and all the receipts,

Stephanie

P.S. The next time a drunk Irishman wants to fight me at a wedding, he better bring backup. I know my worth now. And I’m not afraid to throw hands... lovingly, of course. 😉