I wasn't yet 30 years old and was working as a firefighter in New York City, in a firehouse completely swamped with calls. In the rare moments when we weren't busy, I would make calls on our cordless phone handset or rush to our office to read Captain Gray's subscription of the Sunday New York Times. Late one afternoon when I finally read the Book Review section, my blood began to boil. An article stated a thesis I took to be an offensive insult: William Butler Yeats, the Nobel Prize-winning light of the Irish Literary Renaissance, had risen above his Irishness and was now a universal poet. I grew indignant suddenly, and a deep-seated passion within me was activated.

There were few things I was more proud of than my Irish heritage. My ancestors were Catholic Irish farmers, fishermen and blue-collar workers, all of whom were patrons of literature. From the time my family came ashore on Ellis Island and faced the threat of being deported, we have fought discrimination against Irish immigrants. Ever since I first picked up a book of his poems, Yeats had been my favorite writer. He wrote his poetry in close adherence to his Irish sensibilities. His life was, in essence, a tribute to his homeland.

So, it was offensive to think Irishness, no matter if it was psychological, social or literary, was something to rise above. I felt like my heritage was a defendant at a tribunal, and I had no choice but to protect it and denounce such an outdated prejudice.

Vibrating with agitation, I grabbed a piece of clean paper, one that had the logo of the Fire Department of the City of New York across the top. I began a letter, trumpeting my indignation to the editor of the Sunday Book Review, describing Yeats as he was: a writer fundamentally Irish in all he did and wrote.