Recently I learned about “sloinneadh” (pronounced SLO-ny-ug), the ancient Celtic practice of naming ancestors before battle. According to Alistair Moffat’s The Highland Clans, as the warriors stood in formation with weapons in hand, waiting for the enemy, they would recite their genealogies—I am Ian, son of Donald, son of Malcom, son of Kenneth, etc. In doing so they remembered that they fought not only for themselves on that day but in the shadow of all who had come before them, without whom they would not exist. The thought of my McAlpine, McMillen, Sinclair, and Sutherland forebears naming 20 generations of their own ancestry inspires me beyond expression.

This inspiration, sadly, was paired with deflation as I read Moffat’s book. I learned that much of what we think of as “Scottish” is more commercialized myth based on Sir Walter Scott novels than actual history. It’s unlikely that highlanders actually wore knee-length kilts or assigned particular tartan patterns to particular clans. The clans rarely got along and only occasionally laid down their violent rivalries to fight the English together. The history is a mixed bag. There is treachery and tragedy; noble causes and narcissistic power struggles. In short, they were imperfect people living imperfectly toward one another. Learning the fuller story deromanticized the vision of Scotland I had inhaled growing up in the American South. [ . . . ]  [read more]