“Look,” you’ll shout to your friend as you walk down Mount Vernon. “Did you see that? I think it was an Adams, or an Appleton, or a Bacon, or a Bradlee, or a Cabot, or a Chaffee, or a Choate! Or maybe a Coolidge, or a Cushing, or a Dudley, or an Emerson, or an Eliot, or an Endicott! Or chances are it might’ve been a Gardner, or a Holmes, or a Lawrence, or a Lodge, or a Lowell! Or perhaps it was a Lyman, or an Otis, or a Peabody, or a Phillips, or a Putnam. But it definitely could’ve been a Quincy, or a Saltonstall, or a Sargent, or a Thorndike, or a Tudor, or a Weld, or Warren. Kinda hoping it wasn’t a Winthrop, though.”
What you may not realize is that they’re ever-so-cautiously gawking back at you. Because they can’t believe you aren’t appreciating the fact that the very cobblestones you’re walking on were laid in the ground by one of many Irish people their family briefly employed generations ago. So try and show some respect, Sudra.