Even Julius Caesar hated March. The famous warning from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar—”Beware the Ides of March”—refers to March 15, the day Caesar was assassinated. Ever since, March has carried a reputation for betrayal, bad timing, and that lingering sense that something unpleasant is lurking just out of sight.
I’ve always found it odd that March is also the name of an activity soldiers are required to perform. Marching somewhere is rarely voluntary, rarely comfortable, and almost never associated with joy. Soldiers don’t march because it’s fun; they march because someone with a higher rank said so. The fact that March, the month, and marching, the activity, share the same spelling feels less like a coincidence and more like a warning label.
It’s also not as if March tries very hard to be liked. Here in Philadelphia, it arrives with weather that seems specifically designed to test character. One day it’s snowing sideways, the next it’s 65 degrees, and by the weekend it’s raining just hard enough to make umbrellas useless. The old saying “In like a lion, out like a lamb” applies only to March, and even then, it’s more of a suggestion than a promise. Sometimes March comes in like a lion and leaves like a slightly wetter lion. March is the world’s biggest tease: everyone believes winter is over, and March immediately punishes us for that mistake.
March also contains one of the two events’ Americans impose upon themselves that is nearly universally hated: Daylight Saving Time. I hate it. You may hate it. Even people outside the United States, especially those suddenly forced to recalculate conference calls with Americans, hate it. There is nothing quite like losing an hour of sleep and being told to feel refreshed about it. Just about the time we adjust, it’s time to change the clocks again. If it weren’t for coffee, we would probably declare war every March. The opponent wouldn’t matter if the pain of Daylight-Saving Time went away.
The second event Americans enthusiastically impose upon themselves in March is something we proudly call March Madness. I’ve been to a few March Madness parties, and even now I’m not entirely sure what it’s all about. It involves American collegiate basketball but feels more like a sad version of Christmas, everyone eats too much, drinks too much, and hopes for a gift that never arrives. The name March Madness at least has the virtue of honesty.
If March were a person, it would be unreliable, somewhat aggressive, and deeply fickle. It wouldn’t apologize for any of this. It would just shrug, check its watch, and tell you spring is almost here, right before it starts snowing again.
© March 2026 by Peter V. Radatti