The hardest question for me to answer after my time in Ireland is: how have I changed as a result of my trip? It’s a tough one because I truly don’t feel that I am fundamentally different from when I arrived. Having been abroad for several weeks before, culture shock wasn’t a huge issue for me, and Ireland was far more similar to the USA than several of the places I’ve been. I can’t really say that I have a ‘new appreciation for the world outside my own country,’ or that I had a Joycean epiphany about how closed-minded I was before I met another culture. I already loved other countries, and Ireland was as much a notch in my suitcase handle as a chance to finally see how non-Americans live. The food wasn’t crazy different from what I might eat at home, and being well over 21 drinking in public wasn’t anything new to me.
But I have changed; I know this, because I know that travel changes one in a million tiny ways. Talking to friends, I find myself saying “one time in Dublin,” or referencing in-jokes from the trip. I’ve got new friends, not just on facebook but in real life, and their presence in my life has changed me as well. I’ve noticed that I’m more aware of my actions at home; in part, this is due to a new living situation, but I’ve consistently found myself more concerned that I am acting in an acceptable manner, a holdover from living with an Irish family. I crave foods that I previously didn’t even think about; bangers & mash has topped my list of wish-I-was-eating-it-right-now foods. I watched a bartender poor a Guinness the other day, and I knew that he was doing it wrong; part of me wanted to offer him advice, but that’s not really how we do things here.
People ask me to see my photographs constantly, or pester me with questions about my trip, to the point that I occasionally get annoyed about the whole thing. I think this happens because I’ve already assimilated the experience. To me, it isn’t as big a deal anymore because I lived it. It’s inside me, a part of me. I think it’s hard for most people to say how travel has changed them, because the big changes only happen in books, movies, and propaganda materials (and perhaps Study Abroad promotional materials, if that’s different from propaganda). In truth, the changes that occur when we travel are too many and too subtle to be aware of most of the time. But I think that makes them more important – it’s the little changes that other cultures make in us that bring the world together.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Cultural Journal 14 - Two Options For History
At historical sites like the Hill of Tara we would often have tour guides to show us around and explain things to us. Many times the guides would begin by telling the group that they were going to give us two different explanations: the historical/scientific, and the mythical; they would then suggest that we choose for ourselves which one we preferred. That threw me for a loop at first; I often found that, listening to our Irish guides, I wondered why they were bothering with academic information when there was such a wealth of interesting mythological information, and why, if they had accepted the scientific, they bothered to mention the mythical – that seems like a job for a pamphlet or visitors center. As a student, I guess I’ve gotten used to the idea of “the correct answer.” Even though I know that not every question has one, I do often conceptualize that there is an answer preferable or more correct than any others, and as a general rule I lean towards the non-mythical explanations; even as a Religious Studies major, I always sought a historical explanation for beliefs and creeds. It’s something I watch for in my students’ writing, but not something I ever thought to watch for in myself.
It took me some time to wrap my mind around it, but once I did I found it easy to just sort the bits I found most interesting and file them away for later. It’s hard to say why the park rangers all seem to take this tactic, but since so many of them do it I assume that it is systematic. I wonder if it is an expression of the importance the Irish place on their own history. The “navel gazing” we’ve talked about in class seems to find expression here, as our Irish guides offer us two explanations that should be treated as equally important: the scientific/historical explanation enhances our understanding of the natural world we live in, and the mythical explanation embodies the Irish history and culture. Culture is shaped by where a people live and the geographical and man-made features they encounter on a daily basis. If we emphasize the mythical side, we rob ourselves of scientific understanding of phenomena and history. If we only focus on the historical explanation, we miss out on the rich mythology of Ireland. It seems like the Irish have taken that fact to heart, and chosen to express both these perspectives in equal measure.
It took me some time to wrap my mind around it, but once I did I found it easy to just sort the bits I found most interesting and file them away for later. It’s hard to say why the park rangers all seem to take this tactic, but since so many of them do it I assume that it is systematic. I wonder if it is an expression of the importance the Irish place on their own history. The “navel gazing” we’ve talked about in class seems to find expression here, as our Irish guides offer us two explanations that should be treated as equally important: the scientific/historical explanation enhances our understanding of the natural world we live in, and the mythical explanation embodies the Irish history and culture. Culture is shaped by where a people live and the geographical and man-made features they encounter on a daily basis. If we emphasize the mythical side, we rob ourselves of scientific understanding of phenomena and history. If we only focus on the historical explanation, we miss out on the rich mythology of Ireland. It seems like the Irish have taken that fact to heart, and chosen to express both these perspectives in equal measure.
Cultural Journal 13 - To The Bus!
Riding the bus as a primary form of transport is not something I have done extensively. Growing up I never lived far enough from school to get bussed, and public transport in the suburbs has always been, while existent, far from convenient. I was pleased with how reliable and pleasant our regular bus journeys were, but we did have some interesting experiences riding them.
A particularly memorable one was a day I’m sure several have written about. We got on the bus at Kilmainham to head back to city center, and sat near a small group of people talking very loudly with gruff accents. A block or two into the ride, one of them leaned over and, slurring slightly, asked Keith if he would give a sip from his water bottle to her companion, who was pregnant. An odd request, but Keith (wisely) simply handed over the bottle and said she could have the rest of it. They expressed gratitude, and went back to talking. A few moments later, the smell of smoke reached us, tinged with a sweetness that I couldn’t place at first. In discussing it later, Keith suggested that it was probably meth, and after consulting some friends from downstate I think he may have been right. It was odd to think about drug problems in other countries, especially meth which I associate with smaller, more remote communities in Illinois (though it has made its way into the Chicago area). The stereotype of Irish addiction is the alcoholic, but I had somehow forgotten the fact that despite its openness and friendliness, Dublin is still a true city and has all the problems that come along with that.
Another, less intrusive experience I had was riding on a bus with a gaggle of young teenage girls at the back. Their conversation was boisterous, and ranged from singing to argument. Then two of them began to get into an argument (friendly, but an argument nevertheless) and one of the two began swearing rather freely. Her friends kept shushing her, she refused to listen; when they told her that everyone could hear her, she replied that everyone could hear them, and kept right at it. Some of my fellow passengers looked put out by this, but I actually enjoyed it. It reinforced the similarities between cultures for me – I remember talking just like that when I was around that age, with all the same arguments and laughing that went with it. It was nice to find a commonality with a segment of the population I hadn’t had much exposure to, apart from the horde of youngsters wandering DCU in their pajamas and what I can only describe as costumes. I’m still not sure what was going on there.
A particularly memorable one was a day I’m sure several have written about. We got on the bus at Kilmainham to head back to city center, and sat near a small group of people talking very loudly with gruff accents. A block or two into the ride, one of them leaned over and, slurring slightly, asked Keith if he would give a sip from his water bottle to her companion, who was pregnant. An odd request, but Keith (wisely) simply handed over the bottle and said she could have the rest of it. They expressed gratitude, and went back to talking. A few moments later, the smell of smoke reached us, tinged with a sweetness that I couldn’t place at first. In discussing it later, Keith suggested that it was probably meth, and after consulting some friends from downstate I think he may have been right. It was odd to think about drug problems in other countries, especially meth which I associate with smaller, more remote communities in Illinois (though it has made its way into the Chicago area). The stereotype of Irish addiction is the alcoholic, but I had somehow forgotten the fact that despite its openness and friendliness, Dublin is still a true city and has all the problems that come along with that.
Another, less intrusive experience I had was riding on a bus with a gaggle of young teenage girls at the back. Their conversation was boisterous, and ranged from singing to argument. Then two of them began to get into an argument (friendly, but an argument nevertheless) and one of the two began swearing rather freely. Her friends kept shushing her, she refused to listen; when they told her that everyone could hear her, she replied that everyone could hear them, and kept right at it. Some of my fellow passengers looked put out by this, but I actually enjoyed it. It reinforced the similarities between cultures for me – I remember talking just like that when I was around that age, with all the same arguments and laughing that went with it. It was nice to find a commonality with a segment of the population I hadn’t had much exposure to, apart from the horde of youngsters wandering DCU in their pajamas and what I can only describe as costumes. I’m still not sure what was going on there.
Cultural Journal 12 - Idioms
The Irish have a number of idioms and turns of phrase that I find fascinating. Our house mother has two that I’ve grown quite fond of: “Grand” and “Happy Days”. “Grand” she uses as a synonym for good or well, as in “I’m grand” when we ask how she is, “you’re grand” when we express concern that we were doing something right or wrong (but were in fact right), and just “grand” as a response to things we tell her that she approved of. “Happy Days” is a more general expression that she is pleased. One time in particular we had come home after class and told her we were going to city center for dinner, and apologized for not knowing sooner. She replied that as far as she was concerned, if she didn’t have to cook “its happy days.” I’m not sure why, but that expression really sticks with me.
One that I love is appending, “self” to words (e.g. himself, herself, yourself) used as a direct reference. I don’t hear this one spoken quite as often as I read it; in A Star Called Henry Missis Drake says to Melody “Good girl yourself” after she climbs onto the newspaper-strewn bed (24). A bus driver says to Henry “How’s yourself?” in greeting and “Good man yourself” in response to Henry’s escape from Kilmainham (343). Reading this I was reminded of a coffee mug my father had when I was young that said “‘Tis Himself” on it. I always liked the expression, but had never thought of using it the way it seems to be used here.
“Allright?” is one that took me some time to get the hang of. Our house mother’s sons use this frequently, and at first I would answer (“Good, you?” or similar). But I noticed on a few occasions when I didn’t directly respond this way, the following question was usually something along the lines of “how are you?” I came to realize that “Allright” is more of a greeting, that it has essentially lost its original meaning as an inquiry into my current state and become and equivalent of “Hello.” The next time one of the boys said ‘Allright,’ I said “Allright, how are you?” and conversation proceeded normally from there. It was a great moment where I felt I had unraveled a small mystery about Irish communication – I felt like a resident, or at least a visitor, rather than just a tourist.
One that I love is appending, “self” to words (e.g. himself, herself, yourself) used as a direct reference. I don’t hear this one spoken quite as often as I read it; in A Star Called Henry Missis Drake says to Melody “Good girl yourself” after she climbs onto the newspaper-strewn bed (24). A bus driver says to Henry “How’s yourself?” in greeting and “Good man yourself” in response to Henry’s escape from Kilmainham (343). Reading this I was reminded of a coffee mug my father had when I was young that said “‘Tis Himself” on it. I always liked the expression, but had never thought of using it the way it seems to be used here.
“Allright?” is one that took me some time to get the hang of. Our house mother’s sons use this frequently, and at first I would answer (“Good, you?” or similar). But I noticed on a few occasions when I didn’t directly respond this way, the following question was usually something along the lines of “how are you?” I came to realize that “Allright” is more of a greeting, that it has essentially lost its original meaning as an inquiry into my current state and become and equivalent of “Hello.” The next time one of the boys said ‘Allright,’ I said “Allright, how are you?” and conversation proceeded normally from there. It was a great moment where I felt I had unraveled a small mystery about Irish communication – I felt like a resident, or at least a visitor, rather than just a tourist.
Cultural Journal 11 - P-P-P-Powerscourt
Powerscourt is pretty ridiculous; I’ve stayed in hotels with fewer amenities and golf courses with less landscaping. I have a hard time imagining what it would have been like to live there in its heyday. I can only imagine that these were people who didn’t have to worry or even think about money for the most part – I’m sure it was always in there somewhere, but that kind of opulence and gigantism could only have been the result of people with SERIOUS money. The inside of the house was apparently gutted by a fire in the 70’s, but given the size (large enough to accommodate shops, two food halls and a freaking escalator) I picture large rooms filled with fine art and furniture, richly appointed bedrooms for the family members, and a warren of back halls and preparation rooms for servants (who apparently had to use a hidden walkway to remain unseen approaching the house). The residents had Italian gardens, a private lake, Japanese gardens, several fountains, and who knows what kind of wine cellar. The people in a place like that seem almost alien in my mind, utterly unconnected to anything I have experienced or can understand.
However, I think that I can connect with the Irish population who had to look at Powerscourt (and places like it). I’m pretty far removed from a poor rural farmer in Ireland, but even I feel a twinge of anger at this kind of opulence. While people scratched out a living in fields, the people who lived in this grand house were (I assume) more or less idle, concerned with grand events and social calendars, not only naming their pets (including some livestock) but burying them in a dedicated cemetery on the grounds with a better view than most people get while alive. A private waterfall and deer park for the lord of the manor while subsistence farmers eat almost the same thing day in and day out seems pretty crappy. Knowing that English lords in Ireland did nothing to help the starving Irish during the potato famine goes from sad to criminal when faced with the kind of homes the bastards lived in. It might be unfair to the family, for all I know they were an exception, but I find it unlikely in light of the extreme fussiness and expense that has gone into Powerscourt estate.
However, I think that I can connect with the Irish population who had to look at Powerscourt (and places like it). I’m pretty far removed from a poor rural farmer in Ireland, but even I feel a twinge of anger at this kind of opulence. While people scratched out a living in fields, the people who lived in this grand house were (I assume) more or less idle, concerned with grand events and social calendars, not only naming their pets (including some livestock) but burying them in a dedicated cemetery on the grounds with a better view than most people get while alive. A private waterfall and deer park for the lord of the manor while subsistence farmers eat almost the same thing day in and day out seems pretty crappy. Knowing that English lords in Ireland did nothing to help the starving Irish during the potato famine goes from sad to criminal when faced with the kind of homes the bastards lived in. It might be unfair to the family, for all I know they were an exception, but I find it unlikely in light of the extreme fussiness and expense that has gone into Powerscourt estate.
Cultural Journal 10 - Bubble Bubble, Toil And . . .
When Dr. Chown told us that we should go to Belfast our first weekend because of marching season, it seemed like good advice, but perhaps a bit overwrought. Although we’d learned something about the Troubles, and gotten a crash course from Dr. Chown as he was suggesting this to us, I knew that the peace process had been going on for decades, and figured that there might be some bad sentiment, but that things couldn’t still be all that bad. After all, some preliminary research I’d done made clear that things had improved, that Orange Order marches had been less intrusive on Catholic neighborhoods, and in general the Marching Season had become a far tamer affair. Although we took Dr. Chown’s advice, I felt at the time that it was overkill.
Good grief was I wrong. The violence during Marching Season this year was staggering, with news reports of casualties and daily footage of the violence. It was shocking to see an individual on tape throwing Molotov cocktails at a line of police trucks and realize that not only was it happening on the same landmass I was on, it was happening in a place I myself had visited not two weeks previously. Shocked as I was, I’ll admit that I half expected the people of the Republic of Ireland to be supportive of the spirit, if not the violence, of the reaction to marching season, but when Keith and I spoke to our house mother about it she quickly condemned the whole affair. Having a son in the Garda, I’m sure she’s generally against any kind of violence towards the police, but her reaction made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with what was happening up there. As more news reached us of the violence, we heard reporters claiming that the violence was no longer about marching season, but instead anger about economic and social issues finding a convenient excuse to be vented. It took me awhile to wrap my head around the idea that this kind of violence in Northern Ireland might not actually be about religious or governmental loyalties, but that these loyalties were being used as a starting point for larger issues that might damn well cross those lines. Looking back on a time when I thought that I supported the struggle of the IRA in Northern Ireland for “freedom”, it makes me feel kind of dumb for thinking anything was ever that simple, and for sometimes falling into that same trap.
Good grief was I wrong. The violence during Marching Season this year was staggering, with news reports of casualties and daily footage of the violence. It was shocking to see an individual on tape throwing Molotov cocktails at a line of police trucks and realize that not only was it happening on the same landmass I was on, it was happening in a place I myself had visited not two weeks previously. Shocked as I was, I’ll admit that I half expected the people of the Republic of Ireland to be supportive of the spirit, if not the violence, of the reaction to marching season, but when Keith and I spoke to our house mother about it she quickly condemned the whole affair. Having a son in the Garda, I’m sure she’s generally against any kind of violence towards the police, but her reaction made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with what was happening up there. As more news reached us of the violence, we heard reporters claiming that the violence was no longer about marching season, but instead anger about economic and social issues finding a convenient excuse to be vented. It took me awhile to wrap my head around the idea that this kind of violence in Northern Ireland might not actually be about religious or governmental loyalties, but that these loyalties were being used as a starting point for larger issues that might damn well cross those lines. Looking back on a time when I thought that I supported the struggle of the IRA in Northern Ireland for “freedom”, it makes me feel kind of dumb for thinking anything was ever that simple, and for sometimes falling into that same trap.
Cultural Journal 9 - Begging
When I was in Italy, I got used to being hassled by beggars. Whether they were asking for a handout or trying to earn it via entertainment or trickery, in general they were pushy, loud and sometimes outright hostile. Even those offering some kind of performance were bothersome, from the big-eyed accordion-wielding child on a train to the would-be street magicians vying for my attention (or distraction). Even in the USA, I’ve been badgered by people in the street looking for money, and frequently endured yelling and even veiled threats if I don’t cough up the goods. In Berlin just before arriving in Ireland, I witnessed at several prominent tourist sites women in headscarves asking if people spoke English or German, and then conferring with those who said yes, showing them a paper or photograph, and generally walking away with some pocket change. Given the economic trouble in Ireland presently, and after reading that the “traveller” culture has a reputation for being a nuisance, I honestly expected to have a similar experience in Ireland.
I was surprised to find that even the major tourist sites that we visited seem utterly devoid of any begging at all. At first I assumed that Garda or site employees shag them away, but the sites were also pretty devoid of those authority figures, at least on the outside, and the approaches to them were similarly empty, unlike the Vatican where I passed block after block of beggars before I even reached the gates, and they seemed unmolested by police. I think instead that it is a difference of attitude. Those panhandlers that I did see in Dublin (and there were a number of them, along streets and on bridges) tend to sit or kneel with their eyes downcast and a hat or box in front of them; they carry no signs and shout no slogans or claims, simply waiting and seeming to imply their need in an almost apologetic way. Rather than expecting aid, they seem embarrassed by having to ask, and only once did I catch a muttered comment when I didn’t drop money in the cup. I wonder if it’s an after-effect of colonialism, that the entire population of the Republic wants very much to be independent and productive, to show not only their nation but their people can survive without outside interference. If this is the case, it could explain the deferential attitude of panhandlers that I saw, as they are forced into a position of needing the kind of outside aid they so desperately want to be free of.
I was surprised to find that even the major tourist sites that we visited seem utterly devoid of any begging at all. At first I assumed that Garda or site employees shag them away, but the sites were also pretty devoid of those authority figures, at least on the outside, and the approaches to them were similarly empty, unlike the Vatican where I passed block after block of beggars before I even reached the gates, and they seemed unmolested by police. I think instead that it is a difference of attitude. Those panhandlers that I did see in Dublin (and there were a number of them, along streets and on bridges) tend to sit or kneel with their eyes downcast and a hat or box in front of them; they carry no signs and shout no slogans or claims, simply waiting and seeming to imply their need in an almost apologetic way. Rather than expecting aid, they seem embarrassed by having to ask, and only once did I catch a muttered comment when I didn’t drop money in the cup. I wonder if it’s an after-effect of colonialism, that the entire population of the Republic wants very much to be independent and productive, to show not only their nation but their people can survive without outside interference. If this is the case, it could explain the deferential attitude of panhandlers that I saw, as they are forced into a position of needing the kind of outside aid they so desperately want to be free of.
Cultural Journal 8 - Common Sense
I’ve been amazed by how many sites I have visited in Ireland lack extensive warning signs and guard rails. At Kilmainhem Gaol, we could (with rare exception) walk up to, into, and touch the cells where prisoners famous and mundane were once kept. We could reach out and touch, or even hug, the standing stone on the Hill of Tara, the Celtic crosses at Kells, and much of the artwork in St. Patricks. Most staggeringly, at Dun Aengus on the Aran Islands, we were able to walk right up to the edge of a 300 foot sheer cliff, leaning out to take pictures and tempt fate on the damp stones. A few scattered signs warned of the risk of climbing on the monument, a park ranger or two was present, and I assume there must have been a high wind warning sign somewhere, but by and large the site was all but unguarded as tourists of all ages hiked, ran, and gaped at the sea far below.
It’s unreal to me that this is possible – in the USA, if you look at a cliff funny, someone screams that a warning sign, fence, patrol and video surveillance system should be installed, and a waiver signed before getting within a mile of the place. Massive stone crosses would be covered in protective chicken wire, or fenced off completely with a replica installed nearby to get the full postmodern experience. As an American, I can’t help but wonder at the risk the government is taking, not only the risk to the bodies of the citizens, but the financial risk of the lawsuit that would inevitably result if someone fell off the cliff.
But maybe it isn’t so inevitable here. I’ve already noticed a more relaxed attitude towards children; maybe that extends to a relaxed attitude towards others, in the sense that common sense is still acknowledged and believed in here. A quick Google search turned up no mention of deaths at Dun Aengus, so I can’t do a statistical analysis to back this up, but the Irish seem to be a very practical and self-sufficient people; I can easily see them shrugging their collective shoulders and acknowledging that any such death was a shame, but that it could have been avoided far more effectively and aesthetically with a dose of common sense and careful footing than it ever could have been with a fence and a guard.
It’s unreal to me that this is possible – in the USA, if you look at a cliff funny, someone screams that a warning sign, fence, patrol and video surveillance system should be installed, and a waiver signed before getting within a mile of the place. Massive stone crosses would be covered in protective chicken wire, or fenced off completely with a replica installed nearby to get the full postmodern experience. As an American, I can’t help but wonder at the risk the government is taking, not only the risk to the bodies of the citizens, but the financial risk of the lawsuit that would inevitably result if someone fell off the cliff.
But maybe it isn’t so inevitable here. I’ve already noticed a more relaxed attitude towards children; maybe that extends to a relaxed attitude towards others, in the sense that common sense is still acknowledged and believed in here. A quick Google search turned up no mention of deaths at Dun Aengus, so I can’t do a statistical analysis to back this up, but the Irish seem to be a very practical and self-sufficient people; I can easily see them shrugging their collective shoulders and acknowledging that any such death was a shame, but that it could have been avoided far more effectively and aesthetically with a dose of common sense and careful footing than it ever could have been with a fence and a guard.
Cultural Journal 7 - Buskers
Walking through the pedestrian shopping areas of Dublin we passed uncounted buskers and performers, playing instruments and doing magic or similar tricks, all with some sort of receptacle for the generosity of passersby. But most of them seemed content to perform even if no-one was opening their pockets, and when money did come they were quick to thank, smile or at least nod in gratitude, depending on what they were doing. Several times we would be sitting in a pub and a group of musicians would come in, set up quietly in a corner or at a table, and just start playing without any attempt to get money or even sell CDs. In Galway, after taking photos of Diana with a man dressed and mugging as the devil, I was digging for change and having trouble finding any. He smiled and said it was no problem if I didn’t have any, which had the effect of making me want to give him more when I did find my change. I have a hard time picturing a Chicago devil being so relaxed after posing with a tourist.
I think there are two forces working here, the first being the general friendliness of Irish people. After meeting so many of them in so many situations, I find it shocking if they aren’t friendly, or at least civil. The second force is the performance-heavy culture of Ireland. When that devil puts on his makeup and drags his podium out to the street, he’s certainly hoping to make some money, but he’s also putting on a show, and I think that part is equally important to him, if not more so. I saw another busker who had put together a sort of robot statue costume, complete with a massive throne covered in interactive and playful props, like an octopus made from an old umbrella, which he (or she) would activate and manipulate for children. That kind of energy and effort speaks more of a performer hoping to be recognized than a beggar performing for money. A living statue I saw pulled none of the usual tricks, stealing hats or moving surreptitiously. He simply stood, stock still – showing off his skill and hoping for a crowd to gather and watch. If they reward him, it’s a sign of a job well done. Just as actors in a play don’t accost the audience for not applauding loud enough, I got the sense that Irish buskers simply take it in stride if the audience is feeling closed-pocketed.
I think there are two forces working here, the first being the general friendliness of Irish people. After meeting so many of them in so many situations, I find it shocking if they aren’t friendly, or at least civil. The second force is the performance-heavy culture of Ireland. When that devil puts on his makeup and drags his podium out to the street, he’s certainly hoping to make some money, but he’s also putting on a show, and I think that part is equally important to him, if not more so. I saw another busker who had put together a sort of robot statue costume, complete with a massive throne covered in interactive and playful props, like an octopus made from an old umbrella, which he (or she) would activate and manipulate for children. That kind of energy and effort speaks more of a performer hoping to be recognized than a beggar performing for money. A living statue I saw pulled none of the usual tricks, stealing hats or moving surreptitiously. He simply stood, stock still – showing off his skill and hoping for a crowd to gather and watch. If they reward him, it’s a sign of a job well done. Just as actors in a play don’t accost the audience for not applauding loud enough, I got the sense that Irish buskers simply take it in stride if the audience is feeling closed-pocketed.
Cultural Journal 6 - Accessability
The Giant’s Causeway was an amazing site to visit, and I am thoroughly please that I was able to do so. But one thing that troubled me here was the lack of handicap access to the site. It’s something I noticed more than once in Ireland, visiting historic and cultural sites in relatively remote areas; often I would see a sign noting that the area was not accessible. I can see both sides of this issue, and wish that I had been able to get a solid answer as to why accessibility wasn’t present (the answer I got was, essentially, that it would mar the site).
On the one hand, putting in accessibility for wheelchairs (to take the obvious example) would irrevocably alter a landscape that the Irish government has clearly taken great pains to preserve. In order for someone with limited mobility to visit the causeway itself, they would first have to be transported down to the base of the cliffs. This could be accomplished using the trams (in modified form) that already exist to carry visitors from the top to the bottom. Next, they would have to make it across the landscape to the pillars, requiring the installation of some kind of walkway which was not only wide enough to permit simultaneous entrance and egress, but gentle enough of a slope to make it useable. Any such structure would need to be anchored, requiring holes to be bored in the pillars themselves, or at the very least heavy and wide struts to be installed. It would also need to be weatherproof, and given the ocean exposure of the site this would be no mean feat. Many tourists would likely make use of the ramp even if they are perfectly capable of traversing the landscape, putting extra wear on the structure. This would be an expensive endeavor.
But on the other hand, it’s a shame that people with limited mobility are effectively barred from the site, unless they can be helped or even carried by others. The Causeway is such an amazing place that it is a damn shame that some are denied viewing it, and there is a large part of me that feels like it would be worth the expense and relatively slight alteration of the site to enable them to reach it. I suppose that’s the American in me (heaven forbid!) crying out that everyone should have equal access at almost any cost, but I think it’s a valid perspective. Of course, I’m not Irish, and I don’t know the internal decisions and struggles that have surely arisen form this very issue, but my instinct tells me that where there’s a will there’s a way, and that the heritage trust (who I believe oversees all sites in both Northern Ireland and the Republic) would be doing a wonderful thing to find a way to make this and other sites accessible.
On the one hand, putting in accessibility for wheelchairs (to take the obvious example) would irrevocably alter a landscape that the Irish government has clearly taken great pains to preserve. In order for someone with limited mobility to visit the causeway itself, they would first have to be transported down to the base of the cliffs. This could be accomplished using the trams (in modified form) that already exist to carry visitors from the top to the bottom. Next, they would have to make it across the landscape to the pillars, requiring the installation of some kind of walkway which was not only wide enough to permit simultaneous entrance and egress, but gentle enough of a slope to make it useable. Any such structure would need to be anchored, requiring holes to be bored in the pillars themselves, or at the very least heavy and wide struts to be installed. It would also need to be weatherproof, and given the ocean exposure of the site this would be no mean feat. Many tourists would likely make use of the ramp even if they are perfectly capable of traversing the landscape, putting extra wear on the structure. This would be an expensive endeavor.
But on the other hand, it’s a shame that people with limited mobility are effectively barred from the site, unless they can be helped or even carried by others. The Causeway is such an amazing place that it is a damn shame that some are denied viewing it, and there is a large part of me that feels like it would be worth the expense and relatively slight alteration of the site to enable them to reach it. I suppose that’s the American in me (heaven forbid!) crying out that everyone should have equal access at almost any cost, but I think it’s a valid perspective. Of course, I’m not Irish, and I don’t know the internal decisions and struggles that have surely arisen form this very issue, but my instinct tells me that where there’s a will there’s a way, and that the heritage trust (who I believe oversees all sites in both Northern Ireland and the Republic) would be doing a wonderful thing to find a way to make this and other sites accessible.
Cultural Journal 5 - Green!
Why is it that people in Ireland seem to be so much more concerned about conservation and the environment than in the USA? I’ve stayed in hostels that have push-button showers, requiring you to keep hitting the button to keep water flowing, and the shower in our home has its own pump and heater to keep water consumption regulated. Many of the toilets I’ve encountered have two flush buttons – one gives a little water, the other a lot, depending on what exactly you are trying to get rid of. The streets are lined with metal rubbish bins, many with a receptacle of some kind built in for cigarette butts (ostensibly to prevent fires). I’ve seen more motion/occupancy sensors on lights here than I tend to see in the US. Servings are smaller, packaging is more compact, and many stores charge a small fee for a plastic bag (the National Trust does the same thing, at least at the Giant’s Causeway). Most tellingly is how CLEAN it tends to be – the streets, although not devoid of litter, seem far cleaner than in Chicago or DeKalb.
I suppose one explanation could be that Ireland is an island, albeit a big one. Completely surrounded by water, any resources that are unavailable or exhausted here must be brought in by boat or plane, a relatively costly method (in the case of drinking water, costly desalinization would be even more vital if fresh water sources were tainted or destroyed). So it would be in their best interests to place minimal demands on their resources, natural or otherwise, in order to reduce their dependence on importation, and thus their dependence on petroleum, international trade, etc. Added to this is the fact that Ireland is part of Europe, which has been heavily settled for a far longer time than North America. The resources that exist here have been relied on for centuries or even millennia and have on occasion vanished, which might spur a more conservational mindset. In Ireland specifically, it might also be a result of their past as a colonized and exploited nation. Britain harvested wood and other resources for export back home and for centuries, before relinquishing control. This might have ingrained in the Irish people a sense of real ownership of and responsibility for their natural resources, a desire to preserve them for their own present and future use rather than stripping the land of its riches at the British once did.
I suppose one explanation could be that Ireland is an island, albeit a big one. Completely surrounded by water, any resources that are unavailable or exhausted here must be brought in by boat or plane, a relatively costly method (in the case of drinking water, costly desalinization would be even more vital if fresh water sources were tainted or destroyed). So it would be in their best interests to place minimal demands on their resources, natural or otherwise, in order to reduce their dependence on importation, and thus their dependence on petroleum, international trade, etc. Added to this is the fact that Ireland is part of Europe, which has been heavily settled for a far longer time than North America. The resources that exist here have been relied on for centuries or even millennia and have on occasion vanished, which might spur a more conservational mindset. In Ireland specifically, it might also be a result of their past as a colonized and exploited nation. Britain harvested wood and other resources for export back home and for centuries, before relinquishing control. This might have ingrained in the Irish people a sense of real ownership of and responsibility for their natural resources, a desire to preserve them for their own present and future use rather than stripping the land of its riches at the British once did.
Cultural Journal 4 - Caring About Football (Soccer)
I don’t watch sports at home; professional sports weren’t part of my upbringing, so they aren’t part of my life the way they are for some of my friends and relatives. But something about the sports culture here appeals to me. I found myself in Cork on Friday night, hanging on every moment of the end of the match, which had gone to a shootout. I cheered when Ghana made a shot, groaned when Paraguy made one, lamented when Ghana’s players decided to aim for the goalie and gnashed my teeth as Ghana’s goalie consistently dove AWAY from incoming balls. I complained for hours, even arguing with a classmate on the subject. This was a sport and a team I hadn’t given two thoughts to a month ago, yet suddenly I felt like I had a personal investment riding on them. The next day, I cried out in joy as Germany scored early in the game, pumped my fist when I heard they had won 4-0, and sat with a good view of the TV for the match later that night.
What is it about the soccer culture that draws me in? For one thing, 90 minutes is about as long as I’m willing to watch anything on TV. More interestingly, I’ve noticed that although you can easily identify which team various groups in pubs are rooting for, there is tremendous excitement whenever a goal is scored. There’s no heckling or booing, just enjoyment of the game. When I have been in a bar at home during a game, my experience has been that people get really aggressive about supporting their team and denigrating the other. This extends to derision of that teams fans, and in the case of Chicago Sox fans it seems inevitable that Cubs fans will be dragged through the mud, whether their team is playing or not. Sports in America have always seemed like a divisive force to me, pitting city against city in a race to the top slot. Soccer in Europe has that in the form of clubs, but the World Cup gives every country a chance to band together behind a national team, competing against other nations for genuine world dominance of a sport. American athletes remain, for the most part, isolated and insular – the best football team in America has never had to travel to France to prove their dominance in the sport, and the World Series is the worst-named competition in the country. I guess a big part of what I like about soccer over here is that come World Cup time, differences are put aside as a nation backs its team, and if that team is eliminated, everyone picks a new team, or two, or three to support for as long as they last.
What is it about the soccer culture that draws me in? For one thing, 90 minutes is about as long as I’m willing to watch anything on TV. More interestingly, I’ve noticed that although you can easily identify which team various groups in pubs are rooting for, there is tremendous excitement whenever a goal is scored. There’s no heckling or booing, just enjoyment of the game. When I have been in a bar at home during a game, my experience has been that people get really aggressive about supporting their team and denigrating the other. This extends to derision of that teams fans, and in the case of Chicago Sox fans it seems inevitable that Cubs fans will be dragged through the mud, whether their team is playing or not. Sports in America have always seemed like a divisive force to me, pitting city against city in a race to the top slot. Soccer in Europe has that in the form of clubs, but the World Cup gives every country a chance to band together behind a national team, competing against other nations for genuine world dominance of a sport. American athletes remain, for the most part, isolated and insular – the best football team in America has never had to travel to France to prove their dominance in the sport, and the World Series is the worst-named competition in the country. I guess a big part of what I like about soccer over here is that come World Cup time, differences are put aside as a nation backs its team, and if that team is eliminated, everyone picks a new team, or two, or three to support for as long as they last.
Cultural Journal 3 - Beer Beer Beer, Tiddly Beer Beer Beer
When I told people I was going to Ireland, some of the most common responses were suggestions on what, and how much of it, I should drink. After all, Americans love St. Patricks Day, when “everyone is Irish” (and thus drinks a lot, apparently). In my mind, I suppose I had visions of wild nights, crazy partying, and raucous singing in every pub on every night. This has, quite reasonably, not turned out to be the case. In fact, I was shocked by a number of elements of drinking culture here, beginning with the fact that a pint is so expensive – generally around €5 (over $6) for a Guinness. Even during the Celtic Tiger, I suspect that most people would be hard pressed to drink more than 2-3 on a given night. The size of a pint slows one down a bit versus a 12oz bottle, but it is still easy to find yourself ploughing through money in a hurry on drinks. My second surprise was how early things seem to wind down around Ireland. In Dublin, the buses stop running around 23:30, so anyone out drinking who doesn’t live in walking distance of city centre has to either leave before then, be okay to drive, or catch a cab, a far more expensive prospect (even worse combined with the expense of drinking in the first place). Of course, people still do it, but we tend to think of Ireland as a land of pubs crammed with revellers until the wee hours, pounding back pint after pint. The reality doesn’t match up; while a Super Bowl in the states might see individuals putting away a 6- or 12-pack of beer all to themselves, watching the final games of the world cup in pubs here consisted of 1-2 pints for the viewers, a far cry from what is expected. It’s been an adjustement for me –as a night person, I’m used to being out at odd hours, getting a beer at midnight, a burger at 1am or breakfast at 3. I’d half expected to be at Temple Bar with my classmates three nights a week, stumbling home at 2am and dragging my carcass to class in the mornings, but instead I often find myself comfortably home at 10pm, waiting for the sun to set so I can go to sleep. Not what I expected, but frankly I think we’re all better off.
Cultural Journal 2 - Helpfulness
We’d been told before going to Belfast that people in Northern Ireland were even more friendly than their Republican counterparts. We saw this a few times during our stay, but nowhere more so than the “ATM Incident.”
Haney and I were in search of a cash machine so that we could get some lunch before our bus back to Dublin. We asked at a stall near the entrance to the market, and were told by the woman that she didn’t know the area well enough. We left the market and walked up one block, asked at a pub and were told there was one the other way, on the other side of the market block. We walked to that block and saw nothing, so we asked at another pub and were told it was further up. Finding nothing, we asked at Subway and were told there weren’t any in that area, and would have to walk back closer to City Center to find any. We did eventually find one in a SPAR store, but stumbling across it we had a surprising experience.
We saw a woman and her daughter (I assume) leave the market and walk towards us. As they passed, Hany asked if she knew where we could find a cash station. She stopped to think, then said that she didn’t know much about that area; the only one she knew of was towards her home, and further than she thought was worth walking. She then asked us if we would like a ride to the ATM and back, as her car was just up the road. She offered a ride to two complete strangers with luggage, both male foreigners, and she with her daughter and shopping in hand. I was blown away. We turned her down, and her daughter suggested the train station might have one, and we parted ways, but the incident stuck with me. I can’t even conceive of offering a ride in that situation, and I’m a pretty nice guy. The idea that an average American asked the same question would make that kind of an offer is pretty much laughable – it would be a huge drain on our time and, in our minds, outright dangerous. This wasn’t the only example of the people of Ulster being extra-helpful, but it was the most surprising. It’s hard to believe, with their violent history and neighbor-on-neighbor conflicts, that they would be so eager and willing to help out a local, much less an outsider. Maybe it’s a desire to prove that they’ve grown out of the violence, putting a smiling face on an area once considered dangerous to visit. There seems to be something in the Irish character that lends itself to trust and helpfulness, and Ulsterites (?) seem to have an extra 10% of whatever that is.
Haney and I were in search of a cash machine so that we could get some lunch before our bus back to Dublin. We asked at a stall near the entrance to the market, and were told by the woman that she didn’t know the area well enough. We left the market and walked up one block, asked at a pub and were told there was one the other way, on the other side of the market block. We walked to that block and saw nothing, so we asked at another pub and were told it was further up. Finding nothing, we asked at Subway and were told there weren’t any in that area, and would have to walk back closer to City Center to find any. We did eventually find one in a SPAR store, but stumbling across it we had a surprising experience.
We saw a woman and her daughter (I assume) leave the market and walk towards us. As they passed, Hany asked if she knew where we could find a cash station. She stopped to think, then said that she didn’t know much about that area; the only one she knew of was towards her home, and further than she thought was worth walking. She then asked us if we would like a ride to the ATM and back, as her car was just up the road. She offered a ride to two complete strangers with luggage, both male foreigners, and she with her daughter and shopping in hand. I was blown away. We turned her down, and her daughter suggested the train station might have one, and we parted ways, but the incident stuck with me. I can’t even conceive of offering a ride in that situation, and I’m a pretty nice guy. The idea that an average American asked the same question would make that kind of an offer is pretty much laughable – it would be a huge drain on our time and, in our minds, outright dangerous. This wasn’t the only example of the people of Ulster being extra-helpful, but it was the most surprising. It’s hard to believe, with their violent history and neighbor-on-neighbor conflicts, that they would be so eager and willing to help out a local, much less an outsider. Maybe it’s a desire to prove that they’ve grown out of the violence, putting a smiling face on an area once considered dangerous to visit. There seems to be something in the Irish character that lends itself to trust and helpfulness, and Ulsterites (?) seem to have an extra 10% of whatever that is.
Cultural Journal 1 - Children
As a child I was exposed to many horror films which many parents might not have found appropriate for their kids. In addition to classic horror film, my nephew has been watching South Park since he was 6, and although his parents are careful to contextualize it and make sure he knows not to go repeating some of what he hears, it would be easy for some to criticize their choice of viewing material. Likewise, my nephew has been exposed to casual profanity from an early age, but again has been taught that though it may be DONE, it isn’t necessarily ALLOWED.
Our house mother is a child minder, and the house is often full of children. One of them belongs to the girlfriend of one of her sons, and during our first dinner I was able to watch the interaction between the child, two of the sons, the mother, and our house mom. I hadn’t really thought much about it, but I suppose I expected something akin to what I see of American childrearing, perhaps a bit more conservative as we’re in a Catholic nation. The first chink in this notion was one of the sons smacking the child on the head, not very hard, but harder than I would have expected. This wasn’t done in anger, or as a punishment, it was a friendly and joking gesture which the child responded to be laughing and swinging his own tiny hands at his assailant. The child was given the middle finger, and returned it in kind. The word “fuck” was used conversationally (not by the child), and nobody thought twice about it. One of the sons pretended that he was going to pour water on the kid, and when the child noticed he was most insistent that it be done. So it was. Twice.
It was odd, but in a way very refreshing. We’re so lawsuit happy in America, I can’t imagine what a parent would think to see their child engaged in these kinds of behaviors, but the child’s mother was laughing as hard as anyone. The child was enjoying himself, and never once cried or protested about any of it, just took it in stride. It seems to me that when his contemporaries in America are threatening to sue their bullies in middle school, this kid will be taking it in stride and standing up for himself without relying on the legal system. I like that.
Our house mother is a child minder, and the house is often full of children. One of them belongs to the girlfriend of one of her sons, and during our first dinner I was able to watch the interaction between the child, two of the sons, the mother, and our house mom. I hadn’t really thought much about it, but I suppose I expected something akin to what I see of American childrearing, perhaps a bit more conservative as we’re in a Catholic nation. The first chink in this notion was one of the sons smacking the child on the head, not very hard, but harder than I would have expected. This wasn’t done in anger, or as a punishment, it was a friendly and joking gesture which the child responded to be laughing and swinging his own tiny hands at his assailant. The child was given the middle finger, and returned it in kind. The word “fuck” was used conversationally (not by the child), and nobody thought twice about it. One of the sons pretended that he was going to pour water on the kid, and when the child noticed he was most insistent that it be done. So it was. Twice.
It was odd, but in a way very refreshing. We’re so lawsuit happy in America, I can’t imagine what a parent would think to see their child engaged in these kinds of behaviors, but the child’s mother was laughing as hard as anyone. The child was enjoying himself, and never once cried or protested about any of it, just took it in stride. It seems to me that when his contemporaries in America are threatening to sue their bullies in middle school, this kid will be taking it in stride and standing up for himself without relying on the legal system. I like that.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Academic Journal 15 - Quiet Reflection
I began watching ‘The Quiet Man’ before going to Dublin, but I turned it off. It just felt too schlocky – all of my research had made it clear that while vast portions of Ireland were very rural, it was in many ways as cosmopolitan (especially in Dublin) as anywhere in the USA or mainland Europe. ‘The Quiet Man’ just sat poorly with me, and while in Ireland, I wondered at times why the program asked us to watch the film; I couldn’t figure it out, so when I got back I decided to knuckle down and watch the damn thing. Having done so, I have a few ideas on why it was on our films list.
Obviously, the film is set (and was filmed) in Ireland, and has some fantastic views of the landscape. Passing through rural Ireland on train and bus rides, it’s easy to see that much of the country does still look that way. Perhaps part of the goal was to remind us of that fact, since we were spending the majority of our time in cities and towns rather than the countryside and it would be easy to forget the agrarian roots of the country. It could also have been a subversive move by the faculty to see I we would fall into the trap of thinking that 1950’s Ireland was what we should expect.
Hand in hand with that, the film presents a number of common stereotypes about the Irish. Mary and Red certainly have the famed Irish temper, and even Sean as an ex-boxer (fulfilling another stereotype about Irish athletes, I suspect) embodies this tendency towards violence. The importance of drinking, though not entirely a stereotype, is also featured in the film as Sean and Red become friends over a fight and a pint. Dragging Mary back to town from the train, followed by cheering townsfolk (one of whom provides him with a stick to hit her with) sends an interesting message about the role of women in Irish culture, and quite frankly about the perception of women in America at that time as well; perhaps we’re meant to reflect on that, and to compare that to more recent Irish films featuring strong female characters. The film also features scenes of wealthy people congregating, as contrast to the more “simple” lives of the villagers, which is a theme we returned to often when discussing imperialism.
After thinking on it for a while, there seem to be many potential reasons to watch ‘The Quiet Man’ before, during, or after a trip to Ireland, but I don’t feel that it would have been integral to my visit, or that I somehow missed out by not watching it before going. In fact, I’m glad I watched it after returning home, so that I had an actual context of Ireland to compare it to, instead of vice-versa.
Obviously, the film is set (and was filmed) in Ireland, and has some fantastic views of the landscape. Passing through rural Ireland on train and bus rides, it’s easy to see that much of the country does still look that way. Perhaps part of the goal was to remind us of that fact, since we were spending the majority of our time in cities and towns rather than the countryside and it would be easy to forget the agrarian roots of the country. It could also have been a subversive move by the faculty to see I we would fall into the trap of thinking that 1950’s Ireland was what we should expect.
Hand in hand with that, the film presents a number of common stereotypes about the Irish. Mary and Red certainly have the famed Irish temper, and even Sean as an ex-boxer (fulfilling another stereotype about Irish athletes, I suspect) embodies this tendency towards violence. The importance of drinking, though not entirely a stereotype, is also featured in the film as Sean and Red become friends over a fight and a pint. Dragging Mary back to town from the train, followed by cheering townsfolk (one of whom provides him with a stick to hit her with) sends an interesting message about the role of women in Irish culture, and quite frankly about the perception of women in America at that time as well; perhaps we’re meant to reflect on that, and to compare that to more recent Irish films featuring strong female characters. The film also features scenes of wealthy people congregating, as contrast to the more “simple” lives of the villagers, which is a theme we returned to often when discussing imperialism.
After thinking on it for a while, there seem to be many potential reasons to watch ‘The Quiet Man’ before, during, or after a trip to Ireland, but I don’t feel that it would have been integral to my visit, or that I somehow missed out by not watching it before going. In fact, I’m glad I watched it after returning home, so that I had an actual context of Ireland to compare it to, instead of vice-versa.
Academic Journal 14 - Once Ending (Twice Shy)
I really enjoyed ‘Once;’ in fact, I went out and bought the soundtrack/score from Amazon.com as soon as I got home from Ireland. The timing to watch it was right, as we recognized many of the areas of Dublin where filming occurred, which I think helped us to identify with and relate to the film in a different way than we would have at the beginning of the trip. One thing that really stuck with me about the film was the ending. I was pretty sure that I had the ending predicted early on; their awkwardness would melt away as they worked together, leading to a stolen kiss, a lingering embrace, and at long last they would “find” each other. Even signals that seemed to belie this expectation fed my belief – he called his ex girlfriend and said he was coming to find her, but of course at the last minute he would have a change of heart. After standing him up, the Girl would catch him at the airport, or fly to London to find him. When he left the airport towards the end, I just knew he was running to her arms, and when the piano arrived, I just knew she would be on the next plane.
But it didn’t happen, which some of my classmates disliked. They felt that these two characters had been built up as a romantic couple over the course of the film, and were somehow robbed of that by the end. I disagreed, but at the same time I see their reasoning, and expect that many people (at least, Americans) might feel the same way. It’s a difficult ending in many ways. It isn’t a tragic ending, where they secretly pine for each other as they stumble through the lives they chose. It’s a happy ending in that he is off to pursue a career and she has her husband with her, but it’s not happy in the sense of the Boy and Girl ending up together. Why did the writer and director choose to end the film this way, with him leaving to be with his ex and yet buying the Girl a piano even after she stood him up the night before?
I don’t know for sure, but I have a theory: the romantic plot is there to serve the main plot of musicians coming into their own talent, rather than the other way around. I assumed from the start that this was the story of two people who fall in love, and that the musical subplot was a vehicle to tell the story of their relationship; that’s the way many romance films seem to be structure – whatever the main characters do is just a part of how they get together, which serves the story of a budding romance. But the screenwriter didn’t want to tell a love story, s/he wanted to tell a music story. How do we get these two musicians to work together? He’s broken hearted, and she’s a lonely foreigner. Hey, a romantic interest between them! I think that might be what threw off my classmates – like me, they expected a love story carried by a musical arc. But I love films that feel different, and ‘Once’ was surely that.
But it didn’t happen, which some of my classmates disliked. They felt that these two characters had been built up as a romantic couple over the course of the film, and were somehow robbed of that by the end. I disagreed, but at the same time I see their reasoning, and expect that many people (at least, Americans) might feel the same way. It’s a difficult ending in many ways. It isn’t a tragic ending, where they secretly pine for each other as they stumble through the lives they chose. It’s a happy ending in that he is off to pursue a career and she has her husband with her, but it’s not happy in the sense of the Boy and Girl ending up together. Why did the writer and director choose to end the film this way, with him leaving to be with his ex and yet buying the Girl a piano even after she stood him up the night before?
I don’t know for sure, but I have a theory: the romantic plot is there to serve the main plot of musicians coming into their own talent, rather than the other way around. I assumed from the start that this was the story of two people who fall in love, and that the musical subplot was a vehicle to tell the story of their relationship; that’s the way many romance films seem to be structure – whatever the main characters do is just a part of how they get together, which serves the story of a budding romance. But the screenwriter didn’t want to tell a love story, s/he wanted to tell a music story. How do we get these two musicians to work together? He’s broken hearted, and she’s a lonely foreigner. Hey, a romantic interest between them! I think that might be what threw off my classmates – like me, they expected a love story carried by a musical arc. But I love films that feel different, and ‘Once’ was surely that.
Academic Journal 13 - Some Mothers Son
Some Mothers Son was an excellent and moving film, and I was especially struck by the final exchange between Kathleen Quigley and Annie Higgins. After Kathleen tells Annie that she signed the form to remove her son from the hunger strike, Annie (whose son had just died as a result of the strike) responded that she was glad Kathleen had that option, and that someone had to do it. Annie had been a staunch supporter of the IRA’s actions and of the strike itself up to that point, and I had expected her to be angry and accuse Kathleen of being a traitor, or perhaps the film to end with Kathleen’s car exploding when she next started it, or something similar. Annie’s response was a surprise to me, and I’m still not 100% sure what she meant by it.
At first I thought it might be a little sarcastic. We know that Annie lost a child to the British forces, fueling her IRA sympathies and support of her son as a member, so I understand why she felt that she had no choice but to let her son continue on his strike. Telling Kathleen that she was glad she had the option of ending it could have been a dig at her for subverting the cause, or a reminder that Kathleen hadn’t experienced loss the way Annie had. But then why would Annie say that someone had to end it? The IRA position was that Thatcher had to give in to their demands and end the strike, so I understand the wording, but why would Annie be so accepting of Kathleen’s decision?
What I’ve come to believe is that Annie is acknowledging a deeper strength in Kathleen than she herself possesses. It takes great strength and courage to stand up for what you believe, and arguably even greater courage to starve yourself to death for your beliefs. It seems on the surface that Annie had the greater strength to stand by and let her son kill himself, but in fact I think it was the easier road. By allowing her son’s strike to continue Annie can absolve herself of responsibility by blaming Thatcher; after years of supporting IRA activities, standing up and ending the strike would not only be counterintuitive, but potentially dangerous if the IRA decided that she was a traitor to the cause. Kathleen’s decision to take her son off the strike was not a sign of weakness or giving in to Thatcher, but in fact a standing up to the insanity of the standoff and the waste of life. How could anyone not envy that sort of strength?
At first I thought it might be a little sarcastic. We know that Annie lost a child to the British forces, fueling her IRA sympathies and support of her son as a member, so I understand why she felt that she had no choice but to let her son continue on his strike. Telling Kathleen that she was glad she had the option of ending it could have been a dig at her for subverting the cause, or a reminder that Kathleen hadn’t experienced loss the way Annie had. But then why would Annie say that someone had to end it? The IRA position was that Thatcher had to give in to their demands and end the strike, so I understand the wording, but why would Annie be so accepting of Kathleen’s decision?
What I’ve come to believe is that Annie is acknowledging a deeper strength in Kathleen than she herself possesses. It takes great strength and courage to stand up for what you believe, and arguably even greater courage to starve yourself to death for your beliefs. It seems on the surface that Annie had the greater strength to stand by and let her son kill himself, but in fact I think it was the easier road. By allowing her son’s strike to continue Annie can absolve herself of responsibility by blaming Thatcher; after years of supporting IRA activities, standing up and ending the strike would not only be counterintuitive, but potentially dangerous if the IRA decided that she was a traitor to the cause. Kathleen’s decision to take her son off the strike was not a sign of weakness or giving in to Thatcher, but in fact a standing up to the insanity of the standoff and the waste of life. How could anyone not envy that sort of strength?
Academic Journal 12 - Feminine Power
We’ve discussed in class how females have often been portrayed as “weak” or subjugated in Irish literature, especially with the influence of British and Catholic patriarchal systems. However, I have noticed a surprising number of examples of very strong, even aggressive female characters in more contemporary works. Ms. O’Shea in A Star Called Henry is an excellent example of a woman who is not just independent, but downright dangerous as a soldier. Even after marriage, her activities never become “domestic;” in fact, Henry refers to an incident burning down a barracks as a night out with HER, rather than a night out with him. Trudy in When Brendan Met Trudy follows in this same iconoclastic vein; a professional thief, she brings the mousy Brendan into a world of danger and excitement he could never have expected. At the Galway Film Fleadh, I saw two films with strong Irish female leads who were not only fierce survivors but had some kind of “mystic” power, subverting the withered crone stereotype even as they skewer the weak female one. This empowerment of women can be seen in the public sphere as well; despite the Republic of Ireland’s tendency towards Catholic values, the President of Ireland has been a woman for the past twenty years (Mary Robinson 1990-1997, Mary McAleese 1997-present).
It seems to me that the Irish Republic has been quick to embrace women’s empowerment, and I suspect that their mythic tradition has something to do with this, as Ireland has a number of powerful and important female characters in their mythology, from goddess-like figures such as Macha and The Morrigan, associated with war and sovereignty, to famed queens such as Maeve who ruled as equals with their kings (I’ve read some sources that claim marrying Maeve was the only way to become king in the first place). I believe that a mythic tradition featuring powerful females has enabled the people of Ireland to move more quickly towards equality of the sexes in spite of centuries of patriarchal tradition imposed by invaders.
It seems to me that the Irish Republic has been quick to embrace women’s empowerment, and I suspect that their mythic tradition has something to do with this, as Ireland has a number of powerful and important female characters in their mythology, from goddess-like figures such as Macha and The Morrigan, associated with war and sovereignty, to famed queens such as Maeve who ruled as equals with their kings (I’ve read some sources that claim marrying Maeve was the only way to become king in the first place). I believe that a mythic tradition featuring powerful females has enabled the people of Ireland to move more quickly towards equality of the sexes in spite of centuries of patriarchal tradition imposed by invaders.
Academic Journal 11 - Something About Mary
Several of the films we have watched include depictions of the Virgin Mary in a less than flattering/helpful light; I believe that these depictions are not merely symptoms of iconoclastic filmmaking, but reflect a deeper shift in the Irish attitude towards religion. We learned in lecture that religious sentiment in Ireland had been deeply shaken in recent years by scandals within the Catholic church, and this loss of faith can be seen in the way the Virgin Mary is reacted to and portrayed in Irish cinema.
In Margo Harkin’s Hush-A-Bye-Baby, after Goretti tells her friend Dinky that she is pregnant, Dinky addresses a nearby statue of the Virgin, admonishing it not to move (visions of Virgin statues moving/crying/etc. were apparently common in many areas of Ireland at the time). Rather than turning to the icon for aid or comfort, the characters shun her and make clear that the grim reality of the situation is something they intend to deal with without praying for divine intervention. Goretti’s dreams, in which she seems to see herself transposed with a statue of the Virgin, her growing belly straining at the glass window, seem to show a horror of motherhood; her shame and fear manifest in a nightmare trapped for all to see.
In Neil Jordan’s The Butcher Boy, the Virgin Mary herself begins appearing to young Francie Brady, giving him messages of hope and comfort which fail utterly to help his situation as he spirals further into nihilistic madness. In addition, her visits begin AFTER he starts claiming to have seen her, hinting that although the viewer is led to believe (by her later manifestations) that Francie does in fact see her, the visions themselves may not in fact be real or divine, but rather a hallucination. Jordan seems to suggest that religion is self-inflicted, brought on not by the will of the divine, but by the desire of the human mind. Additionally, these visions (and by extension those of scripture) aren’t helpful to us, giving vague comfort and advice that proves meaningless in the face of real life dilemmas.
In Margo Harkin’s Hush-A-Bye-Baby, after Goretti tells her friend Dinky that she is pregnant, Dinky addresses a nearby statue of the Virgin, admonishing it not to move (visions of Virgin statues moving/crying/etc. were apparently common in many areas of Ireland at the time). Rather than turning to the icon for aid or comfort, the characters shun her and make clear that the grim reality of the situation is something they intend to deal with without praying for divine intervention. Goretti’s dreams, in which she seems to see herself transposed with a statue of the Virgin, her growing belly straining at the glass window, seem to show a horror of motherhood; her shame and fear manifest in a nightmare trapped for all to see.
In Neil Jordan’s The Butcher Boy, the Virgin Mary herself begins appearing to young Francie Brady, giving him messages of hope and comfort which fail utterly to help his situation as he spirals further into nihilistic madness. In addition, her visits begin AFTER he starts claiming to have seen her, hinting that although the viewer is led to believe (by her later manifestations) that Francie does in fact see her, the visions themselves may not in fact be real or divine, but rather a hallucination. Jordan seems to suggest that religion is self-inflicted, brought on not by the will of the divine, but by the desire of the human mind. Additionally, these visions (and by extension those of scripture) aren’t helpful to us, giving vague comfort and advice that proves meaningless in the face of real life dilemmas.
Academic Journal 10 - Guiness and Kilmainham Gaol
Visiting either of these locations is a postmodern experience, participating in what Peter Lyth called “Heritage Tourism,” visiting sites of historical and cultural significance rather than of natural beauty or splendour. However, the two differ somewhat in how they invite the tourist to encounter the historical materials contained within.
The Guinness Storehouse tour and exhibits are installed in the ‘Hops House,’ not the brewery itself. The building itself is no longer used for any part of the brewing process, so it is unlike visiting the Miller brewery or Jim Beam distillery where work still continues on-site (or did when I was there). Much of the equipment from the days when the building was a working part of the brewery is still there, integrated (or converted) into attractions and exhibits, so you have at least a sense of it being “real,” but the truth is that it is a representation, luring you into the illusion that you are witnessing the actual brewery in some way. Although there is some attempt to educate the visitor as to the history and techniques of the brewery, the emphasis is on an enjoyable and fun experience, as evidenced by the interactive kiosks, pouring lessons, pubs and videos.
Kilmianham Gaol, meanwhile, is the real deal. We tour the actual, brick-and-mortar prison where thousands of criminals and political prisoners were housed and executed. The tour is led by a guide who tells the history and stories of the prison, pointing out cells where the famous resided and relating statistics and numbers that make clear the dark history of the place. It is very low-key, and strives to be educational wherever possible, and yet it is not so different from Guiness. The museum houses interactive exhibits and artefacts, the stories told by the guide are engaging, violent or sad, playing on the emotions of the participants to keep their interest. The intersection of education and entertainment is readily visible, as well as the heritage tourism mindset of peddling a country’s history as an attraction. There are obvious differences in the way they are portrayed and the implied motivation behind the attractions (profit vs. education, profit vs. upkeep, etc.) but in the end it feels like they boil down to the same essential thing. Walking the stones of the prison didn’t seem to put me in the shoes of the revolutionaries any more than the planks of the storehouse made me feel like a brewer (despite my ‘honorary brewers assistant’ online quiz and photocard).
(I hope it doesn't sound like I didn't enjoy these sites, because I did.)
The Guinness Storehouse tour and exhibits are installed in the ‘Hops House,’ not the brewery itself. The building itself is no longer used for any part of the brewing process, so it is unlike visiting the Miller brewery or Jim Beam distillery where work still continues on-site (or did when I was there). Much of the equipment from the days when the building was a working part of the brewery is still there, integrated (or converted) into attractions and exhibits, so you have at least a sense of it being “real,” but the truth is that it is a representation, luring you into the illusion that you are witnessing the actual brewery in some way. Although there is some attempt to educate the visitor as to the history and techniques of the brewery, the emphasis is on an enjoyable and fun experience, as evidenced by the interactive kiosks, pouring lessons, pubs and videos.
Kilmianham Gaol, meanwhile, is the real deal. We tour the actual, brick-and-mortar prison where thousands of criminals and political prisoners were housed and executed. The tour is led by a guide who tells the history and stories of the prison, pointing out cells where the famous resided and relating statistics and numbers that make clear the dark history of the place. It is very low-key, and strives to be educational wherever possible, and yet it is not so different from Guiness. The museum houses interactive exhibits and artefacts, the stories told by the guide are engaging, violent or sad, playing on the emotions of the participants to keep their interest. The intersection of education and entertainment is readily visible, as well as the heritage tourism mindset of peddling a country’s history as an attraction. There are obvious differences in the way they are portrayed and the implied motivation behind the attractions (profit vs. education, profit vs. upkeep, etc.) but in the end it feels like they boil down to the same essential thing. Walking the stones of the prison didn’t seem to put me in the shoes of the revolutionaries any more than the planks of the storehouse made me feel like a brewer (despite my ‘honorary brewers assistant’ online quiz and photocard).
(I hope it doesn't sound like I didn't enjoy these sites, because I did.)
Academic Journal 9 - Ourselves Alone (Malachy)
At the risk of derision by my classmates, I stand by my belief that there is textual evidence that Malachy is beginning to change for the better at the end of the play.
Despite the fact that the unborn child is half-British and the son of Joe, a (suspected) traitor to the Republican movement, Malachy defends it. Liam, the child’s uncle, wants to kill it because it is Joe’s child, but Malachy stops him aggressively, declaring himself the father, saying it is “[his] baby now . . . [his] blood” (79), and making clear that he will protect the child from anyone who would harm it. This is surprising, given Malachy’s pattern of hard-line Republicanism and threatening nature. He is taking his daughter and her child under his protection and back into his home; yes, this gives him power over her, but I don’t believe that this is his ultimate goal. A classmate argued that he is taking the child in so that he can manipulate it, train it to be a good little soldier, but I think this is unsupported. First of all, he already has a grandchild whose father (Liam) was imprisoned, thus effectively fatherless. Why didn’t Malachy take in Donna and her child, which was also his blood, to begin training Catherine as the next generation of messenger/servant? Perhaps it is because it is a granddaughter that he never took them in, taking in this child in hopes of raising a soldier, but for starters we don’t know the gender of the child; it could easily be another girl. In addition, the kid won’t be usable for the IRA for several years, and in the meantime represents a substantial risk to Malachy and his cohorts. An infant will make it harder to move in a hurry if the police come, and will require care, attention and resources that now can’t go to the cause. If Malachy is a cold enough bastard to take in a child just to raise a soldier, he’s cold enough to wait until it’s old enough to be usable.
Is Malachy a nice guy? Probably not. Has he had a Joycean Epiphany? Unlikely. Will he continue to terrorize and manipulate his family, up to and including putting them to work in dangerous positions at a young age? Probably – but his reaction to the coming baby at the end of the play leads me to believe that he HAS changed over the course of events, and that those changes are for the better.
Despite the fact that the unborn child is half-British and the son of Joe, a (suspected) traitor to the Republican movement, Malachy defends it. Liam, the child’s uncle, wants to kill it because it is Joe’s child, but Malachy stops him aggressively, declaring himself the father, saying it is “[his] baby now . . . [his] blood” (79), and making clear that he will protect the child from anyone who would harm it. This is surprising, given Malachy’s pattern of hard-line Republicanism and threatening nature. He is taking his daughter and her child under his protection and back into his home; yes, this gives him power over her, but I don’t believe that this is his ultimate goal. A classmate argued that he is taking the child in so that he can manipulate it, train it to be a good little soldier, but I think this is unsupported. First of all, he already has a grandchild whose father (Liam) was imprisoned, thus effectively fatherless. Why didn’t Malachy take in Donna and her child, which was also his blood, to begin training Catherine as the next generation of messenger/servant? Perhaps it is because it is a granddaughter that he never took them in, taking in this child in hopes of raising a soldier, but for starters we don’t know the gender of the child; it could easily be another girl. In addition, the kid won’t be usable for the IRA for several years, and in the meantime represents a substantial risk to Malachy and his cohorts. An infant will make it harder to move in a hurry if the police come, and will require care, attention and resources that now can’t go to the cause. If Malachy is a cold enough bastard to take in a child just to raise a soldier, he’s cold enough to wait until it’s old enough to be usable.
Is Malachy a nice guy? Probably not. Has he had a Joycean Epiphany? Unlikely. Will he continue to terrorize and manipulate his family, up to and including putting them to work in dangerous positions at a young age? Probably – but his reaction to the coming baby at the end of the play leads me to believe that he HAS changed over the course of events, and that those changes are for the better.
Academic Journal 8 - 'Dancing at Lughnasa' (Film)
On our walk home after watching the film adaptation of ‘Dancing at Lughnasa,’ Keith and I got into a discussion about the scene in which Uncle Jack encounters Rose at the back hills fire, and after a bit of unpleasantness with Danny Bradley, escorts her home. Danny coerces Rose to go with him, and is clingy and belligerent throughout, even threatening to follow her when she leaves with Jack. The entire scene is absent from the play, and her time in the hills is only mentioned briefly by Rose without any of the unpleasant overtones of the film sequence. In fact, she and Danny went up to see the “what was left of the Lughnasa fires” (59). She says that she and Danny were the only ones there, and that the experience was peaceful. Of course, she may have been lying (in the film she relates nothing of her negative experience to her sisters), but lacking any evidence from the text we are forced to take her word for it.
At first I found it odd that the director would add this scene at all, and doubly so that he would make it such a dark experience, demonizing Danny and, by extension, his cohorts at the fire and the ceremony itself. In discussion with Keith, he pointed out something that I hadn’t paid much attention to – that when Uncle Jack escorts Rose away from the fire, he appears visibly shaken, recoiling from the revelry he had until then been participating in (ostensibly as it connected with his years in Africa). Although he joined in as a happy participant, he is clearly unsettled and afraid.
Shortly after this sequence, we see Uncle Jack again – trading hats with Gerry. In this sequence, the actor plays him as lucid, completely in command of his faculties, all but recovered from his culture shock. It’s almost as if his rejection of paganism at the Lughnasa fires has led to a miraculous recovery. This doesn’t come across in the play, but with the addition of the fires sequence and the way it is handled by the director and actors, it seems to send the message that Jack’s mental troubles all stem from his fall into paganism. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the director was trying to make that the “message” of the film, but it is interesting how such a small addition to the adaptation can send a vastly different message.
At first I found it odd that the director would add this scene at all, and doubly so that he would make it such a dark experience, demonizing Danny and, by extension, his cohorts at the fire and the ceremony itself. In discussion with Keith, he pointed out something that I hadn’t paid much attention to – that when Uncle Jack escorts Rose away from the fire, he appears visibly shaken, recoiling from the revelry he had until then been participating in (ostensibly as it connected with his years in Africa). Although he joined in as a happy participant, he is clearly unsettled and afraid.
Shortly after this sequence, we see Uncle Jack again – trading hats with Gerry. In this sequence, the actor plays him as lucid, completely in command of his faculties, all but recovered from his culture shock. It’s almost as if his rejection of paganism at the Lughnasa fires has led to a miraculous recovery. This doesn’t come across in the play, but with the addition of the fires sequence and the way it is handled by the director and actors, it seems to send the message that Jack’s mental troubles all stem from his fall into paganism. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the director was trying to make that the “message” of the film, but it is interesting how such a small addition to the adaptation can send a vastly different message.
Academic Journal 7 - 'A Star Called Henry'
I’m a member of an organization that maintains a global role-playing game (trust me, this becomes relevant momentarily). Not long ago, word came down that the Irish affiliate had instituted a policy that any character that had spent time in Ireland required written approval from them. The reason that was most widely cited was Irish players coming to games in America and other countries and being offended by people not from Ireland who were portraying characters with IRA histories and ties. We all accepted this decision, but a lot of people felt that it seemed a bit excessive; although I supported their right to have this policy, I sympathized with those who were against it, until I read this book. I’ll admit I never really stopped to think about the bloodshed and destruction that revolution carries with it, and Doyle does an excellent job of working it into the narrative so that although it never feels like he is trying to comment on it, the read can’t help but internalize a real sense of horror.
As Henry’s violence escalates (along with the revolution itself), it becomes subtly oppressive – reading the passage where he and his wife are pouring oil into a roof to burn out the soldiers inside is a great one where I was reading along and suddenly just struck by the sheer insanity of what was happening. The plan was so casually introduced that it wasn’t until I was well into reading about the resulting fire and explosion that what they were doing really hit home for me. The planned “hits” that Henry discusses and engages in also stuck with me, as I think we tend to think of revolutions (those that we approve of somehow) as wars, with soldiers on both sides attacking each other. In the reality of the novel however, it truly comes across more as a gang war, with hits and retribution coming fast and furious, killing soldiers, policemen and civilians alike for sometimes flimsy reasons justified as part of the war effort. The tactic Henry discusses of forcing the British to crack down on innocent Irish families is chilling, as again it isn’t a thought process that we associate with warfare, where the goal is to destroy the enemy outright, or at least to outlast him until he retreats. It’s the mindset of total warfare – everyone is a target.
I think that Americans tend to idealize revolution, which is logical given our history, and the Irish revolution is no exception. We know there was violence and destruction, but somewhere in our minds we get the idea that it was a glorious fight for freedom against an oppressive aggressor. It may have been that, but it was also a bloody, violent conflict that had no qualms about forcing itself on those who wanted no part in it, and I think it’s important to bear that in mind while reading.
As Henry’s violence escalates (along with the revolution itself), it becomes subtly oppressive – reading the passage where he and his wife are pouring oil into a roof to burn out the soldiers inside is a great one where I was reading along and suddenly just struck by the sheer insanity of what was happening. The plan was so casually introduced that it wasn’t until I was well into reading about the resulting fire and explosion that what they were doing really hit home for me. The planned “hits” that Henry discusses and engages in also stuck with me, as I think we tend to think of revolutions (those that we approve of somehow) as wars, with soldiers on both sides attacking each other. In the reality of the novel however, it truly comes across more as a gang war, with hits and retribution coming fast and furious, killing soldiers, policemen and civilians alike for sometimes flimsy reasons justified as part of the war effort. The tactic Henry discusses of forcing the British to crack down on innocent Irish families is chilling, as again it isn’t a thought process that we associate with warfare, where the goal is to destroy the enemy outright, or at least to outlast him until he retreats. It’s the mindset of total warfare – everyone is a target.
I think that Americans tend to idealize revolution, which is logical given our history, and the Irish revolution is no exception. We know there was violence and destruction, but somewhere in our minds we get the idea that it was a glorious fight for freedom against an oppressive aggressor. It may have been that, but it was also a bloody, violent conflict that had no qualms about forcing itself on those who wanted no part in it, and I think it’s important to bear that in mind while reading.
Academic Journal 6 - 'Ourselves Alone'
I’m thrown by act 2, scene 1, where Donna has a monologue about the devil. I don’t quite know what to make of it. It seems like she is drawing a connection between this devil and her asthma, and says that Liam’s imprisonment made the asthma and devil vanish temporarily. So it seems like Liam and the Devil are tied together, but it seems like such an obviously stated connection that I have trouble accepting it. Liam’s behavior towards her in the rest of the scene certainly indicates he is a relentless and negative influence in her life, but why include this devil business?
Since the devil first appeared while she was with her first husband, and vanished when her second was put away, maybe she has trouble really accepting that she can live without a man in her life. Blaming the devil for things we don’t like is not a new trick, and personifying him into an oppressive presence could be a way of blaming the asthma on an unavoidable evil rather than a husband she could leave. The attacks start while unhappily married, and continue until the man in her life is forcibly separated from her, at which point they clear up. When he is released from prison and returns home to her, the attacks resume. She’s clearly deeply devoted to him, as she tells him in the same scene, and so it would presumably be difficult for her to accept that he is the trigger for her attacks.
I’ve tried to come up with some grander connection for the devil, but I’m hard pressed to do so. He seems to be a Donna-specific tool for the author to externalize the character’s conflict over her marriage. Maybe the last bit of the monologue, where Donna tells us that she asked the Devil to leave her alone and he agrees to do so (though not, she suspects, for long) is a way of hinting at growing strength for the character, that her time away from the husband and devil have shown her a better life that she is almost willing to fight for. This isn’t particularly supported by the end of the play where Donna suggests she has lost the ability to be happy, so maybe the fact that she suspects the devil won’t stay away forever is the key, showing that she believes herself trapped no matter what, with only Liam’s periods of absence to look forward to.
Since the devil first appeared while she was with her first husband, and vanished when her second was put away, maybe she has trouble really accepting that she can live without a man in her life. Blaming the devil for things we don’t like is not a new trick, and personifying him into an oppressive presence could be a way of blaming the asthma on an unavoidable evil rather than a husband she could leave. The attacks start while unhappily married, and continue until the man in her life is forcibly separated from her, at which point they clear up. When he is released from prison and returns home to her, the attacks resume. She’s clearly deeply devoted to him, as she tells him in the same scene, and so it would presumably be difficult for her to accept that he is the trigger for her attacks.
I’ve tried to come up with some grander connection for the devil, but I’m hard pressed to do so. He seems to be a Donna-specific tool for the author to externalize the character’s conflict over her marriage. Maybe the last bit of the monologue, where Donna tells us that she asked the Devil to leave her alone and he agrees to do so (though not, she suspects, for long) is a way of hinting at growing strength for the character, that her time away from the husband and devil have shown her a better life that she is almost willing to fight for. This isn’t particularly supported by the end of the play where Donna suggests she has lost the ability to be happy, so maybe the fact that she suspects the devil won’t stay away forever is the key, showing that she believes herself trapped no matter what, with only Liam’s periods of absence to look forward to.
Academic Journal 5 - 'Waking Ned Devine'
I really liked this film, but I can’t help but wonder why more wasn’t done with the priest and his relationship to the townsfolk. He seems to pop in and out of the narrative without being much a part of it. He sees Morris call the seal, and is reassured by him that he has done a good job, agonizes extremely briefly about the plan to defraud the lottery commission, and performs the funeral service for Ned, but considering the length of the film he’s barely in it, as if he serves only to explain why a priest was driving along the road in time to hit the Witch’s phone box at the end of the film (I assume this is the regular priest returning, but it’s never really clarified).
Many of the characters have these fleeting moments, but theirs seem more substantive. The pub owner appears in a few short segments, but is the one who concocts the plan to open a bank account. He, along with the postmistress, help to set up the evilness of Lizzie, and the postmistress is considered an early potential winner of the lottery. Other characters only appear briefly, but the film makes a point of introducing the priest and showing that he has concerns over his performance in the town and whether the regular priest would approve of the plan. Why add this level of depth to the character if he isn’t going to play a substantive role?
I haven’t figured it out yet, but I have some ideas. Maybe he was in fact the easiest way to set up the other priest driving by in time to hit the phone box. Maybe it’s a commentary on the church focusing on morality over worldly matters (eg, the immorality of fraud vs. the benefit the money will do for the townspeople). Since he goes along with it, maybe it’s a pat on the back for religion starting to come around to the practical side of things. Combine that with the seal incident and a vague knowledge of Selkies in Irish folklore, maybe the church is also perceived as being more willing to connect with “pagan” history and life. Maybe we’re supposed to wonder if the priest is Morris' father, since he seems keen to spend time with him, although that seems unlikely since 10 that would indicate he had been the temporary priest there for some years. At the moment, I lean towards him being a useful tool to explain the priest at the end, and also perhaps to offer a bit of moral justification to the audience, point out that the director/screenwriter considered the ethical implications of what the townspeople were doing, and believes it is plausible that the clergy would go along with it.
Many of the characters have these fleeting moments, but theirs seem more substantive. The pub owner appears in a few short segments, but is the one who concocts the plan to open a bank account. He, along with the postmistress, help to set up the evilness of Lizzie, and the postmistress is considered an early potential winner of the lottery. Other characters only appear briefly, but the film makes a point of introducing the priest and showing that he has concerns over his performance in the town and whether the regular priest would approve of the plan. Why add this level of depth to the character if he isn’t going to play a substantive role?
I haven’t figured it out yet, but I have some ideas. Maybe he was in fact the easiest way to set up the other priest driving by in time to hit the phone box. Maybe it’s a commentary on the church focusing on morality over worldly matters (eg, the immorality of fraud vs. the benefit the money will do for the townspeople). Since he goes along with it, maybe it’s a pat on the back for religion starting to come around to the practical side of things. Combine that with the seal incident and a vague knowledge of Selkies in Irish folklore, maybe the church is also perceived as being more willing to connect with “pagan” history and life. Maybe we’re supposed to wonder if the priest is Morris' father, since he seems keen to spend time with him, although that seems unlikely since 10 that would indicate he had been the temporary priest there for some years. At the moment, I lean towards him being a useful tool to explain the priest at the end, and also perhaps to offer a bit of moral justification to the audience, point out that the director/screenwriter considered the ethical implications of what the townspeople were doing, and believes it is plausible that the clergy would go along with it.
Academic Journal 4 - 'Translations'
I was confused at first when reading this play as to why these characters were studying classical languages – not that it isn’t a worthy pursuit, but the utility of this kind of knowledge in a largely agrarian setting eluded me. What I came to realize though is that it is all a part of Friel’s take on language as a tool of conquest. The languages they study are the languages of empires, classical Greek from the Hellenistic period and Latin from the Romans. Both were spread through conquest, and thus became critical to communication among the conquered. This is paralleled by the British military surveyors who are working to make a detailed map of Ireland (surely a helpful tool to retain control of the island), and to translate the Irish place names into English. Although they claim that their aim is to help the Irish join the world community, it is clearly the imposing of a conqueror’s language on the conquered. As Lancey and Owen work to translate local names, Owen muses on the strange way they came about (while marveling at the bewildering variety of recorded names for a single feature) and debates whether it is better to translate the sounds or the meaning. In either case, the translation doesn’t really mean what the original does.
This struggle carries over into the issue of the incoming national school, which is expected to replace the local hedge school almost entirely, providing a modern curriculum with study of the modern world in place of the hedge school’s emphasis on classical and historic learning. Of course, this instruction will include learning the English language at the expense of Irish. In this way, the British seem to be trying to rob Ireland of her history, renaming landmarks and reeducating the people in a calculated effort to bring the Irish firmly under control. Loosing their language will make it much harder for the folklore and history of the people to survive, allowing them to (in theory) rewrite not only the map, but the entire history of a people.
This struggle carries over into the issue of the incoming national school, which is expected to replace the local hedge school almost entirely, providing a modern curriculum with study of the modern world in place of the hedge school’s emphasis on classical and historic learning. Of course, this instruction will include learning the English language at the expense of Irish. In this way, the British seem to be trying to rob Ireland of her history, renaming landmarks and reeducating the people in a calculated effort to bring the Irish firmly under control. Loosing their language will make it much harder for the folklore and history of the people to survive, allowing them to (in theory) rewrite not only the map, but the entire history of a people.
Academic Journal 3 - 'My Left Foot'
I thought that the director’s decision to jump in time from the “present” of Christy’s recognition dinner and the past events of his life, all framed within the story of an attendant (who would later become his wife) reading the book he was being recognized for, to be intriguing and very successful. The vignettes between Christy and the nurse broke up some of the harsher sequences of his life story, and the change in their relationship over the course of the film seemed to mirror the viewer’s own in many ways, moving from a pitying detachment to, frankly, near-outright dislike, and finally a warming respect as his accomplishments rack up. The scenes presented are often not very complimentary towards Christy, and I think the director very much risked alienating viewers and turning them against him, but the inclusion of these interspersed moments of human interaction in the present helped keep us grounded in his humanity.
An especially interesting moment came after the suicide attempt sequence when the camera snapped back to the present focused on Christy himself, as if he had been reliving the events in his mind and was coming back to reality. What made this powerful for me was that until that point, every time that such a snap to the present had occurred it had focused around the nurse character as she read his autobiography, letting the audience see and identify with her growing admiration and fascination. I felt that it humanized Christy, who had increasingly been a notably drunk and depressed jackass, reminding the viewer that he would to some extent overcome what we were being shown. I think that it also helped to develop the relationship between the two characters as they begin to share in the story – it is no longer an artifact handed from writer to reader, but a reality that each is experiencing simultaneously (relatively speaking). Without this moment, I would have had a much harder time accepting the later relationship and future marriage, but this tiny moment of sharing and connecting made it far more plausible to me as a viewer.
An especially interesting moment came after the suicide attempt sequence when the camera snapped back to the present focused on Christy himself, as if he had been reliving the events in his mind and was coming back to reality. What made this powerful for me was that until that point, every time that such a snap to the present had occurred it had focused around the nurse character as she read his autobiography, letting the audience see and identify with her growing admiration and fascination. I felt that it humanized Christy, who had increasingly been a notably drunk and depressed jackass, reminding the viewer that he would to some extent overcome what we were being shown. I think that it also helped to develop the relationship between the two characters as they begin to share in the story – it is no longer an artifact handed from writer to reader, but a reality that each is experiencing simultaneously (relatively speaking). Without this moment, I would have had a much harder time accepting the later relationship and future marriage, but this tiny moment of sharing and connecting made it far more plausible to me as a viewer.
Academic Journal 2 - 'The Butcher Boy'
I noticed that American culture cropped up almost incidentally in this film, primarily in media clips on the television and wireless sets. Footage of nuclear testing is shown, reports on the Cuban Missile Crisis and the voice of JFK are heard, and bits of the famous “Duck and Cover’ instructional film are played during Francie’s rampage at the Nugent house. The most relatable instances I saw were in his viewing of American television shows and films on the family television.
Before his father breaks the TV, Francie is seen watching two American shows – The Lone Ranger and The Fugitive. I wonder if these specific shows are used to highlight his developing personal reality. The relationship between the Ranger and Tonto seems to parallel Francie’s perception of his relationship with Joe, and the idea of a secret crusader putting wrongs right seems to fit right in with his actions towards his perceived enemies. Francies claims of persecution and of being framed could easily match to the premise of The Prisoner, who was wrongly accused of his wife’s murder and escaped police custody to find the real perpetrator. Francie’s attempts to escape and reunite with Joe, even after Joe has pretty clearly moved on, seem almost a mish-mash of the two characters, and his turning to the visions of Mary (initially implied to be lies) a parallel for the higher calling both the Prisoner and Ranger share.
Francie is also shown watching the film The Brain from Planet Arous, an American gem about a brain-shaped alien that takes control of a human body to wreak havoc on the Earth (a second brain later arrives to reveal that the first is a wanted criminal). I think that this too connects to Francie’s development (or degeneration), not because he was in some way possessed, but because he perceives himself as a promising young man who is driven to increasingly horrific acts by forces beyond his control. Perhaps it was just me, but I really got a strong sense of inevitability form the story arc, as if what happened couldn’t have gone differently given the situation – Francie’s father, mother, friends and enemies all coming together to push him in a pre-set direction.
Before his father breaks the TV, Francie is seen watching two American shows – The Lone Ranger and The Fugitive. I wonder if these specific shows are used to highlight his developing personal reality. The relationship between the Ranger and Tonto seems to parallel Francie’s perception of his relationship with Joe, and the idea of a secret crusader putting wrongs right seems to fit right in with his actions towards his perceived enemies. Francies claims of persecution and of being framed could easily match to the premise of The Prisoner, who was wrongly accused of his wife’s murder and escaped police custody to find the real perpetrator. Francie’s attempts to escape and reunite with Joe, even after Joe has pretty clearly moved on, seem almost a mish-mash of the two characters, and his turning to the visions of Mary (initially implied to be lies) a parallel for the higher calling both the Prisoner and Ranger share.
Francie is also shown watching the film The Brain from Planet Arous, an American gem about a brain-shaped alien that takes control of a human body to wreak havoc on the Earth (a second brain later arrives to reveal that the first is a wanted criminal). I think that this too connects to Francie’s development (or degeneration), not because he was in some way possessed, but because he perceives himself as a promising young man who is driven to increasingly horrific acts by forces beyond his control. Perhaps it was just me, but I really got a strong sense of inevitability form the story arc, as if what happened couldn’t have gone differently given the situation – Francie’s father, mother, friends and enemies all coming together to push him in a pre-set direction.
Academic Journal 1 - 'Dancing at Lughnasa'
I found the narrative style of this play to be very interesting; the narrating character (Michael as an adult) fills us in on the setting and history of the other characters before the narrative begins, and tells us of the fates of the other characters after it ends, and in-between speaks the lines of his own younger self without actually playing the part (Friel dictates that dialogue I addressed to the imaginary “Boy,” while Michael speaks in his narratorial, adult voice). There is no actor playing the part of young Michael, and all physical interactions with him are pantomimed; his presence is referred to by other characters and implied by his ability to present this story in flashback as an adult, but his physical absence leads the reader to forget that he is there, only “feeling” present when attention is directly called to him.
In reading, it feels as though Friel has taken an external narrator and a focal character and rolled them into one part, moving freely in time and story-space. This technique allows Friel to set up the story and give us a glimpse of the future via a narrator without having an awkward, unexplained “extra” character wandering around observing things (or clumsily written into the background). Using the actor playing adult Michael to voice the young Michael as well creates a connection between the past and present, forging a strong and explicit link between the focal character and external narrator which would have been weakened by having a child play the part.
At the same time, I feel that this technique risks casting Michael as a particularly unreliable narrator. The entire narrative is presented as the memory of a child as recounted by him as an adult, putting a particularly lengthy gap for memory to overcome and implying that it is subject to forgotten details, shuffled timelines and mental editing. The child who becomes our focal character often appears to be absent, even when he is implicitly present (and then, only rarely in the same room as the adult characters), and moreover is presented as preoccupied with building kites, hiding and bushes, writing to Santa and so on. The idea that a child with such a busy schedule would have paid any attention to the goings-on of the house, much less committed them all to memory, seems questionable.
I suspect that reading the play rather than watching it performed weakens these effects; although I knew that Boy and Michael are the same actor using the same voice, in my mind Boy always sounded like a child, and Michael like an adult. Conversely, this tendency to forget the link between them also seemed to reduce the sense of unreliability; it was only when I forced myself to picture the play as performed that these things occurred to me.
In reading, it feels as though Friel has taken an external narrator and a focal character and rolled them into one part, moving freely in time and story-space. This technique allows Friel to set up the story and give us a glimpse of the future via a narrator without having an awkward, unexplained “extra” character wandering around observing things (or clumsily written into the background). Using the actor playing adult Michael to voice the young Michael as well creates a connection between the past and present, forging a strong and explicit link between the focal character and external narrator which would have been weakened by having a child play the part.
At the same time, I feel that this technique risks casting Michael as a particularly unreliable narrator. The entire narrative is presented as the memory of a child as recounted by him as an adult, putting a particularly lengthy gap for memory to overcome and implying that it is subject to forgotten details, shuffled timelines and mental editing. The child who becomes our focal character often appears to be absent, even when he is implicitly present (and then, only rarely in the same room as the adult characters), and moreover is presented as preoccupied with building kites, hiding and bushes, writing to Santa and so on. The idea that a child with such a busy schedule would have paid any attention to the goings-on of the house, much less committed them all to memory, seems questionable.
I suspect that reading the play rather than watching it performed weakens these effects; although I knew that Boy and Michael are the same actor using the same voice, in my mind Boy always sounded like a child, and Michael like an adult. Conversely, this tendency to forget the link between them also seemed to reduce the sense of unreliability; it was only when I forced myself to picture the play as performed that these things occurred to me.
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