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.
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