Cultural Invasion

In cultural invasion, the actors draw the thematic content of their action from their own values and ideology; their starting point is their own world, from which they enter the world of those they invade. In cultural synthesis, the actors who come from "another world" to the world of the people do so not as invaders. They do not come to teach or to transmit or to give anything, but rather to learn, with the people, about the people's world.

~ Paulo Friere, Pedagogy of the Oppressed

Let us acknowledge first that we do, in fact, come from different worlds. (We includes all of us, though it can be defined differently depending on the situation.) By what authority do we think we have the right or even the ability to enter into a "world" that we do not come from, and therefore cannot immediately identify with, and bestow answers upon people we have failed to listen to?

Might we not enter first into the lived experiences of others before writing a prescription? Better yet, are we willing to let those we wish to "help" do the prescribing?

The Little Things...

Sometimes it's the little things that will send me into a fit of laughter. Like today, for example, when I was reading through one of my student's applications that read something like, "I am very excited about studying in Whales, England." I'm confident that if my Jonah student doesn't sort it out before she goes, a kind Welsh person will inform her that Wales is neither a tribute to a giant sea mammal nor in England. But she was close, I suppose, on both counts.

Sometimes the little things make me want to kick a cat. Like yesterday when I not only put a giant dent in the car I bought a week ago by trying to avoid hitting a baby carriage, but missed crossing the Hudson River Rail Bridge for the first time by 10 minutes. It's a little thing though.

On occasion, the little coincidences that pepper my day or week seem to create arrows pointing to who knows where, but they're still pointing. Like this past Saturday when I was doing a bit of gardening and came across an old metal toy airplane. Glenn said he dug it up last year and it must be from the 1950's. It made me think of my dad. I turned it over in my hand and inspected it. It was well made, not like the plastic riff raff filling up our houses and landfills now a days. Then I noticed the print on the side, "Made in the USA. Lancaster, PA." Huh. What a funny little coincidence.

Here's to musing on the little things... and what of you?

Moral Choice of Acceptance of Complexity

In the last few years and particularly in the past year, I've become concerned about a lot of things I didn't know much about before. Things I don't know much about now but enough to be concerned. Things like war and the way we talk about war, think about war, perpetuate war, protest war. Things like poverty and the way hunger and starvation feel far away and for a dollar or donation we can at least forget about it for a while. Things like consumerism and how we are told our purpose in life is to consume, whether goods, ideas, experiences, or even our relationships. But this next one has been rolling around and reeling in my head as well--the misuse and overuse of our earth's resources and environment. The amazing thing is that these are all linked. War, poverty, consumerism, and environmental collapse.

Nobody likes to think about these things too much, including me. What a downer. What a depressing mess. What an overwhelming conglomeration of facts and figures that I feel as an individual can do little about. I'm not really going to even start in on those facts and figures and whether or not this whole thing is apocalyptic or "cyclical". For one thing, it is irrelevant. For another, anyone who digs a fingernail's depth into the existing information out there (and probably those who can conjure up their own powers of observation) will be able to deduce that we are not living in the most equitable, sustainable, and healthy way that we are capable of. We're not even trying very hard, most of us, or thinking much about how we could do better.

Instead, we are still saying things like "the economy would be better if the consumer would trust the market again" and "China and India aren't going to cut down their carbon emissions, so why should we?" Is this really our best? Is this even aiming at better?

I just attended a 350 event. Please refer to www.350.org to understand what that number means and why people all over the world attended events and organized today, October 24. It was a simple affair in a small town on a rainy night somewhere in the mountains of New York. It involved watching yet another compelling, depressing, state-of-the-Earth film (I seem to be watching lots of those lately...). I'm glad I went and I like the fact that people care sometimes. And that ultimately, millions do around the world. Even still, I had to drive a car to get there and I'm aware of the fact that as a Study Abroad Advisor I encourage students on a daily basis to fly on an airplane to some other place in the world. Flying on airplanes is about the worst thing a person can do when it comes to leaving a carbon footprint. But then again, people left with their own unchallenged worldview, particularly from powerful and influential nations like the United States, tend to carry on with the "business as usual" model and end up supporting (knowingly or unknowingly) oppressive structures or practices--like war, poverty, environmental degradation amongst others. But when they get outside of that, often times it is a powerful enough experience to challenge their thinking and affect transformation of their actions... So which is worse? Carbon footprints or missing out on the opportunity for a deeply meaningful cross-cultural experience?

I do not stand outside of my own judgment on these issues. I stand within a multiplicity of moral paradoxes.

I'm not sure more judgment is what the world needs either. Perhaps a bit more concern and awareness would be helpful, and certainly creativity and collaboration would accomplish more than the current modus operendi of so many of us. I like when Roland Robertson states that he is arguing for the "moral acceptance of complexity" in his book on globalization (1992). Why is that a moral choice? Because complexity suggests valid differences of perspectives, often clashing perspectives. No one person or group can fully know or understood the whole of any matter. Neither you nor I have the corner on all truth. This means we need each other.

Square One: Acceptance of complexity. These problems are way over my head and they are way over yours. But we need to strive to acknowledge what we face and work with one another to act in such a way socially, politically, economically , mentally, and spiritually so that we seek to "do no harm," acknowlege when we do, and then to do so much more in a positive direction. I do not feel a sense of ease or safety about the way that we are living on this planet. I do not have the Get Out of Jail Free card. But I do have a sense of hope in the possibilities of doing better with others for the sake of other human beings and the earth that we share.

P.S. If you are interested in facts and figures on the environment, let me know and I'd be happy to point you in the direction of several hundred resources.

The Return

I have been doing some research for an upcoming job interview in the study abroad field. One of my potential employers has a fantastic resource on all things related to cultures and study abroad. As I am reading, I am realizing that I am still very much going through what in the field we call "reverse culture shock". This basically describes the re-entry process and the challenges and joys that happen for most if not all people when they return from living and traveling overseas.

Typically, the reverse culture shock process is longer than the cultural adjustment phase that a person goes through when they go to a new country. There are a lot of reasons for this. I knew all of this before I came home. Don't we all like to think we are special and somehow above or beyond what "normal" people go through?

I think I have fallen prey to this sneaky little hope. That somehow I could maybe...well, not totally avoid this whole messy deal of smashing these radically different experiences together into a coherent and synthesized whole, but that maybe just...I could shorten it, or skim it, or shirk it, or control how I experience it, somehow.

I have an announcement to make though. I am just like everyone else. I am still experiencing both visible and invisible manifestations of this process. Did I mention I'm not very patient? That means that not only is there a small part of me that is annoyed that people who know about this whole deal and tell students about it as a part of their job aren't somehow immune to experiencing it themselves but that I am doubly irritated when I'm not sure how long this process will take!

There is a sweetness too when I give myself over to accepting that I am going to feel the way I feel for a while. Maybe a long time. And then, I can embrace this whole re-entry process and learn from it. The overseas experience is not complete without it. Perhaps if I am fortunate enough to get a job in study abroad in the near future, I will also be a better advisor because I remember what it was like. What it is like. I will know how they feel. I will be able to relate to them in a way I would not have been able to otherwise.

It is always exciting and interesting and fun to talk about and remember going abroad and adjusting to a new culture and country. People will ask what that was like. But what the photo album doesn't show and the part that is hard to talk about to friends and family is the part when you come home and have to sift and sort everything into something that makes sense in light of your past, your present, and ultimately your future. It is the Return and it too is a journey.

Falling Whistles

In Venice Beach California, there is a little garage behind a house with cars, surf boards, and bicycles. This little garage also contains an office where people are campaigning for peace in Congo and igniting dreams of change in this war-torn African country and also in our American society. Welcome to Falling Whistles.

Falling Whistles started with an individual on a journey who encountered the realities of the "world's largest war." The story is best told by its author at www.FallingWhistles.com but the origin of the name comes from the front lines in the Congo. Child soldiers who are too small to carry guns are given whistles and sent to the front lines of battle. The founders of Falling Whistles are hoping to turn their weapon of war into a symbol of protest and peace in the United States.

The Congo feels far away. It doesn't seem possible that over 5 million people have died in this conflict in the last decade. I cannot absorb that number and I'm not sure I want to. It is tempting to put this and many other facts into the part of my brain that tries to cope with the fact that Darfur, Gaza, Afghanistan, Iraq, and Burma still exist they way they do.

The truth of the matter is that a part of the Congo is in the computer that I am typing this on. It's in my cellphone. It's probably in yours.

Congo is one of the most resource rich countries in the world. In addition to having the capability to feed the world's population until 2050, it is rich in minerals. Gold, copper, tin, coltan. This last one is the one that ends up in the small electronic devices we buy, such as our cell phones, iPods, digital cameras, and laptops because it is able to generate a powerful electric charge. Illegal exportation of these minerals is funding the conflict in Congo.
What does this all mean? Easy answers are not available but people who can start thinking about these issues are. If we pay attention, we may discover new ways (however big or small) to use our privilege, power, mobility, and money to enact change. Holocaust survivor and peace advocate Elie Wiesel challenges us to do everything within our domain to stop oppression and injustice. this means in your backyard. Your backyard may be bigger than you realize.

The founder of Falling Whistles said something this past week that made me think about things in a different way. He basically commented that while the human death toll is horrible, the real tragedy lies in the loss of human potential and creativity. We will never know how our world would be different had 5.4 million Congolese people had the opportunity to reach their human potential.

What could have been...In a world where my cell phone contains a piece of the Congo. My liberation as a human is bound up with another.

The place to go from here is to start where you are. Visit Falling Whistles and read the story, learn more about the situation and how you can become more involved. In the future, you may be able to support a bill in Congress that would push for more accountability in conflict mines in Congo. You can start to think about how your life choices affects the human in the room next to you, or the house next to you, or the state next to you,or the country next to you.

You can buy a whistle and wear it as a symbol of protest against the atrocities in Congo. If you buy the whistle off of the website 100% of the proceeds go to an organization in Congo that is working to rehabilitate war-torn children.

You can tell the story of the Congo to others.

The world is changed by those who speak out. Whistleblowers. Rarely understood in their time, history looks back and calls them courageous. (Falling Whistles)

Lake Murray-Irmo Rotary Club Final Presentation

Rotary Presentation to Lake-Murray Irmo Rotary Club, August 19th, 2009

*I had a slideshow with pictures showing the individuals I spoke about.

Good morning. I have thought about this time with you all for many months now and I’m thinking about how much has happened since the last time I saw you and I’m already sensing the impossibility of conveying to you what 10 months in Ireland as an Ambassadorial Scholar has meant to me. Since it is an impossible task, I will simply say thank you with the greatest sincerity.

I want to thank Rod Funderburk particularly for his continued support since fall 2006 and to this day. As a small gesture of gratitude I have framed a photo that I took at the church where William Butler Yeat’s was buried just outside a town called Sligo in Ireland. Rod, for all of the time you have spent helping me prepare for interviews before the committee, for sharing helpful hints before going to Ireland, for reading my blog and asking how things are going by email, and for helping me reconnect with you all, the Lake Murray-Irmo Rotary club, my sponsor club, I thank you.

Today I am going to tell you stories rather than give a presentation. Ireland has a rich history in both written and oral storytelling, and so it seems appropriate for me to share about this year and Ireland through telling you about the people who have impacted me the most and through the stories that will be with me for the rest of my life. The most important part of the Rotary Ambassadorial scholarship is the relationships that build trust, understanding, and friendship between people. I want to tell you about a few of these relationships and also the experiences I have had. I will show a brief slideshow at the end, and take some questions if you have them.

I want to start by telling you about a couple that I met in my hometown of Lititz, PA just before I left for Northern Ireland. I was working at a café and John and Eleanor Smyth came through the door and asked for a cup of tea. I noticed their accent and asked where they were from. No only were they from the same county in Northern Ireland that I was about to move to, but John was the treasurer of the Cookstown Rotary Club. You can imagine that we had a conversation at some length at that point. Before I had even left the United States, I was already invited to come speak at their Rotary club and invited to their home. I did visit their Rotary club at Christmastime and I also attended their annual Fundraiser Rotary Ball where I met their daughter who is my age. When I stayed with them for a weekend it turns out, that John and Eleanor are very fascinated with my hometown, Lancaster County PA. It was strange but neat to see little things from ‘home’ in their house and to talk about Lancaster as all three of us were locals. They picked me up the night before I flew home from Belfast and they took me out to dinner and then dropped me off as a family at the airport and waited with me before boarding my flight. They plan on visiting Lancaster in the near future and I am hoping that myself and my parents can welcome them as they had welcomed me.

This is John and Anne MacCrossan. John was my Rotary host counselor. He and his wife Anne gave me a lovely welcome when I arrived and since John is the Assistant District Governor and lives in Derry where I lived, I was lucky enough to drive with him many times to visit different Rotary clubs. John seems to know every rock, tree, hill and church in Ireland and he would tell me the stories of so-and-so’s farm or who got married in that church and what the name of that town means in Irish. John and Anne also shared about their life experiences from the Troubles with me, which they said they hadn’t really started talking about until a few years back. One of the many he told me was about a day in his life during the Troubles as a bank manager. One day he watched as a man came out from the pub across the street and left a parcel lean against the bank wall. He came in and said, “I found this in the pub across the street. It’s a bomb. I put it outside but you might want to tell your people.” John notified the police and he said they watched as the British army shot the bomb into a harmless oblivion the rest of the afternoon. He laughed as he recounted, “It seems to me that the man in the pub made it pretty clear where his priorities lie.” Some of the stories did not end so well. But John and Anne helped me understand more about life in Northern Ireland, the good and the bad, and showed me Irish hospitality.

These are my classmates. There were about 16 of us and I really appreciated how our diversity enriched our classroom discussions and weekly interactions. About half were Irish (Protestants, Catholics, North and South, younger and more experienced), there were 5 of us from the United States, and one person from Japan, Colombia, Sri Lanka, Ghana, and Canada. We got to meet John Hume, the Nobel Peace Prize Leaureate for his work with David Trimble in bringing their two political parties to the table to sign the 1998 Good Friday peace agreement in Belfast. I’d run into John Hume sometimes in town. He has Alzheimer’s disease but is still active in the community, which I find very inspiring.

This is Heather. She was in Oakland, CA as a counselor for 10 years before joining the program at Magee. She was a Rotary Scholar in Argentina 10 years ago. When I first met her, I didn’t anticipate that we would become great friends because our personalities were so different but in the end, we not only became classmates, but we were also roommates and eventually coworkers! I can now call her my sister and she has inspired me to think in new ways about social justice, education, young people, and oppression. We frequently had long chats while walking along the River Foyle, that runs through the center of Derry City. We enjoyed the ‘craic’, which means “the fun” or “what’s good”, in Ireland.

This is Adriana. She is from Colombia and was also in the Peace and Conflict Resolution program. She has a 9 year old daughter named Isa. We shared similar tastes in music and the love of philosophies and theories. She became an invaluable friend and I appreciated how she just embraced Northern Ireland as her own and enjoys life.

This is Nora and her partner Tim of 30 years. Nora just celebrated her 64th birthday before I left. She was also in my program but this is us in her home in Donegal across the border. I view Nora as an elder and a personal mentor as well as a friend. One of her lifelong passions is critical feminism. Growing up, feminism was the other “F” word, so I wrestled with a long time about what she was trying to say to us as her classmates, to me as her friend, and to the world in general. When I concluded that she is interested in recognizing the strengths of all people, from within their gender as well as without, and empowering those people to understand and utilize their strengths in more equal and just societies that recognize difference as strength, I decided that I may just be a feminist of sorts as well.

I made many other valuable friendships in my class, but these I wanted to mention specifically.

This is Kevin. He is from Derry, born and raised. I didn’t intend on finding a relationship while overseas, though everyone else seemed convinced I would. We dated for a the better part of my time in Ireland. I have to say that I think I’ve learned more about peace and conflict resolution from being in a cross-cultural relationship than I have in any class—which to me actually speaks to the power of human relationships. Kevin is 28 years old and an Irish Republican Nationalist, also a part of what is commonly referred to as the Catholic community in Northern Ireland. I spent many evenings with him and his family over a cup of tea by the wood stove talking about any and everything. I learned a lot from him and his family and cherished their company. I was also privileged to hear their own personal experiences during the Troubles of what it was like to be a Catholic during that time, stories that would break your heart or make you laugh or both. Sometimes Kevin and I would argue about the politics of Northern Ireland. You see, I was studying it full time in class, in books, in seminars and through personal observation about the city that I lived in that remains very divided to this day. But he would remind me, Sam, this is my history and this is my life. It is not as simple as your books make it. And he was right and I needed to be reminded of that. Life is not that simple. But we challenged each other and learned from each other and had lots of good times too, the highlight of which was camping down the West Coast of Ireland in May. It’s a trip I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

This is Dr. Jim Skelly. I met him at a conference in DC before I left for Ireland. He is a visiting Peace professor at Ulster, Magee, my university in Derry. He is also the Resident Director of a study abroad program based in PA near my hometown. Jim is my academic mentor and he will be one of my graders for my masters thesis due next month. But he has also become a personal mentor to me. We have shared many dinners and conversations about life and the work which we are both passionate about, namely, international education and peace and justice, which is the topic of my dissertation.

I traveled a bit while abroad. These are 2 other Rotary Ambassadorial Scholars with whom I spent a weekend in Nice, France with. I also visited a friend from Carolina who is in the Peace Corps in Morocco right now. As it turns out, I don’t speak Tashelheet but thankfully she does and because of that we were together able to spend time with the Moroccans and have dinner or conversations with the locals from Larba Sahel, Agadir, Marrakech, and Tiznit and they welcomed me as with warmth and hospitality as they have welcomed Hanneke. I also made it to Scotland and spent a week in London for spring break, where I trained part of the time for my summer job in Belfast.

Heather and I, through interesting circumstances, ended up working for People to People International this past summer in Belfast. People to People is a US based organizations that sends US students on study travel tours around the world. The purpose of their programs is similar to the Ambassadorial scholarship—peace through mutual understanding. This was the first summer ever that US delegations would be visiting Northern Ireland. Heather and I developed a pilot project called the Road to Peace, which I found a bit corny in name though the title wasn’t our choice. Nonetheless, we spoke with over 700 students this past summer and designed a 90 minute seminar to talk about identity, conflict, the Troubles, peace and the peace process in Northern Ireland. We had them read quotes from young people from NI and we also talked about how the issues discussed were every bit as important in the US context. We had two local speakers come in and share their story about what it was like growing up in Northern Ireland. One speaker was from a Catholic background and one from a Protestant background. They also doubled as my friends, housemates, or classmates back in Derry! The seminar was a success and I learned so much from the way that the students engaged in the issues, asked questions, and reflected with enthusiasm on their own experience on their program.

Now I am back in PA with my family. I am finishing my master’s degree, looking for jobs in international education, and keeping my eyes open for whatever is next. I recognize that so many people have poured into my life, particularly this past year, and I am hoping that I have given back and will continue to find opportunities to give back in the spirit of service that Rotary promotes.

There are so many other things I could say, but I will leave it at that and say thank you once again. It has been a growing year for me and one that I will be especially grateful for the rest of my life. Please continue to support the Rotary Foundation and Ambassadorial scholars because there is no substitute for face-to-face encounters, building relationships, and service to others. Here is a brief slideshow of pictures from my year, and if we have time, I will take questions if you have them.

Home

You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right.

Maya Angelou


I'm home. I am aware all at once of the significance of this past year, the privilege of this present moment to enjoy the people and places I have missed, and to be excited about the unknown and impending future.

To the Rotarians who have hosted me, welcomed me, written to me, shared stories with me, and listened to me this past year... I thank you for your generosity, kindness, and support.

To my family and friends in the States who have kept up with me, visited me, and welcomed me back... you are my home.

To those I have lived with, laughed with, studied with, worked with, traveled with, and struggled with this year in Northern Ireland... you are missed and deeply appreciated.

My time as an Ambassadorial Rotary Scholar has come to an end, but I will continue this blog about the things in life which compel me to write. I also look forward to returning to South Carolina to share with the Lake Murray-Irmo club about this past year and anticipate future involvement in Rotary, international education, and peace and conflict issues.

Future reflections are likely, however, for now...

Slan go foil, Derry.

Orangemen Parades

Marching season in Northern Ireland...historical, controversial, political, religious, cultural, all of the above and for some none of the above. The following is an excerpt from the CAIN website.

For many, [parades] fulfill a social, political, and religious role. The actual number of annual parades has been increasing steadily and substantially over the past 10 years, with 1995 seeing a total of 3,500 parades throughout Northern Ireland (an increase of 43 per cent from 1986). Of this total, 2,581 parades and marches were Loyalist and 302 were Nationalist. The cost of policing these Parades is large, with the policing bill in 1995 having exceeded 2 million pounds, and estimates for 1996 being in excess of 20 million pounds.

Besides being expensive to police, what are the parades all about? I am pondering this question as I recall the biggest parade of the year--the 12th of July. This year the parades were on the 13th, because the 12th fell on a Sunday. The Orange Order observes the Christian Sabbath. The events of the 12th are the most celebrated Ulster Protestant tradition of the year. On the eve of the 12th, bonfires blaze late into the night as a part of the celebrations. Like many holidays in Northern Ireland, it is a commemorative event. Essentially, the Orange Order and many Ulster Protestants are remembering well-known battles such as the Boyne, Somme, and Seige of Derry. Or maybe they are just gathering for the craic with their friends and don't really think on the symbols and rituals of the day. However, symbol and ritual appear extensively on the 12th and their role in the tradition bears mentioning.

On this day, the Orangemen who are members of the Orange Order march, often accompanied by flute and drum bands. They wear the orange sashes and sometimes bowler hats and 'left-right-left' behind large flags identifying which lodge they hail from. Limavady, Donegal, Dungiven, Londonderry. The name 'Orange Order' honors William of Orange, the Dutch-born prince who became the Protestant King of Scotland, England and Ireland in the late 1600's. He is famous and celebrated for defeating his enemies (which were quite often, Catholic majority armies) in well-known battles such as the Battle of the Boyne. The Orange Order interesting for many reasons, which I will not explore in this blog. I will simply remark on the day I observed the marches.

I had heard so much about these marches. I was now going to witness the biggest one of the year. I last minute joined some friends (all foreign) and headed to the Fountain in Derry...the only predominantly and strongly self-identified Protestant/Loyalist area left in the Cityside of Derry. The curbstones were freshly painted in blue, red and white (colors of the Union flag) for the occasion. It has been four years since the Orangemen have been permitted to march in Derry.

People were gathered for the festivities and enjoying the food and drink. Walking down the Strand Road I could hear the parades before I could see them. I also knew something was afoot because the riot cars were about and the police had a more visible presence with bigger guns than normal and the rest of the town this side of the Foyle was quieter than normal.

I was personally struck with the mix of political and religious symbols and ritual so that one was the other. The flags depicted battle scenes with King William and/or religious Christian messages like "No cross, No Crown", or "Faith Defenders" with depictions of Christ but also pictures of the Battle of the Boyne, Siege of Derry, etc. I turned to my left and the murals on the walls in the Fountain also displayed similar messages. On a backdrop of orange with the purple star of the Orange Order (which was used to identify Williamite forces), the phrase painted in bold purple declared "In God We Trust." And I couldn't help noticing its proximity to the murals celebrating Loyalist paramilitaries, British army services, and the former police services in Northern Ireland. Made me wonder in whom really the trust was in and what exactly was being entrusted.

I also couldn't help reflecting back to my own country's blend of faith and war. The Bush administrations choice of language around the American "crusade" in the so-called 'war on terror'. Pat Robertson provides a good example of someone who dangerously puts politics and faith to bed together in what I would describe as an unholy matrimony. “The Lord had some very encouraging news for George Bush. What I heard [from God] was that Bush is now positioned to have victory after victory and that his second term is going to be one of triumph, which is pretty strong stuff.” (January 3, 2005, 700 Club) And God Bless America...the same questions enter my mind. Language is important.

As I contemplated this intersection between not just faith and politics but also culture, history and heritage, one of my friends overheard a woman say to her neighbor, "The sun always shines on the righteous." She was serious and it was sunny outside, noteworthy in this part of the world. The flutes, bagpipes, and drum beats surrounded us. Some of the young people were wearing glasses with union flags for the lenses. I thought it was an interesting visual in both the literal and metaphorical sense.

One of the guys who was in my course this year was marching as an Orangeman. He never mentioned that he was a part of the Orange Order and we tried to wave and get his attention but he pretended not to see us and the second time we saw him on his route back, he was carrying a flag and used it to partially obstruct our view of him. I wondered why? We didn't know. But it added to the strangeness and impression of the experience for me.

A friend of mine goes the 12th nearly every year, as most Ulster Protestants do. She goes to see family and friends, which maybe she only sees on that occasion every year. Her father is an Orangeman and for her it was a time for friends, a time for family and food and the 'craic.' Tradition, history, culture, religion...more of one to one and more of another to another. From an outsider's perspective, I found it difficult to sort out my own reactions and thoughts regarding the events and the symbols and the various meanings attached to the day.

Rituals and symbols are powerful and they are an important expression of our identities. The parades of Northern Ireland are a really great example of how these all interplay.

Dad

Father's Day is tomorrow and this blog is dedicated Bryan L. Martin. Dad.

The garage door closes and the sound of heavy boots hitting the cold pavement floor echoes through the kitchen. A few minutes later, Dad comes in covered in dirt, grease and soot from a hard days' work and usually stripped of the soiled clothing. We'd listen for that sound and hope that our friends weren't over when Dad made his way upstairs to the shower in his whitey tighties. There were several memorable and unfortunate run-ins of this sort, but it was the way things were and we still have a laugh about those times.

Dad's work is really inextricable from Dad. He loves his work. Unless the truck breaks down and he is at a job site an hour away, or the check that will pay the bills still hasn't been paid on the promised pay date, or worst of all---the government interferes with rigid rules and layers of incompetent bureaucracy. But most of the time, the thrill of winning the bid on a big job, or finding several tons of copper at the site, or running errands with Frodo the ever faithful Golden Retreiver by his side makes Dad's day's work enjoyable. And his experience, expertise and creativity is of a kind largely unknown and definitely under-appreciated. A year ago I met a guy who frequently runs into Dad at his work and he said to me, "You're Bryan Martin's daughter? I have a lot of respect for your Dad" and continued to tell me how you could just tell he loved what he was doing and that he knew they could count on him for honest and dependable business. I was so proud of him. No matter what job I have had, like it or not, I feel deeply that to do the job well and to be dependable is a matter of personal pride and joy. This is not something I came up with, it is something I watched and learned.

My parent's promised us we would go to Disney World when Jenae turned 5. Her 22 birthday was last week and we have yet to set foot as a family into Magic Kingdom. Nobody much cared though because family vacation was a priority for Dad. Tent camping and canoeing down creeks in the mountains of PA, running around East Coast beaches with my sisters, and riding in the back of the pickup truck to these destinations are some of my fondest memories. The fun was in throwing ourselves into nature and fighting with each other (and sometimes cooperating) but spending the time with each other nonetheless. We were after adventures and fun didn't depend on how much money we could spend or if we stayed in a nice hotel. I grew up learning that quality time spent with others was the bedrock of good fun and good relationships. There is also no substitute for time and encounter with others in nature.

Dad and I argue with each other about politics, religion, and social issues. In some ways, we just like the fight but conviction is deeply rooted in both of us. My sisters and Mom shake their heads and say how we are so much alike, which is exactly NOT what I want to hear when I feel he is being so stubborn and unrelenting! They are right though. We are very similar and I think it is also a great strength and weakness on both our parts. At the end of the day though, Dad cares about others and loves his family and takes care of his community--all of the things that make politics, religion and social issues worth anything in the first place. I hope that in my life I serve as selflessly and quietly as he has.

Dad has never really been a phone person. Unfortunately, when I moved away from home and went to university, traveled, and pursued various jobs, 'catching up' on the day to day things is somewhat difficult for this reason. Dad has also never really been much of a computer person, though in recent years he's come to terms with the benefits of fast and modern communication. Even still, I was really surprised to hear that Dad kept up with my blog regularly this year. He reads every single entry. Knowing this fact is such an encouragement to me and just one more way that I feel supported by him.

Dad, I know that you will be reading this at some point and I want you to know that the most important things I have ever learned in life I have learned from you. Happy Father's Day.

Camping the West Coast of Ireland

The West Coast of Ireland is wild, rugged, desolate, and desperately beautiful. Reading this sort of description from an Ireland guidebook and seeing it in real life is the difference between reading a wine review out of a wine magazine and sipping a local glass of Cabernet on a summer's day at Moondancer winery while listening to a jazz band and taking in the views of the grape vines and Susquehanna river. (Consequently, the latter is exactly what I intend to do upon returning to Lancaster, PA to visit my family.)

The top-five most typical sights according to me are the following:




1) Seaside Cliffs. Angling sharply towards the Atlantic and serving as home to hundreds or even thousands of sea birds.

2) Sheep. Everywhere. Grazing in green pastures or bog wastelands or at the precipices of above-mentioned cliffs, or walking by the roadside.

3) Mountains. Co. Sligo, Co. Mayo, Co. Clare, Co. Kerry, Co. Cork. Typically un-wooded and

4) Castles. I'm not sure it is really possible to explain to an audience largely composed of people who live in an un-castled land the sheer number of castles that dot the Irish hillsides. Trust me it is a substantial number. I believe towards the end of the two weeks a common phrase started out, "If I see one more castle..." Ancient megalithic tombs, often refered to as 'dolmans' come a close second to this category.

5) Irish Towns. And on rare occasions an Irish city. Typically a one-street job with the florist, butcher, grocer, Post Office, chippies, and always always a pub(s). I recall going through one "town" which was really about 5 houses and a post office and....a pub.

Kevin and I covered over 1,000 miles of Irish landscape. The trip started out in Sligo where we visited the Sligo Rotary club first and ended up in Waterford for a quick dinner before a 6 hour journey home. In between we hit Mayo, Clare, Kerry, Connemara, Galway, Limerick, the Dingle Peninsula, and Cork. I am relishing both the little moments of quiet and the miles and miles of breathtaking scenery as well as the big moments of inspiration, excitement or wonder. The following are a few of my highlights.

The Skellig Islands
On the Ring of Kerry we camped for three nights in a town called Caherciveen. On one of the days we took a 15 km boat ride out to the Skellig Islands. The North Atlantic is unforgiving and while I managed to hold it together, others were not quite so lucky. What we saw, however, made all sea-induced nausea more than worth it. As we approached the first Skellig Island, I thought, Is it possible that this island-mountain is snow-covered in this weather? And it is not, in fact, snow-covered but merely inhabited by hundreds of thousands of white sea birds. Gulls, of course, but other large and beautiful winged creatures who I do not know the name of. I've never seen anything like it before in my life. The second island, the Great Skellig, was our stopping point for a few hours. Those few hours were the highlight of my trip. Kevin and I saw wild puffins, seals, and other sea birds flying about or swimming. I have to make a note about the puffins because they really and truly delighted me. In addition to being unafraid of humans and looking like mini clown-birds, their antics actually make it impossible for anyone to dislike them, I think. Most birds swoop in somewhat majestically and gracefully to their cliff edges and glide into their landing. Not so my puffin friends. They zip and dive and then hover a moment above their landing spot, flapping their wings frantically before just stopping to plop down on their webbed feet wherever they land. I even saw one puffin land on top of another puffins head!

The wildlife was only part of the Great Skellig's charm. After a 30 minute hike up to the peak, we encountered an ancient monastary overlooking the smaller Skellig and then just the sea beyond. The monastary is composed of well-preserved stone fortresses in the 'bee-hive' formation. Stone crosses marked burial sites.

Our Captain had a fantastic sense of humor and was kind enough to make the rounds to sea-sick passengers, checking in on them like a nurse while keeping everyone's spirits high while giant waves swelled around us. He has been on the sea his entire life, mostly as a fisherman for 27 years now as a boat captain to the Skelligs.

Achill Islands
We camped right by the ocean and fell asleep to the sound of the waves and woke up to the bleating of sheep being herded to pasture. We then drove out the Atlantic drive to a pristine beach with aqua-marine water, like one would expect to find in the Mediterranean or Caribbean. We hiked a cliff and then returned to jump quickly into the ocean before cooking lunch outdoors for a beach picnic.

Market in Ballyvaghan
Since we didn't really plan much of the trip and used a map and our whim to guide our path. This worked out well for us most of the time. One of the best times was when we stumbled upon a local outdoor market in a town in County Clare called Ballyvaughan on a sunny day. We munched on locally produced foods while watching 3 young fellows (10-11 years of age) play traditional Irish music and dance the famous clogging-step of the Irish jig. These three boys from the Aran Islands had just won a national championship and talent competition, a local man informed us. Lucky us!

The Accent
Throughout the trip, Kevin and I were noticed for our accents. In the Achill Islands, I asked a woman at a convenience shop if they sold ice to which she replied, "What is that?" I tried saying the one-syllable word several times with different emphasis (which is quite difficult with one- syllable words) in order to avoid having to say "very cold and hard water" and eventually she said, "Oh ice!" and it sounded exactly the same to me. Linguistic nuances are funny things. More often, however, Kevin was noticed for his 'northern' accent. Most of the time people would say "Oh a Derry man!" but my favorite incident occurred while visiting a friend of mine in Kerry and having a cup of tea with her parents, who are farmers in Caherciveen. Her father says "You know I am finding it very difficult to understand your accent" to which Kevin replies "Well I am having trouble understanding you as well" to which I say "Well I can't understand either of you!" and we all have a laugh.

Camping in General
I grew up camping and have very fond memories woods and campfires and toasting marshmallows. Camping in Ireland is a bit different--no woods, no campfires, and no 'mallows. We mostly camped on grass in open spaces but often near a beach or overlooking a fantastic scene. Rosses' Point in Sligo comes to mind with a sweeping vista of the entire bay area, the Atlantic ocean, two lighthouses, and Benbulben. We saw some fantastic sunsets over the sea and woke up most days to sunshine and clean air. It rained most nights, but our little tent remained faithfully unleaky. One night we had some trouble with the pesty midge flies, but in general, camping in Ireland is bugless! Look Mom, no bugspray:)

Wildflowers and Wildlife
If you ever fancy embarking on your own trip on the West Coast of Ireland, I recommend the month of May. Besides unusually good weather, the wildflowers are out in full color and absolutely stunning. They creep out from between rock crevices, particularly of note in the Burren in County Clare. They grow alongside the road and by the rivers, lakes and hillsides. Manicured gardens were in full bloom as well and the Kilkenny National Park particularly stood out. Also, besides puffins, seals and seabirds, we also saw a red deer, loads of lambs, horses and foals, and all varieties of small birds. We even enjoyed the two big orange cats that curled up on our laps by the indoor peat fire in the common area at one of the campsites.

As the old addage states, pictures are worth a thousand words. In this case, both pictures and words fail the West Coast of Ireland. I'm afraid over time even my memories will fail me. Nonetheless, here is a link to a photo album if you are interested in catching a glimpse of the beauty of this country. Any fans of the John Wayne film The Quiet Man may appreciate some of the familiar photos taken in Cong, where the movie was filmed. It must be noted I am not particularly a fan of this movie. Enjoy:)

http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/samanthamartin08/

Song by Seamus Heaney

Song

A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.

There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.


Seamus Heaney was born in County Derry on April 1939, the eldest member of a family which would eventually contain nine children. The poet has commented on the fact that his parentage thus contains both the Ireland of the cattle-herding Gaelic past and the Ulster of the Industrial Revolution; indeed, he considers this to have been a significant tension in his background, something which corresponds to another inner tension also inherited from his parents, namely that between speech and silence. His father was notably sparing of talk and his mother notably ready to speak out, a circumstance which Seamus Heaney believes to have been fundamental to the "quarrel with himself" out of which his poetry arises.

(Accessed at www.famouspoetandpoems.com)

I like the last two lines especially..."when the bird sings very close To the music of what happens." I just felt like Seamus Heaney, who has contributed so much to this city and the people of Ireland and Ulster, deserved a blog.

Kilmainham Gaol (Jail)

The damp seeps into your lungs, into your bones, and creeps slowly into your mind. The light from a nearby window provides the only illumination. The musty smell of weather-worn limestone tempts your lungs to restrict or be subject to the heavy air and moldy breath of the Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin, Ireland.

I listen as the tour guide explains the situation for the unfortunate denizens of this Victorian age jail. The thinking of the day regarded sin as sin and crime as crime so that a boy of 7 served a term with 'equal' treatment for riding a bus without a ticket alongside other more sinister criminals. Additionally, the three S's were developed as a formula for reforming criminals into law-abiding, God-fearing citizens. Solitude. Silence. Surveillance. These three factors guaranteed that in every moment of every day, each prisoner (men, women, children) was under the never-sleeping 'eye' of the guards, required to remain perfectly silent, and work, sleep, pray and eat in specially constructed isolation boxes or by the use of specially designed hats to discourage wandering eyes.

Until, of course, the jail became full and they had to put 5 men to a one-man room. The rooms are empty, save a bucket which is used for obvious reasons but then dumped and re-used for the less obvious reason of carrying food for the prisoners back to the cell. The reality of the circumstance hits home as I imagine how the prisoners had to lie on the cold limestone floor in the dead of an Irish winter for a night's rest and wake up to the dismal walls and the ever-watchful eye of the guards. How resilient is humankind? How is such misery tolerated?

Famous for housing the Irish Republican prisoners of the Easter rising, this jail is also credited by many as the birthplace of the Republic of Ireland. A few men and women in the early 20th century felt that Ireland should be free of British rule altogether and not merely given autonomy. They were not terribly popular in Dublin. They staged a week-long assault in Dublin, called the Easter Rising, read the newly drafted Irish constitution, and made a plea to the Irish people to join the cause. They were subsequently overtaken by the British forces, sentenced to Kilmainham until their execution for high treason.


14 of them were executed by firing squad in the stone-yard of Kilmainham. Well-known Irish heros such as James Connolly, Patrick Pearse, Joseph Plunkett, Thomas Clarke, and others. Connolly, unable to walk due to an infected injury, was brought to the yard by ambulance, tied to a chair and shot. The crosses in these yards mark the spots where they fell. After word got out about their executions, the public opinion turned in their favor and the Irish Republican movement caught fire. Eventually, the Anglo-Irish agreement was signed, giving 26 out of 32 (yep, the 6 counties not included are now Northern Ireland) relative freedom. The movement split...did they die for partial freedom and a partial Ireland? But did so many more have to die-- and could not a solution be eventually found through peace? So went the arguments.

The 26 counties did become what they are today through relatively peaceful and political means. The debates continue about what kind of Ireland the visionaries fought for, through violent or nonviolent means, as it is important that both were always present. Some of the men condemned to die for their part in the Easter Rising were pardoned and freed. Men like De Valera famously continued on in politics.

In an interview with a less well-known Irish Republican, the reporter asked, "What did you feel after you were pardoned and freed?" He responded, "Somewhat disappointed. I know that may sound strange, but I was never more prepared to meet my Maker as I was then." I was not expecting that but after thinking about it, I suppose it makes sense. Those who participated in the Easter Rising knew and fully believed that they would either die on that day or be executed shortly after. They were committed to die for the cause and to live to see it continue? Well, that was not expected either.

As for the jail, it was closed down in 1924 and left for ruin. Some of the former prisoners organized a restoration society and preserved it as an important site for Ireland for generations to come. You may recognize the jail, as it has been used in several movies, including In the Name of Our Father starring Daniel Day Lewis. I recommend that you see the film, but also drop by the dreary Kilmainham Gaol if you ever find yourself in Dublin.

Engaging

I took the train out of Derry for the first time today. It was a really lovely one-hour jaunt up to the North Coast to attend a seminar in Coleraine on 'Globalising Higher Education.' The first part of the formal conference was a seminar on Universities 'engaging' (one of the infamous education buzz words) with students and the community. Before the formal bit started we all had lunch together, which was grand. I noticed all our tendencies to do the thing that academics and professionals do at conferences. So what it is that you do? What are you researching? Oh very interesting. And it is interesting. The room was full of highly educated and successful people completing PhD's, advocating for progressive higher education policy, and producing reports on groundbreaking research projects.

Still, I felt the need to initiate normal speak and started asking the woman beside me about her brothers and sisters in Uganda. She has 10 of them. 2 of them are Catholic priests and all 5 of her sisters (6 including herself) are teachers. Her father is pushing 80 and she mentions her mother passed away at 50, and she says with a smile of acceptance that 11 kids was just too many. I don't remember now what she was researching.

The first speaker was a pretty down-to-earth guy. He gave a very nice presentation and I took a few notes. The second speaker also gave a presentation but I drifted away. I looked around the room. I'd say at least a fourth were definitely catching some shut-eye and I suspected the others in the room were drifting just like me. On and on about challenges and opportunities, institutional engagement, development, global citizenship and educational partnerships. Ear candy.

I wasn't feeling well, which in fairness had nothing to do with the people present or the presentations. I'm feeling a fairly acute back pain today and I'm hoping it is muscular and not pre-flu aches. Regardless, I found reception to call me a cab (noting the distinct and purposeful way that he translated the way I said Derry into Londonderry). He was very kind though called the railline twice to confirm the train times for the remainder of the day.

I settled into my seat on the train and pulled out some reading. A woman sat across from me and began talking with me as if we had known each other for simply years. I believe she has Down's syndrome and she wanted to have a chat about the people streaming into the train (Another one for Londonderry!) and the train itself and her job which involves selling birdfeed, I think. Sadly my first inclination was that I just wasn't in the mood to talk. I wasn't feeling well. I didn't have energy to hold new conversations with more new people. I wanted to be left alone.

She took out a stack of photos from her backpack and said, "I want to show you my pictures." In that moment, though I suspected it from her hello, it hit me that she wanted to engage with me. She wanted to tell me about her life and asked me where I was going. I flipped through pictures and asked some questions. This one is her boyfriend Jonathan and that's her dog Tommy. This one here is her holding her baby cousin and that's Josh, another baby cousin. I asked her name and she said Catherine.

Catherine spotted another train friend (one whom she knew by name though) and called her over to sit with us. The other woman flipped through her pictures, at one point commenting on the picture of "King Billy" on a horse at a festival. (A historic figure from the 17th century celebrated by Ulster Protestants only in this region.) Catherine says, "No, that's just a man dressed up as him."

Catherine got off at the next stop and the other woman and I continued on to Derry. She talked about her job and how she wanted to move and wanted to know if I voted in November's election. She used to work at the ballot box, you see. We parted at the train station.

I called a taxi though I'd normally walk. Today was not the day to walk. He was young, which is somewhat unusual for a cab driver in Derry. He had one of those deep deep Derry accents that requires you to pay extra attention and translate the local slang. He worked for a year in Boston on a fork lift, but Americans are too focused on their work, he says. He couldn't be bothered with it. He didn't want to always work overtime. So he came back to Derry.

And I am back home. I think about what it means to engage with each other. Not what it means by definition, but what it sounds like. What it feels like. What it smells like. The ways that I engaged with people today weren't really what the presenters were talking about. What they mean to get at and hope to inspire is the sense that in the 'ivory tower' and in our institutions of higher education that we don't have to be so structured, so distant, so isolated from the communities where we study and work. People do engage in higher education. But I'm not sure how much of it you can plan or really 'get people to get' when it comes to stopping what you are doing to look someone in the eye and ask them an honest question or listen to their story or just be present in the conversation. It can be a hard task especially if you're tired, or don't feel well, or just want a moment of quiet to yourself.

If we get past our own agenda, however, there is room for honest engagement every day in personal encounters. This includes professors and researchers and presenters. Just like it includes people you meet on the train or in the taxi. But it's not a matter of policy or theory. It's a practice. And no matter how many nice sounding terms we come up with to say "Talk to people. Listen to people. Work with people. Live beside people. Educate people." You and I either will or we won't.

Uptown Girl Living in a Small Town World

London. The city. The icon. The hub. There's something about a city of 10 million people that simultaneously entices and repulses me. For all intensive purposes, I am a country girl. Or at least a small town girl. Even though I've been to dozens of mega-metropolises, I still approach these cosmopolitan giants with a bit of awe as well as apprehension. And so, this past week was yet another peek into the life of an ultra urbanite.

What I did in London is less interesting to me than the way that I experienced it. I presume anyone who reads this will feel the same. Nevertheless, my week in London was not just a 'holiday' as such, but involved 4 days of fairly intense training for a summer job, then a meeting for my master's research, and a job interview on top of the normal sight seeing one would expect to happen for a London first-timer. Quite naturally, it also featured me walking about London and dashing for the tube with my backpacker's pack. The inevitable hiccups in housing transfers and transportation logistics usually guarantee that I will pay my dues to the travel gods in such a way. As expected, this time was no different.

The volume of the city overwhelms me. Whatever you want to do or see you can. And in fifty different ways and locations. The parks were fairly immaculate and filled with carefree pedestrians, students, and families. The Victorian architecture impressed me...even to the last day. There is a certain pomp and regalness that seeps from the core of London. Depending on the moment, I feel either charmed or annoyed by all the fuss. Names like "Kensington" and "Chelsea" and "Westminster" and "Covent Garden" with words like 'Royal' thrown in for good measure illude to poshness, but whether the posh followed the name or the names were given to posh is unknown to me. The classic sights that I had come to know so well through photographs and movies shocked me a bit in real life. For example, Big Ben was larger in life than expected and the Tower Bridge, though boring in pictures, is actually pretty neat.

Transportation...at the risk of hyberbolizing or romanticizing city life like a provincial girl tends to do, the timing and coordination of it all can indeed be likened to a ballet, or an orchestra. Color-coded and woven together in an underground maze, the tube swallows you up and spits you out just minutes away from your ultimate destination. It's dizzying and mad and confusing and exhausting even. The map of the London Underground has itself become an icon. I found myself thinking through all the different ways one could explore such a massive area with such an effcient transportation system. I also found myself feeling like a mole tunneling through endless underground channels wishing to escape the stale air and claustrophobic trains. Would I ever live in such a big city? Could this ever feel normal to me?

The draw of the city life is the hype, the zip, the spark and the buzz of the infinite ebb and flow of humans and the sense of possibility. The rich and fast, the chic and cool, the hip and trendy. It's attractive but I'm not quite convinced.

The repulsion flows from a feeling of disconnect from the simple, the pure, the less tainted quiet of a sleepy town or country home. But I'm also reminded of feeling closed in, trapped in the sameness of a small town, the usual way, the everyone-knows-everyone routine. At times, I find strange comfort in sitting in an airport or in the middle of a foreign city where not a soul within hundreds, or perhaps, thousands of miles knows who I am or expects anything of me. But this protection wears thin and a longing to be a part of something rather than the observer of something inevitably settles in as well.

So where does that leave me? Well, back in Derry for one thing. A small town with a good vibe. Upon arriving back in Ireland, I called a taxi to take me the short distance from the bus station to my house. The driver, Hugh, remembered me from some other time he picked me up. He apparently dropped off my friends from the States that visited me two weeks ago. He asked if they had a nice time and couldn't quite remember what state I was from, but oh yes, we had talked about that. Pennsylvania, aye, that's right. I was in Allentown once, Hugh said. We then had the chat about his two daughters and a hobby of his that turned into a business. Hugh raises doves and then takes them to weddings for that moment where the bride and groom release them. He knows all 40 of his bird by name and showed me a picture slideshow of them on his GPS attached to the dashboard.

After I got out of the cab and paid, I walked to my door thinking about the differences between the London life and the Derry life. Or the Lititz life or the Jacksonville life. Or the Columbia life or a big city life in my future... It's unlikely that I'd ever catch a cab in London and hear a story like Hugh's and I'd bet all my future travels that the driver wouldn't remember my name or where I am from. I'm not sure where the next step in life will take me, but I appreciated my escape into the big city and equally my return to the small town.

St. Patrick's Day

I'd like to think that I stave off cultural kitschiness, but I admit that sometimes I indulge in the stereotypical little things, even if they've been marketed to death and may not even be a part of the 'authentic' culture any more. You know... eating Belgian waffles in Belgium and pizza in Italy, dancing the merengue in the Dominican, and so on. So, in my own quirky way, I enjoyed the fact that I was going to spend a St. Patty's day in Ireland regardless of what actually does or does not happen. It's ridiculous and akin to the American obsession with collecting stamps in passports, but nonetheless, I added it to my little mental collection.

Many people assume that St. Patty's in Ireland must be something really grand, unlike, say the States. But really, in Ireland, they find it fascinating that in America they turn rivers and beer green. It must also be amusing to watch the Americans line up for blocks outside of the Irish pubs on this particular day, because a pint in the pub MUST be better than your regular bar on such a day. I always suspected that the tricolors, Guiness, and red hair-kitch that populates Stateside St. Patty's was a bit suspect, but after being in Ireland I can say it is just the same! No one escapes plastic Irish paraphanalia, apparently. My favorite display was these tri-color shorts with the expected Irish phrase on it. I went to a parade and saw some Irish dancing and music and then went out to dinner with friends. Most people spend their day engaging in other social activities, shall we say. No one expects anyone to be on time for anything the next day, least of all work.

What I did find intereseting, is that Irish politicians pack their bags and leave Ireland for St. Patty's day every year and take a political field trip to Washington D.C. That would be like President Obama and the Senate and House of Representatives leaving the US on July 4th to go spend it in London, or Paris, or Dublin. The high-level talks are highly publicized and analyzed here in Ireland. I was watching a panel discussion on TV with N. Ireland MP's and the host asked, "Do you think Martin McGuinnes and Peter Robinson will impress the American politicians?" and was shocked that no one really took issue with the phrasing of the question but that it was normal to ask such things. I'm not really sure if I can put my finger on my discomfort with this notion, but I suppose it falls close to the lines of patronization and sensationalism? I suppose I am still uncomfortable with the status, both good and bad, that is ascribed to the States.

So, the day passed happily in music and friends. A tri-colored Mardi Gras. I hope you all enjoyed it as well. If you get the chance someday, you'll probably enjoy a St. Patrick's day in Ireland. The wee "ginger" haired girl on top of her daddy's shoulders seems to be enjoying the view.

Pancake Day

Lent has begun. I was alerted to this fact as I walked downtown and saw that many people had the sign of a cross in ash on their foreheads signifying repentance. I thought about practicing Lent this year, giving something up that I will really miss, like chocolate or Facebook. I felt like I was caught off-guard, though, since Lent started and I didn't know it. Then I felt like starting Lent late would be cheating somehow and I missed going to a Mass and I didn't even know the day before was "pancake day" until it was too late and I had already cooked a dinner of chicken pasta.

Back home it must have been Fat Tuesday, or Fausnaught Day in Lancaster. Fausnaught's are the Pennsylvania Dutch way of celebrating Fat Tuesday by eating doughnuts without holes. Very tasty and I could have really gone for one of those. Or two.

So, I guess I'm skipping Lent altogether and will attend an Easter service, in keeping a tradition that I am familiar with. But I think tonight some chocolate pancakes are in order for tonight...

Downhill

There's just something about the coast. Something about the way the sky and sand and water dance together and create the illusion of falling into each other. Something about the way that the expanse creates a feeling of longing and emptiness while filling me up. Something about the sound of the wind and waves that instills an inner quiet.

I went to the Antrim coast with several of my girl friends this past weekend. We brought food and wine and chocolate and books and journals and craft supplies. Fully armed for a peaceful get-away retreat. We stayed at a charming hostel tucked into a cliff and set towards Downhill beach.


I enjoyed the lazy walks. The type of walk that says I'll take my time. This is not a walk to burn calories. This is not a walk to divert my attention or reach a goal. This is a stroll for the sake of the moment. To soak in the scenes of the waterfalls cascading off the cliffs and hurdling towards the sea. To pick up shells, knowing I'll have nowhere to put them besides my coat pocket or nothing practical to really do with them. But to pick them up anyways because they are pretty, and who knows? Isa, Adriana's 8 year old daughter chatters excitedly about this one or that one and I smile remembering being her age and running up to my Mom or Dad with my latest sea treasure. We stumble up on a rock full of live mussels and barnacles and this is a whole world unto its own. We are explorers.

After a pasta dinner, wine, conversation and a mean game of Monopoly with Heather and Isa (Heather and I decided we were going to become Marxists after facing Isa's shamelessly aggressive capitalistic ventures), I fell into a fitful sleep and woke up to a sunny day in Ireland. How about that? I felt the sign was a bit ambitious though.

I ventured out for a solo exploration of Mussendon Temple and the Dowhill Castle ruins. I tried to imagine what it looked like in its glory in the 1800's like they always do in the movies, but was left with the haunting shell, lovely still. My little sister Jenae told me when she visited Ireland that she wanted to explore a castle with furniture. None of us were really sure what she was getting at but this was not the castle for her in any case.

I sat on a rock near the edge of the cliff and watched the white birds circle the heights. I dawdled in a moment of existentialism but then went back to treading the castle grounds and taking in the views. When I returned, the rest of the girls reassembled eventually and we began collaging with old National Geographic's and travel magazines. The fruits of my labor are now hanging in my room. I miss crafts! Another legacy my grandmother and mother have passed along to me.

A lovely two day excursion.

The Small Things

I commented about the 'warm' weather today. When did 50's become warm?

I have a fresh bouquet of tulips sitting on my fireplace mantle.

The other night a full moon hung low and heavy, emanating a dull yellow over the River Foyle. It was a strange comfort to me at the time.

I was reminded this week of how much I appreciate my family, even from far away.

It's the small things sometimes...

Morocco

Drifting in and out of hazy in-flight dreams I glanced out my airplane window and was shocked into a sharp state of awake by the snowy mountain tops glowing in the light of the setting, molten sun. Eye-level with the great Atlas mountains of Morocco. Snow capped mountains in Morocco? I had expected something closer to the sandy deserts of Egypt or the sparseness of a Cypriot countryside. My initial expectations were confirmed upon landing in the dry, dusty and sparse landscape of Agadir. As I exited the airport, I quickly scanned the crowd for my good friend and Peace Corps volunteer, Hanneke. For a moment, I panicked and thought back to the time where I missed my ron de vous in a French airport and felt hopelessly stranded without knowledge of the language, transport, or customs. What would I do if stranded in Morocco? In less than a minute I spotted her and felt not only relieved but elated to finally catch up with a friend whom I had not seen in a year.

We flagged a taxi and shared it with an Irish couple. Hanneke spoke in Tashelheet, the Berber dialect of the region as the cab driver took off ambitiously. I sat beside her, silent and impressed. That night, we were to meet up with 13 or so of her fellow Peace Corps volunteers, who emerge from their more remote sites on occasion to enjoy a drink -rare if not forbidden on any normal occasion- and to speak English and socialize as friends with strange commonalities in a foreign country. I enjoyed the chatter and even the large gathering of Americans, though fighting off the fatigue and impatience from the five hour bus ride, four hour flight, and taxi drive. After a dinner we flagged a red petit taxi and arrived at a packed karaoke night at the English pub by the beach. Ironic, I thought. After about an hour or so of poorly but joyfully sung rock and pop tunes, we prepared to make an exit. A group of male tourists and perhaps a few locals approached us and asked Hanneke and myself to join them at their table. As we engaged awkwardly in this typical scene, I felt myself slipping into my tired, defensive woman-traveler mode.

Boy to Hanneke: I have been staring at you for two hours. You must have a drink with us.
Me: We were just leaving.
Hanneke: Yeah, we are about to go.
Boy to Hanneke: Don’t make me beg. I have to see you.
Hanneke: I have a boyfriend.
Boy to Hanneke: I have a girlfriend.
Hanneke: So why aren’t you with her?
Boy to Hanneke: Just for friends. Please. I’ll do anything to see you again. I'll marry you right now. (on and on)
Other Boy to Me as Boy to Hanneke keeps on talking: He’s crazy. I’m sorry. It’s all bull &%$.
Me to everyone: My friend, I think you’ve been clear. I think she’s been clear. We’re leaving. Enjoy your night.

The scene eventually dissolves but repeats itself in one form or another throughout the week, mostly in the city and when we walk past groups of men. This is my least favorite part about traveling. Unequivocally. Sometimes I have to laugh at the ridiculous and desperateness of the comments, but usually I just become angry. What gives you the right to speak to me, to look at me in such a way? What gives you the right to take up my time and my energy to make you go away? At some level I am sad, because sometimes the individual is so friendly and respectful, like the young Moroccan man studying to be a flight attendant. He gives us his email address and number after a brief chat over fresh avocado, strawberry and orange smoothies, but how are we to know if we can trust him? We may miss out on a great story, shared interests and good conversation or maybe a very uncomfortable and even dangerous encounter. It’s uncertain and for this we won’t even consider calling him to meet up later as he suggests.

I also remind myself that I am in a culture where women are covered and hidden, often silent in mixed company and without much of a choice in matters of marriage or who speaks to them in such a way and when. The men, as Hanneke points out, are largely at a loss to know how to respond and act towards a woman. I know this. I become acutely aware of the rights that have been won by women in my culture and given to me. I want to give them to these women although I'm unsure of what is cultural and contextual and what is simply my idea of freedom or equality or rights. For now I feel helpless and self-conscious. Is my neck or lower arms showing? Is my dress covering my behind or did it get snagged in my jeans? Has my hair dried yet from my shower? Wet hair in public is ashuma, shameful for a woman in Morocco. Hanneke speculates it is because it provokes thoughts of the woman’s naked state just minutes before. But she says she is not sure why exactly. She says she is not sure about many things after living in Morocco for nine months. I haven’t a clue.

Day two we take a five person taxi with seven of us in it back to Tiznit and then another taxi back to Hanneke’s town, Larba Sahel which means ‘Wednesday by the Sea.’ Wednesday is suq (market) day and her town close to the sea. The town is tucked in between hills and dotted with prickly pair cacti, shrubs, and desert greens, freshly grown after the recent rains that swept southern Morocco for the first time in nearly a decade. It’s peaceful, quiet and serene, save the braying of donkeys which roam wild until their beastly services are required. In the several days in the small town, we walk around and greet the men and women that we pass. Hanneke makes small talk in ‘Tash’ and explains that I am her American friend that is visiting for a week, but who lives in Britannia, (Ireland is a bit too specific and largely unknown in those parts). I begin to pick up on these greetings. Le bes? Le bes. Bher? Bher. Humdalila. How are you? I am well. How is your family? Your health? Are you happy? Thanks be to God. Usually after these formalities they ask me if I speak Tashelheet. I look helplessly at Hanneke, because no, in fact, I do not speak Tashelheet. Waloo. Nothing. They smile and laugh at my attempts and at Hanneke’s clever explanations that meek ee meek, little by little, I will learn. It becomes apparent to me that the language is very very important as an identity to the people. One does not speak Tashelheet. One is Tashelheet. This sentiment is confirmed over and over again in the cabs, in the streets, in the markets.

We venture the hillside to find the host family that Hanneke lived with for three months. The mother and her two daughters are watching the sheep while her son is throwing rocks and playing hide and seek with a few other boys. Hanneke chats with her host mom and sisters, I listen to the strange and melodic language, wondering what they are saying. Sometimes I ask. The youngest girl, about six or seven, does not need to speak to me. Her eyes dance as she laughs and grabs hold of one of my hands and one of Hanneke’s and uses us as a lever, then a swing, then a resting post. We are invited into the house where we take off our shoes and her host mom takes off her head covering and brings out heavily sweetened black tea with mint and bread and olive oil and honey. Her host dad comes home and he welcomes me warmly into their home and we talk and drink tea and dip bread into the bowls communally. I am careful to use my right hand, the polite hand to do so. It is now dark outside and time for Hanneke and I to go. We return to her house and talk for hours and eat Swiss chocolate and watch the American version of the Office, our favorite TV sitcom. All of the events of the day and the people and the bright Moroccan sun and the talking and listening and cultural questions have exhausted me, and I fall into a deep sleep.

Loud voices in my dreams. Confusing and harsh and somehow sorrowful. It is the early morning prayer call, to be repeated again four more times throughout the day. I wake up as I realize this and then fall back asleep until the sun streams in and convinces me to brave the cold morning air and cold tile floors and the squat toilet that I have yet to master the correct angle on. Hanneke and I make tea and eat granola and then stroll over to the ‘Netty’, a woman’s cooperative that produces products from the argon nut. The process fascinates me as does this roomful of women fully dressed in colorful patterned materials sitting on the floor chattering and cracking the nuts with stones, then sorting the nut from the shell, then grinding the nuts to produce argon oil, and cakes, and cosmetic products. I want to join in. I sit down with two women in the back of the room and try my hand at it. I hit the nut over and over again harder and harder but it won’t crack. I reposition it on the stone and try again. I am afraid I will hit my fingers with this big rock. I do, many times. Crack, you silly nut! It finally does after several minutes and I feel jubilant until I look around the room and see one-hit-immediate-crack success from every single other woman. I laugh at how clumsy and funny I must look but am enjoying myself immensely. A girl my age tells me (through Hanneke) that I should marry a Moroccan man and return every August and that we must be friends for forever. The impossibility of this is profound, but I laugh and say insha alla, God willing. Hanneke says that in addition to making general statements about God willing things, anytime you don’t know how to respond or are not sure if a refusal would be rude you say insha alla because it is accepted and it will get you out of most situations. She is right in this and God’s will saved me an uncouth or awkward response more than once.

In years to come people may ask, where were you when Obama was elected and I will say, ‘In a mud home in Morocco.’ We traveled in to Tiznit to stay with Amelia, another Peace Corps volunteer and seven of us cooked and ate and watched CNN international for about five hours. Seven personal commentators peppered the room with excited chatter and I felt relaxed in this ‘American’ conversation and atmosphere in a very foreign setting. The mud house fascinated me. The series of little rooms connected to each other only by open terraces and gardens with no enclosed hallways. An outside house inside. Amelia’s pet, Marilyn the turtle, roamed freely in the open garden. I felt privy to this exotic place, these new and strange things and this modern update to an ancient home. I mentally note that someday an open courtyard with a free-range turtle might be a nice addition to a home. And the patterned tiles and bright punjabs are a nice touch—I could get used to this Moroccan flare.

Several days later Hanneke and I board a bus for the five hour ride to Marrakech. The men selling the tickets oversold the bus and Hanneke is negotiating what to do next with several of these men as fifty Moroccan faces watch in curiosity what will happen with these two foreigners from the West. For the thousandth time I gave thanks that Hanneke spoke Tashelheet and as it turns out, a man either left or was kicked off the bus so that we had two seats. Although we asked what was going on, it remains unclear. We do not understand again, as in most things. We ride on through desert and snowy mountains past mud homes, palm trees, waste lands, and irrigated fields. One of the men on the bus continues to hand out little bags for people who need them on these windy roads. Hanneke warned me about this. I put on my iPod and tune out the tinny, instrumentless Berber music and the old man beside me asks me how much my iPod costs. Hanneke says that it is common for people to ask that question for just about anything. I smile and drown all else out. We arrive in Marrakech.

The city holds a certain magic. Someone once described this charm by saying it is like something exciting is always just about to happen, but you don’t know what. This is more or less accurate. There are thousands of people out and walking, talking, selling, performing, dancing, snake-charming, drinking, eating, playing, begging. We join the throngs and bargain our way through the markets. I always enjoy the hunt and the barter, though this time I had Hanneke and her boyfriend Phil who collectively speak Tashelheet, Arabic, French and English to some extent or another. This made conversation easy and prices a bit cheaper. We absorbed the atmosphere and ate tajin, cous cous, and other traditional foods in the open market. My last meal in Morocco.

I have never been one for long or dramatic goodbyes. Neither has Hanneke. Her and Phil were kind to take me to the airport and chat at a café and people watch while waiting to check in. But it was time and we hugged and said our goodbyes. My week in Morocco was incredible: mostly because I could enter her life for a short while and catch a glimpse of the essence of this new place. I have returned to Ireland and my Western world where transportation is a seat per person and I know where to go for what and what to say to whom and how to act. Morocco holds a patchwork of both ancient and modern worlds and customs that I will never understand, though I will remember and appreciate its beauty for the rest of my life, I think.