I'm tired of feeling like, as an american, I alone am responsible for the whole world's problems.
I'm tired of having to make excuses for the ignorant face the media paints on my country.
I'm tired of feeling like I must know every single detail of american politics, or else I am just another ignorant american.
I'm tired of having people whose own countries have committed the same or far worse atrocities criticize me for being american.
I'm tired of feeling like I need all the answers
I'm tired of having to pretend I am different than the rest of america so I don't get treated poorly
I'm tired of feeling ashamed of my country.
I'm tired of people constantly asking me "Obama or Clinton" as if it were a given that I am a member of the Democratic party
I don't know everything about my government, nor do I know everything about its previous international relations strategies, war policies and health care industry. I don't know everything about the elections or campaigning or super delegates.
I can't even tell you how many times I've sat down at a table of strangers, and once they hear my accent, or get wind of my nationality, I can actually see their faces change. They challenge me. They think it's fun, like it's a game. They make me feel like I have to represent an entire country- a country so much bigger than their own, and so much more complicated. They don't care that we're all different, that it's impossible to generalize a country as big as mine. They don't care that some of us are ashamed, some of us are angry, and some of us are proud. All they care about is making a point to sound more educated than the american. Most of the times it makes me so angry that I can't even say anything. I can feel my throat tense and I've got so many words to say to them, but I don't. Out of fear of being seen as that "belligerent american"who can't participate in civilized debate.
It's not that I don't enjoy a little political discussion. I'm always interested in the views of others, even if I disagree, because I know I can learn from them. It's just those times where it gets personal, when I can feel everyone in the room looking at me like I'm somehow personally responsible for all the evil things in this world. There isn't even a word for how I feel when that happens.
The truth is, much to the dismay of the rest of the world, being american feels just the same as being canadian or british or australian. In the end, we're all just trying to get by as best we can. Nationality has nothing to do with it.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Back in North America. Back to drama land
As I dragged my beat orange suitcase up on to David Silverberg's porch in Toronto, I had a little moment of reflection. I started here. I will finish here. Strange.
I have always regarded Canada as having one of the most hectic yet successful performance poetry scenes that I have witnessed, and now that I have finished my trip, I can officially say so. Scenes in Canada are organized, efficient, in touch with each other and cooperative. It runs like a finely oiled machine... all because of a mutual love of poetry and community.
That being said, there is something to say for smaller performance poetry scenes. I've been asked a lot lately about which scene was "the best" or "the most alive", and it's a hard question to answer. Vienna had enthusiasm like what I imagined the Green Mill was like during the adolescent years of the poetry slam- a crowded bar,simply packed with people smoking cigarettes and drinking large pints of beer, the audience mouthing off to the MCs, booing the judges and cheering the poets. And, as I said before, Canada certainly was the most efficient scene I've witnessed (efficient to the point where I have to stop and wonder if it is possible for performance poetry to get *too* big, *too* mainstream that it might end up killing itself- like Rock n Roll?) Each country I went to had it's own idiosyncratic style, it's own networking abilities and it's own issues. And I realized, there- while standing on David's porch- that there was one poetry scene that made me really excited about performance poetry; one place where the events were commercial, but not too commercial, where the poets worked together even though they competed against one another. There was a place, a very small and quiet city that I almost skipped over entirely, where the poetry actually touched me, the way it used to when I first began this trip. Auckland, NZ takes the prize for my favorite. Small, polite Auckland that seemed to buzz and teem with energy and creativity. It was organized and advertised enough to pull a strong following for the weekly events, yet still managed to maintain a renegade, sub-cultural vibe. Its places like Auckland that remind me why I got into poetry in the first place- to make a connection with people through poetry who normally wouldn't read poetry.
Alas, I'm back in North America, welcomed so graciously into Silverberg's home. Over dinner last night, David mentioned a recent blog entry that has turned the Toronto Poetry scene into a tizzy. I decided to check it out to see what all the fuss is about. You can check it out too, here:
http://paulvermeersch.blogspot.com/2008/05/rant-why-i-hate-spoken-word-poetry.html
Reading this blog entry made me want to puke. Not necessarily because I disagree (he's got a valid point), but because it's such a pointless, empty and tired argument. The "page vs. stage" battle (oh yes, it's so common that they've made up a clever rhyming name for it) has been going on.... forever. You could trace it back to the Beat generation: how many critics scoffed at Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac for their writing styles, for the way they mixed music with poetry. And as we all know, those who prefer "classic" art styles often clash with those who prefer "contemporary" art styles. I even recall one Harold Bloom saying "spoken word is the death of art" which raised quite the scuffle in the USA poetry scene in the mid 90's.
But here's how I really feel about it. My honest opinion: (and since I've spent the whole year traveling around the world studying this "art form", I think I'm pretty qualified to voice my opinion now).
It doesn't really matter.
Wake up guys. Put it in perspective and stop being so serious. It's poetry. Or not. It's art. Or not. The fact is, it exists, it survives and it's drawing huge crowds. It has the power to bring people from all sorts of backgrounds and countries together. I've seen first hand how it can cause a productive dialogue between sexes, races and nationalities. It is an outlet for a kid whose parents ignore him, or for the one who gets beat up in school. It's a way for people to remember stories, or tell someone in the audience that they love them, or tell the whole audience that they love them. It's a way to bring people together- to get people to turn off the television, laptop, ipod or whatever their brains are permanently hooked up to and listen to other people. For no other reason than the simple fact that they want to listen and be listened to.
I'm tired of poets or spoken word artists or whatever you want to call them (us), getting so defensive about what people want to call them (us). Because in the end, it doesn't matter if some guy named Paul or Harold or my uncle george thinks it's "real art". Whatever it is, it's out there, it's beautiful and it's growing like mad.
And I think we should just be happy with that.
I have always regarded Canada as having one of the most hectic yet successful performance poetry scenes that I have witnessed, and now that I have finished my trip, I can officially say so. Scenes in Canada are organized, efficient, in touch with each other and cooperative. It runs like a finely oiled machine... all because of a mutual love of poetry and community.
That being said, there is something to say for smaller performance poetry scenes. I've been asked a lot lately about which scene was "the best" or "the most alive", and it's a hard question to answer. Vienna had enthusiasm like what I imagined the Green Mill was like during the adolescent years of the poetry slam- a crowded bar,simply packed with people smoking cigarettes and drinking large pints of beer, the audience mouthing off to the MCs, booing the judges and cheering the poets. And, as I said before, Canada certainly was the most efficient scene I've witnessed (efficient to the point where I have to stop and wonder if it is possible for performance poetry to get *too* big, *too* mainstream that it might end up killing itself- like Rock n Roll?) Each country I went to had it's own idiosyncratic style, it's own networking abilities and it's own issues. And I realized, there- while standing on David's porch- that there was one poetry scene that made me really excited about performance poetry; one place where the events were commercial, but not too commercial, where the poets worked together even though they competed against one another. There was a place, a very small and quiet city that I almost skipped over entirely, where the poetry actually touched me, the way it used to when I first began this trip. Auckland, NZ takes the prize for my favorite. Small, polite Auckland that seemed to buzz and teem with energy and creativity. It was organized and advertised enough to pull a strong following for the weekly events, yet still managed to maintain a renegade, sub-cultural vibe. Its places like Auckland that remind me why I got into poetry in the first place- to make a connection with people through poetry who normally wouldn't read poetry.
Alas, I'm back in North America, welcomed so graciously into Silverberg's home. Over dinner last night, David mentioned a recent blog entry that has turned the Toronto Poetry scene into a tizzy. I decided to check it out to see what all the fuss is about. You can check it out too, here:
http://paulvermeersch.blogspot.com/2008/05/rant-why-i-hate-spoken-word-poetry.html
Reading this blog entry made me want to puke. Not necessarily because I disagree (he's got a valid point), but because it's such a pointless, empty and tired argument. The "page vs. stage" battle (oh yes, it's so common that they've made up a clever rhyming name for it) has been going on.... forever. You could trace it back to the Beat generation: how many critics scoffed at Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac for their writing styles, for the way they mixed music with poetry. And as we all know, those who prefer "classic" art styles often clash with those who prefer "contemporary" art styles. I even recall one Harold Bloom saying "spoken word is the death of art" which raised quite the scuffle in the USA poetry scene in the mid 90's.
But here's how I really feel about it. My honest opinion: (and since I've spent the whole year traveling around the world studying this "art form", I think I'm pretty qualified to voice my opinion now).
It doesn't really matter.
Wake up guys. Put it in perspective and stop being so serious. It's poetry. Or not. It's art. Or not. The fact is, it exists, it survives and it's drawing huge crowds. It has the power to bring people from all sorts of backgrounds and countries together. I've seen first hand how it can cause a productive dialogue between sexes, races and nationalities. It is an outlet for a kid whose parents ignore him, or for the one who gets beat up in school. It's a way for people to remember stories, or tell someone in the audience that they love them, or tell the whole audience that they love them. It's a way to bring people together- to get people to turn off the television, laptop, ipod or whatever their brains are permanently hooked up to and listen to other people. For no other reason than the simple fact that they want to listen and be listened to.
I'm tired of poets or spoken word artists or whatever you want to call them (us), getting so defensive about what people want to call them (us). Because in the end, it doesn't matter if some guy named Paul or Harold or my uncle george thinks it's "real art". Whatever it is, it's out there, it's beautiful and it's growing like mad.
And I think we should just be happy with that.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Return
I'm finding myself headed towards another waterfall in my life. That's how it feels anyway.
There are these moments where it would just make sense for life to pause, for time to stay suspended till we catch our breath. I'd like that to be right now.
This trip has been so strange for me, I can't quite explain it. Part of me wants to keep doing this forever. And part of me wants to go home. But I don't really have a choice in the matter. It's time now, and I'm coming home.
I feel a bit guilty, in a way, though I'm not sure why. I guess I wish I could've travelled longer, seen all the places I proposed to see, and visit all the festivals I had read about. But life on the road comes with it's bumps and unexpected twists, and so I suppose I should've known it wouldn't work out as planned.
I purchased a book the other day, called "The Kindness of Strangers". It's a collection of travel stories. And it made me realize what traveling does to us. It pulls us out of our comfort zone and it sticks us in awkward situations. If we do it long enough, we will all eventually find ourselves stuck in the mud, absolutely lost and broke, in some foreign land where we don't speak the language. And just like clockwork, just when we've figured all is absolutely lost, just when we least expect it- some stranger will enter our lives and save us. And then disappear.
It's happened to me on this trip more times than I can count. In New Zealand I got off at the wrong bus stop and was lost in a "bad neighborhood". The first person I stopped and asked for directions took it upon himself to not only escort me to the poetry reading, he actually stayed for the reading and then showed me around Wellington for the rest of my time there. In Brisbane, I was lonely and depressed around Christmas because I had no one to share it with, when this french student invited me to the beach with her friends and then took me out to the movies on christmas day. Her reason was simple "Someone did it for me when I first got here. I know how awful it is to be alone on Christmas." In Vienna, the kindness of strangers went nuts in my life, and I was given free accommodation plus was invited to give a workshop on poetry in a school. In Ireland, two students took me in and let me stay with them in their dorm room during their exam week; and later as fate would have it, I met a musician over a cup of coffee who had more in common with me than anyone I had ever met. In Woodford, I had missed the last train to Brisbane, and was stranded ankle deep in mud at the folk festival, when a poet and his wife allowed me to stay in their super huge tent for the night. In Melbourne, a girl I had met once invited me to stay with her and became one of my closed female friends. In Belfast, after scrambling and failing to find accommodation, a poet gave up his hotel room for me, and then offered to take me on a tour of Scotland.
The stories just continue. I was not totally "down and out". I wasn't begging or even asking for help. It just happened and worked out. But the kindness of strangers is one of those phenomena that really change a person's view of humanity.
As the book says:
"Kindness is really, so to speak, all of a piece- an absolute, which cannot be graded; but its most symbolical expression is the sudden, unpremeditated act of sympathy, offered without hope or reward to an unknown and perhaps unappealing soul in distresss- to a foreigner, a truculent vagrant, an unwashed backpacker or a cat."
The point is, I've had so many wonderful encounters on this trip, that I know things will be different when I get back home. It won't be like Granada, where my heart was broken after leaving Spain. No, it'll be a bit slower, a bit heavier, I imagine. The slow transformation from being an adventurer back into a normal person. Just a girl with lots of stories. And that idea hurts, a lot. I've come to identify myself by my stories. But that's wrong too. I'm more than just what happened this year. I just have to learn to integrate it into the bigger picture. And that'll happen, eventually. It's soon going to be time to pay it forward. I owe the universe a lot. I'm going to have to become one of those strangers.
There are these moments where it would just make sense for life to pause, for time to stay suspended till we catch our breath. I'd like that to be right now.
This trip has been so strange for me, I can't quite explain it. Part of me wants to keep doing this forever. And part of me wants to go home. But I don't really have a choice in the matter. It's time now, and I'm coming home.
I feel a bit guilty, in a way, though I'm not sure why. I guess I wish I could've travelled longer, seen all the places I proposed to see, and visit all the festivals I had read about. But life on the road comes with it's bumps and unexpected twists, and so I suppose I should've known it wouldn't work out as planned.
I purchased a book the other day, called "The Kindness of Strangers". It's a collection of travel stories. And it made me realize what traveling does to us. It pulls us out of our comfort zone and it sticks us in awkward situations. If we do it long enough, we will all eventually find ourselves stuck in the mud, absolutely lost and broke, in some foreign land where we don't speak the language. And just like clockwork, just when we've figured all is absolutely lost, just when we least expect it- some stranger will enter our lives and save us. And then disappear.
It's happened to me on this trip more times than I can count. In New Zealand I got off at the wrong bus stop and was lost in a "bad neighborhood". The first person I stopped and asked for directions took it upon himself to not only escort me to the poetry reading, he actually stayed for the reading and then showed me around Wellington for the rest of my time there. In Brisbane, I was lonely and depressed around Christmas because I had no one to share it with, when this french student invited me to the beach with her friends and then took me out to the movies on christmas day. Her reason was simple "Someone did it for me when I first got here. I know how awful it is to be alone on Christmas." In Vienna, the kindness of strangers went nuts in my life, and I was given free accommodation plus was invited to give a workshop on poetry in a school. In Ireland, two students took me in and let me stay with them in their dorm room during their exam week; and later as fate would have it, I met a musician over a cup of coffee who had more in common with me than anyone I had ever met. In Woodford, I had missed the last train to Brisbane, and was stranded ankle deep in mud at the folk festival, when a poet and his wife allowed me to stay in their super huge tent for the night. In Melbourne, a girl I had met once invited me to stay with her and became one of my closed female friends. In Belfast, after scrambling and failing to find accommodation, a poet gave up his hotel room for me, and then offered to take me on a tour of Scotland.
The stories just continue. I was not totally "down and out". I wasn't begging or even asking for help. It just happened and worked out. But the kindness of strangers is one of those phenomena that really change a person's view of humanity.
As the book says:
"Kindness is really, so to speak, all of a piece- an absolute, which cannot be graded; but its most symbolical expression is the sudden, unpremeditated act of sympathy, offered without hope or reward to an unknown and perhaps unappealing soul in distresss- to a foreigner, a truculent vagrant, an unwashed backpacker or a cat."
The point is, I've had so many wonderful encounters on this trip, that I know things will be different when I get back home. It won't be like Granada, where my heart was broken after leaving Spain. No, it'll be a bit slower, a bit heavier, I imagine. The slow transformation from being an adventurer back into a normal person. Just a girl with lots of stories. And that idea hurts, a lot. I've come to identify myself by my stories. But that's wrong too. I'm more than just what happened this year. I just have to learn to integrate it into the bigger picture. And that'll happen, eventually. It's soon going to be time to pay it forward. I owe the universe a lot. I'm going to have to become one of those strangers.
Scotland whirlwind
The drive up to the highlands was epic. One minute we were in Edinburgh- beautiful fairytale city, grey stones and narrow winding streets; and then we were in the country. Like a big Pow! of green and blue. A different kind of green than pennsylvania or Ireland. A thick rugged green. And then brown mountains rising up out of nowhere and no cars or houses. And castles and ruins. I felt like I was drawn into a picture book, or maybe part of a post card.
Once we hit Forress, we were welcomed into a beautiful venue on a farm. The owner- a slightly abrasive man with a thick accent and a disinclination for americans. So obviously I needed o become friends with him. Andy played to a small audience that night, and the owner lamented about lack of community support. Seems the same problems exist everywhere- people would rather go to the big cities to hear music than support the same acts in the local venues.
The next day we drove for an hour to the nearby town of Cormarty. A small artistic community set by the waterside. I don't think they even have a corner store, but they do have great art and music. The streets were narrow and the only word I could think to describe the town was "cute". Small houses like cottages, and such artistic, vibrant people all in one community. It was gorgeous.
Glasgow is Scotland's largest city, but when doing the art thing, I took the advice and stuck to the West End. Good choice. I met up with some local film makers, got some drinks, went out to dinner. Fabulous.
While in Glasgow I got a last minute message from a poet in Edinburgh. So I packed my bags and off I went.
Once in Edinburgh, I met up with Ant, a "I guess I'm a poet kinda" poet- which of course means he's a great poet. My first evening in Edinburgh I performed at a Ladyfest Open Mic in a dive cafe. It was cafe-love at first sight.
I talked PJ into coming to visit me, and I'm so glad he did. It made the Edinburgh trip that much better. We climbed Arthur's Seat, and explored the castle. We ate weird vegetarian food and gawked at the beauty of the city. Travelling is so much more fun with another person there to enjoy it with you.
Once we hit Forress, we were welcomed into a beautiful venue on a farm. The owner- a slightly abrasive man with a thick accent and a disinclination for americans. So obviously I needed o become friends with him. Andy played to a small audience that night, and the owner lamented about lack of community support. Seems the same problems exist everywhere- people would rather go to the big cities to hear music than support the same acts in the local venues.
The next day we drove for an hour to the nearby town of Cormarty. A small artistic community set by the waterside. I don't think they even have a corner store, but they do have great art and music. The streets were narrow and the only word I could think to describe the town was "cute". Small houses like cottages, and such artistic, vibrant people all in one community. It was gorgeous.
Glasgow is Scotland's largest city, but when doing the art thing, I took the advice and stuck to the West End. Good choice. I met up with some local film makers, got some drinks, went out to dinner. Fabulous.
While in Glasgow I got a last minute message from a poet in Edinburgh. So I packed my bags and off I went.
Once in Edinburgh, I met up with Ant, a "I guess I'm a poet kinda" poet- which of course means he's a great poet. My first evening in Edinburgh I performed at a Ladyfest Open Mic in a dive cafe. It was cafe-love at first sight.
I talked PJ into coming to visit me, and I'm so glad he did. It made the Edinburgh trip that much better. We climbed Arthur's Seat, and explored the castle. We ate weird vegetarian food and gawked at the beauty of the city. Travelling is so much more fun with another person there to enjoy it with you.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Definitions
I know I should've wrote this post earlier, but I think I needed time away from Dublin in order to form my thoughts about this topic. While in Dublin, I took a friend of mine to a poetry event called "Love Poetry Hate Racism".
I asked my friend, after we left, which poet he enjoyed the most. His answer surprised me a bit. He described a soft spoken poet, whose poetry was dark and described hardship and poverty in a city. He said that this poet stood out in particular because he was attempting to define what life was like in a particular neighborhood in Dublin.
It's a strange time for the Irish people. Now, as never before, they are faced with the task of identifying themselves. In the past, people left Ireland. But now, due to the echoing booms of the Celtic Tiger, immigrants from all over the world are flocking to Irish cities- Dublin in particular. And as great as it is to introduce people to diversity and tolerance, it's interesting to watch how the Irish are dealing with this "identity crisis". What does it mean, exactly, to be Irish? In the past it was easier: things like family heritage and religion were markers of one's Irish-ness. But now there are Irish-Arabs, Irish-Czechs, Irish-Asians. A friend drove me past a mosque and pointed it out as if it were evidence of aliens.
Just like any city experiencing the effects of a booming economy, there are prices to pay. The irish are quite proud of their history, and often define themselves by it. How, then, will they be able to open themselves up to people who do not share that history of hardship? When we think of Ireland, we don't think of intolerance or racism. But it would be naive to say it doesn't exist just because we haven't heard of it. True, it exists in a different form than racism in the US, but it is still there, and it still causes tension.
I'd be interested to see where this takes Ireland. How will parents, teachers and the media approach this incoming wave of globalization? It's an interesting time to be in Ireland. It's a more interesting time, I think, to be Irish.
I asked my friend, after we left, which poet he enjoyed the most. His answer surprised me a bit. He described a soft spoken poet, whose poetry was dark and described hardship and poverty in a city. He said that this poet stood out in particular because he was attempting to define what life was like in a particular neighborhood in Dublin.
It's a strange time for the Irish people. Now, as never before, they are faced with the task of identifying themselves. In the past, people left Ireland. But now, due to the echoing booms of the Celtic Tiger, immigrants from all over the world are flocking to Irish cities- Dublin in particular. And as great as it is to introduce people to diversity and tolerance, it's interesting to watch how the Irish are dealing with this "identity crisis". What does it mean, exactly, to be Irish? In the past it was easier: things like family heritage and religion were markers of one's Irish-ness. But now there are Irish-Arabs, Irish-Czechs, Irish-Asians. A friend drove me past a mosque and pointed it out as if it were evidence of aliens.
Just like any city experiencing the effects of a booming economy, there are prices to pay. The irish are quite proud of their history, and often define themselves by it. How, then, will they be able to open themselves up to people who do not share that history of hardship? When we think of Ireland, we don't think of intolerance or racism. But it would be naive to say it doesn't exist just because we haven't heard of it. True, it exists in a different form than racism in the US, but it is still there, and it still causes tension.
I'd be interested to see where this takes Ireland. How will parents, teachers and the media approach this incoming wave of globalization? It's an interesting time to be in Ireland. It's a more interesting time, I think, to be Irish.
Borderlines
I don't know if its because of travel or because I'm just getting older. Probably a bit of both. I find myself remaining neutral on issues that I previously would've intensely researched, formed an opinion, and argued that opinion ad nauseum. It's not that I don't research things anymore- I certainly do my fair share of research on issues. It's just that I've found myself hesitating before engaging in intense political or social debate with anyone.
I've been told that traveling makes a person more liberal. And I've seen these effects first hand: students returning from foreign countries, swinging fists at american based corproations which are ruining the lives of those abroad, or complaining about our lack of healthcare or governmental services which are geared to helping the people etc etc. It's only natural to compare your home country to the outside world. I've seen the opposite happen as well, though, where Americans are so uncomfortable with their surroundings that they refuse to even partially assimilate and instead spout slight untruths about how superior the US or Canada is to the rest of the world. Being around people like that makes me feel a bit ashamed, but I know how they feel as well. I can't even count how many times this year I have been faced with a tough situation and though "oh man, we would handle this much better where I come from".
Yet this trip has picked me up and landed me right smack in the middle. I still hold my values, my opinions and alliances; however I must admit that I am far more hesitant in flaunting these as "truths" or "facts" or "the right ways of being". I've suddenly found myself of having developed a new ability to see both sides of the situation. Even a painful and political one.
I know, I'm surprised too. I'm still anti-war (I don't think anything could change that ) but now not only can I understand why an American (or anyone else whose country is involved in this war- an aspect that many people forget!) would be pro-war, I respect their opinion. Who am I to judge someone for their worldview. Because, remember, someone's world view is more than a reflection of their personal character. It's a reflection of so many different aspects of their world: socioeconomic status and interests, education, familial upbringing and involvement in the war. There are so many variables that go into a person's opinion and political persuasion that I just can't bring myself to write off someone as "an ignorant jerk" for disagreeing with me anymore.
So what? That's just a part of growing up. Well it just snuck up on me, I guess. I went to countries where I was well aware of conflict, and I went with premeditated opinions on that conflict, only to have them pulled apart and re examined once I got there. In Australia, I began to understand why it was so difficult for the native people to achieve reparations and equal treatment. In Northern Ireland I was faced with the fact that during the troubles life was scary as hell regardless of what "side" you were on.
It's easy, attractive and exciting for people to take radical sides. The independence movement is more interesting when there are guns and car bombs and violence and it *looks* like a revolution. But revolution like that hardly works nowadays. People just want to live their lives without having to worry about carbombs or propaganda.
I guess all these thoughts are coming out now because I've been in Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland and I've talked to people about their experiences during the Troubles and I've learned that effective revolution looks like compromise, equal representation in government and forgiveness. And there's nothing small, easy or weak about such acts- they take bravery and strength of character. I've been to Scotland where an independence referendum is being proposed, patiently, it seems because there is very little talk of "revolution" and more talk about "referendum".
No, perhaps my generation won't have as much fun as our hippy forefathers and foremothers. But perhaps this was always the way to go, dissent through discussion, small compromises making big changes.
Am I becoming moderate in my age?
I know, I couldn't believe it at first either. But upon further reflection, I think I've always believed all this. I think I always knew discussion and diplomacy were the best ways to achieve a goal. But I think the difference is, for the first time, I'm not disappointed with this method. In fact, I'm excited by it.
Because what does this mean for America's future?
I left last August feeling guilty and a bit hopeless about my country's future. But I've seen a candidate who is so well spoken, I get chills after almost every speech. I want to know more, not less, about this candidate's platform. Mainly because the idea of a charismatic candidate who can speak well gives me hope.
I was told by a recent visitor to the US that if aliens invaded the US today, they'd think one of the candidate's names was "Hope".
Gosh, I like that.
I've been told that traveling makes a person more liberal. And I've seen these effects first hand: students returning from foreign countries, swinging fists at american based corproations which are ruining the lives of those abroad, or complaining about our lack of healthcare or governmental services which are geared to helping the people etc etc. It's only natural to compare your home country to the outside world. I've seen the opposite happen as well, though, where Americans are so uncomfortable with their surroundings that they refuse to even partially assimilate and instead spout slight untruths about how superior the US or Canada is to the rest of the world. Being around people like that makes me feel a bit ashamed, but I know how they feel as well. I can't even count how many times this year I have been faced with a tough situation and though "oh man, we would handle this much better where I come from".
Yet this trip has picked me up and landed me right smack in the middle. I still hold my values, my opinions and alliances; however I must admit that I am far more hesitant in flaunting these as "truths" or "facts" or "the right ways of being". I've suddenly found myself of having developed a new ability to see both sides of the situation. Even a painful and political one.
I know, I'm surprised too. I'm still anti-war (I don't think anything could change that ) but now not only can I understand why an American (or anyone else whose country is involved in this war- an aspect that many people forget!) would be pro-war, I respect their opinion. Who am I to judge someone for their worldview. Because, remember, someone's world view is more than a reflection of their personal character. It's a reflection of so many different aspects of their world: socioeconomic status and interests, education, familial upbringing and involvement in the war. There are so many variables that go into a person's opinion and political persuasion that I just can't bring myself to write off someone as "an ignorant jerk" for disagreeing with me anymore.
So what? That's just a part of growing up. Well it just snuck up on me, I guess. I went to countries where I was well aware of conflict, and I went with premeditated opinions on that conflict, only to have them pulled apart and re examined once I got there. In Australia, I began to understand why it was so difficult for the native people to achieve reparations and equal treatment. In Northern Ireland I was faced with the fact that during the troubles life was scary as hell regardless of what "side" you were on.
It's easy, attractive and exciting for people to take radical sides. The independence movement is more interesting when there are guns and car bombs and violence and it *looks* like a revolution. But revolution like that hardly works nowadays. People just want to live their lives without having to worry about carbombs or propaganda.
I guess all these thoughts are coming out now because I've been in Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland and I've talked to people about their experiences during the Troubles and I've learned that effective revolution looks like compromise, equal representation in government and forgiveness. And there's nothing small, easy or weak about such acts- they take bravery and strength of character. I've been to Scotland where an independence referendum is being proposed, patiently, it seems because there is very little talk of "revolution" and more talk about "referendum".
No, perhaps my generation won't have as much fun as our hippy forefathers and foremothers. But perhaps this was always the way to go, dissent through discussion, small compromises making big changes.
Am I becoming moderate in my age?
I know, I couldn't believe it at first either. But upon further reflection, I think I've always believed all this. I think I always knew discussion and diplomacy were the best ways to achieve a goal. But I think the difference is, for the first time, I'm not disappointed with this method. In fact, I'm excited by it.
Because what does this mean for America's future?
I left last August feeling guilty and a bit hopeless about my country's future. But I've seen a candidate who is so well spoken, I get chills after almost every speech. I want to know more, not less, about this candidate's platform. Mainly because the idea of a charismatic candidate who can speak well gives me hope.
I was told by a recent visitor to the US that if aliens invaded the US today, they'd think one of the candidate's names was "Hope".
Gosh, I like that.
Friday, May 16, 2008
There were Roses
So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends of mine who were both good friends one time
Isaac Scott from Banagh, he lived just across the fields
A great man for the music, the dancing and the reels
McDonald came from South Armagh to court young Alice fair
And we often met on the Ryan Road and laughter filled the air
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
Now Isaac he was Protestant and Sean was Catholic born
But it never made a difference, for the friendship it was strong
And sometimes in the evening when we heard the sound of drums
We said it won't divide us, we always will be one
For the ground our fathers plowed in, the soil it is the same
And the places where we say our prayers have just got different names
We talked about the friends who'd died and hoped there'd be no more
It was little then we realized the tragedy in store
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
It was on a Sunday morning when the awful news came round
Another killing had been done just outside Newry Town
We knew that Isaac danced up there, we knew he liked the band
But when we heard that he was dead we just could not understand
We gathered round the graveside on a cold and rainy day
The minister he closed his eyes and for no revenge he prayed
And all of us who knew him from along the Ryan Road
We bowed our heads and said a prayer for the resting of his soul
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
Now fear it filled the countryside there was fear in every home
When late at night a car came prowling round the Ryan Road
A Catholic would be killed tonight to even up the score
Oh Christ it's young McDonald they've taken from the door
Isaac was my friend! he cried, he begged them with his tears
But centuries of hatred have ears that do not hear
An eye for an eye, it was all that filled their minds
And another eye for another eye till everyone is blind
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends of mine who were both good friends one time
Now I don't know where the moral is or where this song should end
But I wonder just how many wars are fought between good friends
And those who give the orders are not the ones to die
It's Scott and McDonald and the likes of you and I
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
-Tommy Sands-
There were only about 40 people in the small bar in Scotland, but when Andy White sang this song, the whole bar echoed with people singing along. Not in shy "i'm at a gig singing along" voices. In loud, sad, solidarity voices that echoed.
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends of mine who were both good friends one time
Isaac Scott from Banagh, he lived just across the fields
A great man for the music, the dancing and the reels
McDonald came from South Armagh to court young Alice fair
And we often met on the Ryan Road and laughter filled the air
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
Now Isaac he was Protestant and Sean was Catholic born
But it never made a difference, for the friendship it was strong
And sometimes in the evening when we heard the sound of drums
We said it won't divide us, we always will be one
For the ground our fathers plowed in, the soil it is the same
And the places where we say our prayers have just got different names
We talked about the friends who'd died and hoped there'd be no more
It was little then we realized the tragedy in store
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
It was on a Sunday morning when the awful news came round
Another killing had been done just outside Newry Town
We knew that Isaac danced up there, we knew he liked the band
But when we heard that he was dead we just could not understand
We gathered round the graveside on a cold and rainy day
The minister he closed his eyes and for no revenge he prayed
And all of us who knew him from along the Ryan Road
We bowed our heads and said a prayer for the resting of his soul
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
Now fear it filled the countryside there was fear in every home
When late at night a car came prowling round the Ryan Road
A Catholic would be killed tonight to even up the score
Oh Christ it's young McDonald they've taken from the door
Isaac was my friend! he cried, he begged them with his tears
But centuries of hatred have ears that do not hear
An eye for an eye, it was all that filled their minds
And another eye for another eye till everyone is blind
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends of mine who were both good friends one time
Now I don't know where the moral is or where this song should end
But I wonder just how many wars are fought between good friends
And those who give the orders are not the ones to die
It's Scott and McDonald and the likes of you and I
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
-Tommy Sands-
There were only about 40 people in the small bar in Scotland, but when Andy White sang this song, the whole bar echoed with people singing along. Not in shy "i'm at a gig singing along" voices. In loud, sad, solidarity voices that echoed.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Belfast
I had heard a lot of things about Belfast before I got there. The old man at the Bed and Breakfast in that small town, the girls in Dublin, the students in Cork. They all had their own stories about Belfast, their own versions and rumors of the strange city that was “lost”.
I was criticized, a bit, for not really knowing what I was getting into by going to Belfast. I had been educated about the conflict, as much as any American, and I had an interest in talking to people about it. But all the answers I got were hearsay, because though everyone had an opinion about Belfast, no one had ever actually been there. Read these books, see these films before you go! They told me. You’ll be disgusted. But I didn’t want bias. I wanted to go and see it for myself.
Belfast is a hard and sensitive city. It wears its scars publically. Though at first glance it appears just like any other city: busses, taxis that don’t stop for pedestrians, shops, apartments, old buildings etc. But the past is evident in small details: “unite ireland” in spraypaint on the side of a building, protestant propaganda murals still painted and perfectly intact, British flags flying over the sidewalks- a constant reminder of conflict and conquest. A troubled, tragic city, you can almost still feel the ground pulsing with tension that was only just quelled. I always believed that art, worthwhile art, needs to come out of conflict. It’s all fine to talk about sunshine and happy love etc etc, but the art that moves, quakes and elevates the spirit, that art understands pain. Even something classic and beautiful, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night- I would venture to say that his famous painting wouldn’t have been so beautiful if Van Gogh himself wasn’t so troubled.
It was an interesting time to be in Northern Ireland. Peace talks were finally turning into action. Sudden realization that blowing eachother up was not an effective way of resolving the conflict.
“They’re blowing up the boarder!” Musician/Poet Andy White proclaimed, tuning his guitar “kind of ironic since they spent so much time checking cars at the boarder checkpoint for bombs. But it’s a new ireland- that is to say, they’re building a big massive highway.”
I was criticized, a bit, for not really knowing what I was getting into by going to Belfast. I had been educated about the conflict, as much as any American, and I had an interest in talking to people about it. But all the answers I got were hearsay, because though everyone had an opinion about Belfast, no one had ever actually been there. Read these books, see these films before you go! They told me. You’ll be disgusted. But I didn’t want bias. I wanted to go and see it for myself.
Belfast is a hard and sensitive city. It wears its scars publically. Though at first glance it appears just like any other city: busses, taxis that don’t stop for pedestrians, shops, apartments, old buildings etc. But the past is evident in small details: “unite ireland” in spraypaint on the side of a building, protestant propaganda murals still painted and perfectly intact, British flags flying over the sidewalks- a constant reminder of conflict and conquest. A troubled, tragic city, you can almost still feel the ground pulsing with tension that was only just quelled. I always believed that art, worthwhile art, needs to come out of conflict. It’s all fine to talk about sunshine and happy love etc etc, but the art that moves, quakes and elevates the spirit, that art understands pain. Even something classic and beautiful, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night- I would venture to say that his famous painting wouldn’t have been so beautiful if Van Gogh himself wasn’t so troubled.
It was an interesting time to be in Northern Ireland. Peace talks were finally turning into action. Sudden realization that blowing eachother up was not an effective way of resolving the conflict.
“They’re blowing up the boarder!” Musician/Poet Andy White proclaimed, tuning his guitar “kind of ironic since they spent so much time checking cars at the boarder checkpoint for bombs. But it’s a new ireland- that is to say, they’re building a big massive highway.”
Sunday, May 11, 2008
English?
"Farkin hell that's a rightauolrant!"
"What?"
"A rightauol rant!"
"a rhino rant?"
"No a right auol rant!"
"What's that middle word?"
"auol"
"how do you spell it?"
"A-U-O-L"
"what does that mean?"
" Auol! Do you not understand plain English?!"
Ugh.
"What?"
"A rightauol rant!"
"a rhino rant?"
"No a right auol rant!"
"What's that middle word?"
"auol"
"how do you spell it?"
"A-U-O-L"
"what does that mean?"
" Auol! Do you not understand plain English?!"
Ugh.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Cross-Ireland adventure part 3
When we drove through the mountain crossing, I had a flashback to lord of the rings. You know, the part where they climb that steep mountan ridge and go into the cave where they find gollum. Yeah, that’s where we were.
But soon the road opened up and we pulled in to get some ice cream. I almost dropped the cone, though when I saw the view.
Unbelieveable. Pictures cannot capture it. The mountain,s the grey haziness of the bay, the flat smooth rocks.
After a bit of staring and when we caught our breath, we contineud the drive. There was a big momma sheep and her baby sheep on the road, and we drove slowly around them, I snapping photos the whole way.
We pulled into dingle around early evening and grabbed some delicious fresh fish at a pub. We found a small bed and breakfast by the bay and collapsed into a warm sleep.
The next morning we woke early to the smell of freshly baked bread. Slightly still bleary eyed with sleep, I walked into the breakfast room to find a whole array of delicious hand baked goods and a table of cheery australian women. I poured myself a coffee and sniffed. The smell of good freshly brewed coffee reminded me a bit of home, a bit of icy cold college mornings where I would stumble into Café Opus, flip on my tunes, put muffins in the oven and sip on coffee.
After stuffing myself with the best yummy baked goods I’ve ahd in a long time, I dropped off the keyes and we headed out. Next destination: Sligo.
But the road to Sligo was long, and we decided to stop for dinner just outside of Galway in a smaller town. We were blessed with another gorgeous dday, very not typical of Ireland, as all the shopkeepers would remark. Beautiful beautiful blue sky, the water sparkled a mirrored reflection and boats sailed in the distance.
It was getting late though, and Sligo was far. At about half past 7, we stopped in a small town called Knock. Now, for such an incredibly small town, there certainly was a massive amount of religious paraphanalia in Knock. Apparently, this sleepy town was famous for a beautiful bassilica. We stopped at another bed and breakfast and fell fast asleep.
But soon the road opened up and we pulled in to get some ice cream. I almost dropped the cone, though when I saw the view.
Unbelieveable. Pictures cannot capture it. The mountain,s the grey haziness of the bay, the flat smooth rocks.
After a bit of staring and when we caught our breath, we contineud the drive. There was a big momma sheep and her baby sheep on the road, and we drove slowly around them, I snapping photos the whole way.
We pulled into dingle around early evening and grabbed some delicious fresh fish at a pub. We found a small bed and breakfast by the bay and collapsed into a warm sleep.
The next morning we woke early to the smell of freshly baked bread. Slightly still bleary eyed with sleep, I walked into the breakfast room to find a whole array of delicious hand baked goods and a table of cheery australian women. I poured myself a coffee and sniffed. The smell of good freshly brewed coffee reminded me a bit of home, a bit of icy cold college mornings where I would stumble into Café Opus, flip on my tunes, put muffins in the oven and sip on coffee.
After stuffing myself with the best yummy baked goods I’ve ahd in a long time, I dropped off the keyes and we headed out. Next destination: Sligo.
But the road to Sligo was long, and we decided to stop for dinner just outside of Galway in a smaller town. We were blessed with another gorgeous dday, very not typical of Ireland, as all the shopkeepers would remark. Beautiful beautiful blue sky, the water sparkled a mirrored reflection and boats sailed in the distance.
It was getting late though, and Sligo was far. At about half past 7, we stopped in a small town called Knock. Now, for such an incredibly small town, there certainly was a massive amount of religious paraphanalia in Knock. Apparently, this sleepy town was famous for a beautiful bassilica. We stopped at another bed and breakfast and fell fast asleep.
Cross-Ireland adventure part 2
When we arrived in Blarney, the crowds were absurd. After driving around in circles, PJ pulled out of the parkinglot and began driving to the next town. In response to my protests he replied cooly “Do you really want to spend 3 hours waiting in line to see a rock?”
Good point.
But where were we headed next? We were headed west, the sky cleared and the grass was so green so green. We were lost, of course, and I scrambled frantically for the map.
“Wait wait what town is this? We should see N 22 somewhere. Whoever designed the roads in Ireland must’ve been drunk.”
I quieted down when we pulled over a narrow stone bridge which lead us over the River Lee.
After a bit of aimless wandering on country back roads, we eventually pulled on the 22 and found a sweet town called Killarney. The town was brightly colored and for some reason was reminiscent of Lisboa for me.
“Let’s drive up the coast tomorrow.” Said PJ.
And so we did.
Good point.
But where were we headed next? We were headed west, the sky cleared and the grass was so green so green. We were lost, of course, and I scrambled frantically for the map.
“Wait wait what town is this? We should see N 22 somewhere. Whoever designed the roads in Ireland must’ve been drunk.”
I quieted down when we pulled over a narrow stone bridge which lead us over the River Lee.
After a bit of aimless wandering on country back roads, we eventually pulled on the 22 and found a sweet town called Killarney. The town was brightly colored and for some reason was reminiscent of Lisboa for me.
“Let’s drive up the coast tomorrow.” Said PJ.
And so we did.
Cross-Ireland Adventure Part 1
I didn’t think he’d agree to it. But for some reason, he did. And I was happy. So we piled into the car with all our things: 2 small backpacks, and my orange rolly suitcase and hit the road to Cork.
The way was long and scenic, the usual sights you would expect from Ireland: sheep, cattle, churches, small towns with brightly colored facades. It was beautiful in Dublin, but the farther south we went, the more grey the skies grew.
I had heard mixed reviews of Cork, but considering I had only spent my time in other main cities (namely Dublin and Galway) I wrote off the reviews as intra-city rivalry.
We pulled into a grey, rainy Cork and found our hosts waiting for us in a lovely little yellow town house. We presented them with wine, guitar music and poetry, chowed down on indian food and- bellies full and minds at ease, fell into a warm and cozy sleep.
The next morning I woke up famished. The rare ireland morning sunlight poured through the windows and roused the grumbling in my stomach. It must’ve had the same effect on everyone else because within the hour we were up and dressed and headed in search of a “real” irish breakfast. Now, I know the jokes we all make about irish food (namely: drink the beer) but man they know breakfast.
After a sheepish departure from our hosts, we went in search of our hotel. Something else that is good and glorious about Ireland: Bank Holidays. Meaning that the first Monday of every month is a holiday because the banks are closed.
I vote that we instate this in the US.
The downside to the Bank holiday of course is if you happen to be traveling during one of them. Traffic is awful, and all the hotels, bed and breakfasts, hostels and even (sniffle) couch surfing hosts are booked. But lucky for us, we scored a reservation ina cute little hotel that reminded me strangely of boarding school.
I curled up with my laptop, Die Hard playing on the television in the background and we planned our trip to Blarney.
The way was long and scenic, the usual sights you would expect from Ireland: sheep, cattle, churches, small towns with brightly colored facades. It was beautiful in Dublin, but the farther south we went, the more grey the skies grew.
I had heard mixed reviews of Cork, but considering I had only spent my time in other main cities (namely Dublin and Galway) I wrote off the reviews as intra-city rivalry.
We pulled into a grey, rainy Cork and found our hosts waiting for us in a lovely little yellow town house. We presented them with wine, guitar music and poetry, chowed down on indian food and- bellies full and minds at ease, fell into a warm and cozy sleep.
The next morning I woke up famished. The rare ireland morning sunlight poured through the windows and roused the grumbling in my stomach. It must’ve had the same effect on everyone else because within the hour we were up and dressed and headed in search of a “real” irish breakfast. Now, I know the jokes we all make about irish food (namely: drink the beer) but man they know breakfast.
After a sheepish departure from our hosts, we went in search of our hotel. Something else that is good and glorious about Ireland: Bank Holidays. Meaning that the first Monday of every month is a holiday because the banks are closed.
I vote that we instate this in the US.
The downside to the Bank holiday of course is if you happen to be traveling during one of them. Traffic is awful, and all the hotels, bed and breakfasts, hostels and even (sniffle) couch surfing hosts are booked. But lucky for us, we scored a reservation ina cute little hotel that reminded me strangely of boarding school.
I curled up with my laptop, Die Hard playing on the television in the background and we planned our trip to Blarney.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Another reason to love Ireland
Today I found out that all artists, musicians and writers living in Ireland are exempt from taxes.
This is a wonderful land.
:)
This is a wonderful land.
:)
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