The children are too loud in a fancy restaurant in Kinsale

My folks are in Ireland for a week, so we rented a car and drove to County Cork from Maynooth for the weekend. This was the first time I visited Cork and I was looking forward to our stay mostly because one of my favorite Irish writers, William Trevor, was from Cork and many of his novels are set in Cork townlets and villages so I was looking forward to seeing the country side, if only to visualize what I imagined from my reading of Trevor’s novels. Cork is the rebel county of Ireland in that great republican leaders like Michael Collins hail from Cork, so I was excited to see some of the sites related to Collins and republican Ireland as well.

We stayed in Cork city the first night. Cork is rougher around the edges than we expected and my folks wanted something a little more quaint, a little more “Irish,” so we hopped in their car on Saturday morning and drove to Kinsale, a little fishing village 20 km south of Cork city.

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Kinsale is a picture-perfect harbor village. We checked into a gorgeous hotel right on the water and walked to Fort Charles, a sixteenth-century English military stronghold designed to keep the French and the Spaniards from landing on the island. It turns out, though, that the French and Spaniards did indeed land in Kinsale although they did it through the figure of King James II, the Catholic king of England who landed here in 1789 with funding from the Spanish King and with French and English soldiers by his side. James made it ashore and fought his way about Ireland with his army for a year until he was ultimately defeated by William of Orange at the famous Battle of the Boyne and expelled from Ireland just a year after he landed at Kinsale.

We had fun walking through the ancient fort, enjoying the scenery and imagining the military scenes that took place here so long ago.

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Kinsale Harbor from Fort Charles
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Exploring the tunnels at Fort Charles
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Guards on the wall–don’t mess with them!
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A panoramic view of Fort Charles

We made reservations at what we were told was the best restaurant in KInsale so we showed up on time, were seated by the maître d’, ordered drinks and appetizers and everything seemed to be going okay.

The restaurant started filling up and it was a small space with low ceilings and hardwood floors, so it started getting busier and louder as we finished our first bottle of wine and happily waited for dinner. We hadn’t seen my folks for some time so we were enjoying catching up with them and telling them about all the adventures we’ve had over the course of the last year.

Our children don’t use electronic devices at the dinner table. They join in the conversation with us and they are, generally speaking, good conversationalists. And, despite the fact that they had walked nearly eight miles that day and hadn’t slept much the previous night, they were animated and engaged with the conversation at the dinner table that evening in Kinsale.

We were all enjoying ourselves and laughing about something when I noticed the maitre d’ approach our table, lean toward the middle and ask, “Could you all keep it down, you’re a little too loud and we’ve had complaints.”

We have eaten in restaurants all over the world and we have never been asked to lower our voices, even in places like Japan which, relative to Ireland, have a lower threshold for public noise and garrulousness.

I was, then, taken aback by the request, especially given that we were the only table with children and, frankly, the only brown people in the restaurant. It was hard not to read something into the message the maître d’ delivered.

Ironically, just before we were asked to quiet down, my father had just related the following story: He was in a restaurant in Florida one time and a family sat down next to his table. The parents were chatting and the children took out their electronic devices and were either playing games or reading but shortly after the kids took out their devices, the host; walked over to the table and asked the children to put their devices away because they were too bright and were disturbing the patrons. The father went nuts, started yelling at everyone in the restaurant and then the whole family got up from their seats and left the restaurant.

We can agree, I hope, that going ballistic in public is bad behavior and should be discouraged. That said, maybe, though, the parents had a long day and just wanted to relax and talk with each other. Maybe the kids were exhausted themselves and just needed some time to check out.

I had my father’s story in mind when the hostess in Kinsale delivered her news to us. I wanted to snap back that we were really sorry to be enjoying ourselves and maybe they should issue an Ipad to all the children they let into the place so that the kids remain passive and quiet and we are so sorry for having fun and enjoying each other’s company.  I looked at Sujata and she clearly had a similar message to deliver. We both, wisely, held our tongues, acknowledged the request, politely said, “No thanks, we’ll have dessert somewhere else,” paid the check and walked out.

The place didn’t get any quieter, by the way, as we got up to leave.

And the thing is that it wasn’t that great of a restaurant. The waitress used her fingers to move the appetizers from one plate to the next and as I was walking down the hall from the toilet back to my seat the very hostess who within minutes would ask us to quiet down pulled me aside and asked if I’d reach up to the top of the wine rack and grab a bottle that was out of her reach. I was, of course, happy to oblige.

All that said, my children are not shrinking violets, either. My daughter, in particular, has one of those voices that you can hear across the room and her laugh, a rollicking, full-throated chuckle, is unique and evident when she is enjoying herself. I suspect that whoever complained was hearing her laughter over the din and perhaps assumed that others in the restaurant were raising their voices in order to compete with the nine-year olds. Who knows?

There are many things to love about my daughter–she is funny and quirky and, as our friend Cath says, “full of beans.” It’s her voice though–both the physical projection as well as what she says and how she says that is one of the things I love the most about her.

When she was five years old she told us that she wanted to be in a play so we enrolled her in a community theatre production of The Little Mermaid. We weren’t sure how it was going to go but she stuck with it and secured two minor roles for herself. On opening night I found myself volunteering behind the scenes–I was assigned to the boys dressing room where I was charged with helping the boys change get into their proper costumes and it was the closest I think I’ll ever get to being on the set of a Wes Anderson film.

Just before the play started I walked around to the front of the auditorium to watch the opening number because I knew my daughter was in the first scene and I wanted to see her maiden performance. The curtains parted and there she was, leading a phalanx of war-torn sailors, marching to the front of the stage and launching into the opening number, “Fathoms Below.”

She was five at the time and she was surrounded by six or seven other five-year olds and as they opened their mouths, all I could hear was my daughter, off-key and shouting the lyrics with the energy and confidence of a seasoned veteran of the stage” “I’ll sing you a song of the kind of the sea/An’ it’s hey to the starboard, heave ho!/The ruler of all of the oceans is he/In mysterious fathoms below!”

My eyes were like spigots. I had to wipe the tears away and I thought to myself, that’s my daughter, that’s my daughter.

She’s secured minor roles in two other community theatre productions and when we get settled in New Zealand, I’m sure we’ll find another community theatre for her to be a part of.

I’m proud my young daughter doesn’t act like the girl that the larger culture expects her to act. She’s strong and opinionated and she doesn’t let anyone mess with her. That’s how we raised her. That’s how she is, and that’s, I hope, how she’ll be for the rest of her life.

So, I don’t like it when strangers ask her to be quiet, especially when she’s not even being excessively loud.

I thought about that first night of my daughter’s young acting career tonight as we quietly left the fancy restaurant in Kinsale. I also thought about the poor people who were in the restaurant and were agitated by a young girl’s laugh. What’s wrong with them? But, then again, who knows? Maybe they were struggling with relationship or health issues and just wanted a quiet dinner away from their troubles. But beyond all that I also worried about the message that was being sent to my daughter. She heard what the hostess said and because she is respectful of others, she quieted down and actually said very little the rest of the short time we were in the restaurant.  When we left, I grabbed her hand, told her I loved her, and told her to not worry about what happened back there.

We bought them cheap, overly-preserved ice cream at the corner store, walked back to our hotel and went to bed.

I thought I’d could put the experience behind me, but when I woke up in the morning, the hostess’s words still grated against me.

I swim in the same pool where Michael Phelps won six Olympic medals

I’ve spent a good bit of time in swimming pools over the course of our travels, and this past weekend on our trip to London I reached perhaps the apex of my international swimming experiences when I swam in the London Aquatics Center, the site of the 2012 London Olympic swimming competition and the pool where Michael Phelps distinguished himself as the greatest swimmer and perhaps the greatest athlete of all time.

Phelps won four gold and two silver medals at the 2012 London Olympics and by the end of that competition he had earned his 18th gold and 22nd overall medal. After his last event in London he was given an award naming him the most outstanding Olympic athlete ever. As in, London 2012 was the 30th Olympiad and Phelps was designated the most outstanding of all the exceptional athletes that had competed in the previous 30 Olympiads. That’s almost impossible for me to understand.

Before I jumped in the 50-meter competition pool at the London Aquatics Center in Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, I had swum laps in a variety of pools in New Zealand, Australia, Cambodia, Japan, central and southern Europe and Ireland. In fact, much to Sujata’s chagrin, one of the first things I do when we arrive at any given city is look for the nearest pool. Oh, and it’s not that Sujata doesn’t support my swimming habits, it’s that when we arrive to a new city, the priority is generally finding a place to eat or the location of our hotel, so looking for a pool comes across as an indulgence.

Despite my best efforts, though, sometimes I just can’t find a pool or what I do find is too far or we just don’t have enough time for me to get to the pool. Other times, I’d spend a good amount of time getting to the pool and it’s a bust–like the outdoor pool I found in Phnom Penh where I walked a mile on treacherous roads just to get to the pool and could hardly complete my 1500 meters because the air was so smoggy that my lungs were on fire after just a couple of laps.

There was also a funny moment in Timisoara: After much searching, I finally found a lap pool and it was walking distance from our flat. Score! Or so I thought. I immediately threw my swim gear in my backpack and pretty much ran down the street. I walked into the natatorium and a janitor who spoke no English waved me into a room that I guessed was a changing room so I changed from street clothes to my swim suit, walked through a number of corridors, opened a door and voila, there was the pool. I had a great big grin on my face as I approached the pool and before I heard a gruff voice yelling in Romanian. I knew the verbal assault was directed at me and all my Romanian friends who heard this story said I should have just jumped in the water and started swimming because The Yeller would have just walked away, but being the good, first-born American that I am, I stopped and learned from The Yeller that free swim was over and that I’d have to leave the pool. So I did and I never went back there.

And as much as I loved swimming in the London Aquatics Center, the very best swimming experience I’ve had to date was the Osaka Pool, quite possibly the coolest indoor swimming pool in the world.

If it weren’t for the legacy of greatness that the London Aquatics Center holds, I’m not sure I would have had such a great time. For one thing, the pool was pretty far from where we were staying at Waterloo Station so I had to get up early and ride the Underground at rush hour (not fun) for 40 minutes before I even arrived at the natatorium.

Incidentally, it had been 15 years since I’d last been in London and I forgot how tight the cars are. I know that’s why they call it the Tube, but when I first entered the car at Waterloo, I had a slight panic attack because I was shoulder to shoulder and back to front with a lot of people and there was very little ventilation and it was just not a pleasant experience.

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Sujata looking cool, Atticus probably humming a David Bowie tune on the Tube

The car eventually emptied out. I got off at Stratford Station, walked through a giant indoor shopping mall that I assume was constructed just for the Olympics, cut down a few side streets and there was the Aquatics Center sitting in the middle of the Olympic Park.

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The London Aquatics Center, approach from Stratford Station

I’m a bit weird I guess in that my heart generally skips a beat or two when I see an indoor pool. Some of them–like the Osaka Pool and the London Aquatics Center–are simply architecturally and even culturally interesting: here’s this huge bubble in a major urban where real estate is high-priced and scarce and it’s dedicated entirely to swimming. And given that not many people swim that much anyway and that, aside from flying, swimming is one of the most unnatural activities for a human to engage in and that these natatoriums cost a lot of money to maintain on an annual basis, I think it’s just amazing that they exist in the first place. So when they do exist and when they exist in this grand and palatial manner, I’m grateful to the largess of civic-minded people and tax payers who fund these sorts of public spaces.

I was a bit shocked when I walked in the locker room at the London Aquatics Center. The sign clearly said “Men’s Locker Room,” but I noticed that there were women in their blow drying their hair, so I quickly turned around, walked back out and re-read the sign. A few moments later, a dude walked by me and retraced my steps so I followed him in and quickly realized that the locker room was an enormous–probably 2,000 square foot–area that acted as a co-ed changing room. There were 3×3 foot changing rooms cubed and linked together across the center of the room and you just walked into one of those tiny rooms, shut the door, changed into your swim suit, put your stuff in a lock and then walked through a section where you could shower and then walk out on to the pool deck.

The pool itself was pretty crowded–I shared a lane with four other swimmers but given that the pool is 50 meters long, you hardly ever see the other swimmers except if you stop for a break at either end.  And, swimmers are, by and large, decent people; that is, they don’t worm up on you if you are slower or give you dirty looks or flip you off or do rude kinds of things that drivers sometimes do to cyclists and runner. Still, having so many people in the pool and in your lane makes you a bit conscious of other people around and, at least for me, takes away from the meditative and mentally relaxing part of swimming.

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You aren’t allowed to take photos on the deck–I took this on the other side of the glass

Until you stand at one end of a 50-meter pool and prepare to dive in and swim to the other side, over and over again, you can’t really appreciate the athleticism and power of Olympic swimmers.  Physically, I’m not that that much smaller than Phelps. I’m 6’2″, I have size 11 feet, a 6’5″ arm span and I weigh 170 lbs. Michael Phelps is 6’4″ he has an arm span of 6’7″, size 14 feet and weighs 194 lbs. I’m also not a terrible swimmer. I routinely swim 1500 meters and if I put my mind to it, I can accomplish that in around 30 minutes. That said, when I dive in the pool and start my forward crawl, I look insignificant and minuscule compared to Phelps, who cuts through the water like a shark. And that’s one of the things that is so remarkable about Olympic swimmers–they dominate the water in a way that is really beyond the scope and ability of probably 99% of the human race.

After I finished my swim, I slipped out of the pool and just stood on the deck for a few minutes, admiring the beauty of the Center and thinking about Michael Phelps and what he accomplished here.

We did other, more typically touristy things, in London and Sujata and I will get around to writing about them shortly.

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View of the competition pool from the top of the stands

I teach my final class at Maynooth

For the winter term I’ve been teaching a course in the English department here at the University of Maynooth and yesterday was our last class meeting. Given than I’ll be moving to New Zealand and on leave from my home institution next academic year, it was the last class I’ll teach for some 15 months. I half-heartedly looked around for a university near where we will be living in Whakatane on New Zealand’s north island. The big universities are two to four hours away by car and given that we’ll be living on the beach on the Bay of Plenty, one of the sunniest and warmest places on the island, I figured I could find better ways to spend my time than preparing for classes and grading papers. I can’t say I’m happy about the prospect of being out of the classroom for that extended period of time, but, I guess I can’t say I’m sad either so I guess it’s more correct to say I’m ambivalent.

One thing I do know is that teaching abroad this year has been a unique and exciting experience. I spent the fall semester teaching American Studies classes at the University of the West in Timisoara, Romania, I had a chance to lecture at Karoli Gaspar University in Budapest and then this past semester I taught an American literature course at Maynooth as well as an Irish history course to the Regis students who are studying here at Maynooth.

Each of these teaching experiences brought its set of joys and challenges. I still think about and miss the students at the University of the West. Their warmth and their excitement in learning about American culture is still with me and I’ll always be appreciative of their generosity and willingness to share their time and experiences with me and my family.

Given the way the class schedule was set up, I ended up spending a lot of time with the Romanian students–we were together in class for three hours every week and then quite often they would meet me and my family for dinner after class. They were a funny, irreverent and gregarious lot and I think, in many ways, they spoiled me with their friendliness and openness. They made bracelets for my children, gave us delicious Romania foodstuffs and a number of them even came to the post office with us and acted as our translators so we could ship our boxes from Timisoara to Romania.

Teaching at Maynooth has turned out to be equally exhilarating but quite different from my experiences in Romania. Irish students are by nature, I think, more cautious and guarded in the classroom and I think it took the students in my American literature class a little while to get used to my teaching style which is more Socratic and discussion based than what they are used to.

I also have a tendency to get worked up and dramatic around certain literary moments and early on in the semester, I think some of them thought I was slightly crazy. Like, for instance, when we discussed that amazing moment in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn when Huck is faced with the prospect of turning Jim into the authorities (and doing the right think according to antebellum slave laws) or continuing to hide Jim from the authorities (and breaking the law) and he stands there and thinks for a moment before he does the truly right and just thing and declares, “Alright then, I’ll go to hell.” It’s a classic American moment of the individual giving the middle finger to a corrupt and unjust system. I’ve read that passage probably 100 times over the course of my life. It still sends shivers up my spine and I have to say that it resonated deeply with me as I read it with my Irish students following the ascension of #45 so, naturally, I got slightly worked up and acted it out and while I think the Irish students were entertained by my excitement, I noticed them giving each other sidelong glances as if to say, “Oh, boy, what have we gotten ourselves in to now?”

At the same time, though, it didn’t take long for me to appreciate the sarcasm of my Irish students. The Irish are, generally good at sarcasm and take some pride in their cheeky and cynical outlook on life. That makes sense, given their history vis a vis the British empire, and it makes for honest and entertaining verbal exchanges in the classroom, especially when I would ask them to think about Irish equivalents to American historical or literary events.

For instance, while we were reading Tim O’Brien’s Vietnam War novel, The Things They Carried, I did a little presentation for them on public memory and American war memorials which prompted a funny discussion on Irish public memorials. The Irish, I learned, are really good at mocking their public monuments and for good reason, I have to say. Here, for instance, is the monument Dublin put up after the IRA blew up the statue of Admiral Nelson on O’Connell Street in 1966. They call it “The Stilleto in the Ghetto” or “The Stiffey in the Liffey” (!).

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The famous statue of Molly Malone is dubbed “The Tart with the Cart” or “The Dish with the Fish.” James Joyce’s statue off O’Connell Street is referred to as “The Prick with the Stick.” Are you getting the patterns?

Americans, who by and large do not possess the trenchant and irreverent sense of humor of the Irish, have no nicknames for our iconic public monuments and you don’t have to look too far beyond the Washington Monument for material.

As the students packed up their bags and walked out after our last class, one young man came up to me, thanked me for the class and asked for some book recommendations of American authors. Students used to ask me questions like that quite frequently, but I’ve noticed over the years, as the internet and hand-held devices take a large toll on all of our intellectual and spiritual lives, that I get those kinds of requests more and more infrequently. But, I’ve found Irish students to be quite intellectually curious and well read so I was pleased to write down a few books for the young man (Paul Beatty’s The Sellout was at the top of the list), and made a mental note of that moment as I’ll want to remember it next year when I think back fondly on this past year.

 

 

We Fly Kites on Derry’s Defensive Walls

Derry, an ancient and storied town on the extreme western edge of County Derry, Northern Ireland is a border town with a border mentality.

I love Derry because of its literary and historical position on this island, and I think that if you really want to understand Ireland you have to, in some way, come to understand Derry.

Back in the U.S. I teach a course on the literary responses to the Irish Troubles with my friend and colleague, David Hicks. Derry, because of its literary and political history, plays a significant role in the course so I was excited last weekend to take the Regis students and my family to Derry for the weekend.

The old city of Derry sits on a high hill overlooking the River Foyle and its seventeenth-century walls are still intact, so you can walk the perimeter of the old city and gaze down at the picturesque Foyle river valley below the city.

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West side of Derry’s defensive walls, looking down onto the Bogside

 

Derry is a plantation city that was established by James I in 1613 to essentially provide London with a plentitude of Northern Ireland’s natural resources like salmon and timber. James called the town Londonderry and if you are loyal or sympathetic to the Crown you would, to this day, refer to Derry as Londonderry. If you are Catholic or a nationalist you drop the London and call it Derry. The road signs outside of the city read “Londonderry” although, as is the case with many of the signs, they have been defaced so they read “Londonderry.”

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Two years ago, when David Hicks and I took the train from Belfast to Derry, the conductor would switch back and forth between saying, “This is the train for Derry,” and “This is the train for Londonderry.” Even the train tables referred to the town as both Derry and Londonderry. That’s just to say that the city is so politically and culturally fraught that even the name illustrates its conflicted past.

In 1689, one of the more dramatic scenes of Irish history (and there are many) took place here in Derry. James II, a Catholic, took over the English throne and subsequently invaded Ireland. This was good news for the Catholics, who were a political minority on the island and very bad news for the Protestants, who controlled the island. James’ forces sailed down the Lough Foyle and laid siege to Derry. The gates of the city were shut in December of 1688, the siege began in earnest in April of 1689 and it was finally broken in July of 1689.

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Scene depicting the closing of the gates of Derry by the storied Apprentice Boys

The breaking of the siege of Derry is to (some) Protestants in Northern Ireland as the battle of Gettysburg was to the Union army in the American Civil War and the battle of Stalingrad was to the Russians in WWII and the end of the siege of Derry is still celebrated every August in Northern Ireland.

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There is a good deal of heroic depictions of the ending of the siege of Derry

The best way, perhaps, for an American to understand the modern town of Derry in Northern Ireland is to imagine this scenario.

It’s April 1865 and you are one of the many abolitionists living in Cincinnati, Ohio. The Confederacy has won the Civil War and the new political border that’s been drawn to separate the United States from the Confederacy runs west along the Ohio River and then just a before Cincinnati, the border juts northward and wraps around the northern side of the city and then continues westward. Cincinnati, a solidly Union town during the war, becomes a Confederate city and you find yourself a member of a nation to which you are radically opposed. 

What’s more, the town of Cincinnati remains solidly supportive of the Union. A full 2/3 of the citizens of Cincinnati remain loyal to the Union. However, the new Confederate government redraws the district voting lines so that that Union supporters can never win back political control of the city. As a result, the 1/3 of the population of the city loyal to the Confederacy controls the judicial, legislative and executive decisions for years to come.

This fictional scenario is not dissimilar to what actually happened to Derry.

In 1920, a year before the end of the Irish War for Independence, the Government of Ireland Act created a political border in Ireland that separated the six northern counties from the other 26 counties on the island. (See the map below for the full visual effect.) This didn’t cause too much of a stir until after the Irish won the War for Independence and the six northern counties were given the choice of joining the Irish Free State or aligning themselves with Great Britain.  They chose the latter, of course, and set in motion a century’s worth of trouble and conflict between the Catholics and the Protestants in the six northern counties.

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Derry is at the very top of the island, just to the east of Donegal

The six northern counties choose to go with Britain because the majority of its citizens were loyal to the Crown. This was not the case, though, in Derry, where 2/3 of the inhabitants were Catholic and would have preferred to align with the Irish Free State. To make matters worse, the Unionists in Derry (who made up less than 1/3 of the population of the city) set up judicial, administrative and legislative norms and practices that discriminated against Catholics who, as a result of the institutional discrimination, found it difficult to find housing, jobs and a decent education.

I should say, too, that it’s easy to characterize the Protestants of Northern Ireland as intolerant and unjust but that position it mostly unfair. Protestants in Northern Ireland aren’t any better or worse than people anywhere else. Their loyalties and their culture has, for centuries, been associated with Great Britain so it makes sense that a majority of them chose to maintain those ties. During the Troubles in Northern Ireland some very bad actors on both sides had their way and basically held the entire region under the sway of their cultural and ideological demands.

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Unionist mural on the east side of the old city: “Londonderry Westbank Loyalists Still Under Siege No Surrender”

When you stand on the west side of the old city of Derry, you can look across the Foyle River onto the green, rolling hills of County Donegal, the extreme northwest county of the Republic of Ireland. For centuries Counties Donegal and Derry had more in common than not and aside from the political border that separates them, they are still nearly indistinguishable.  Imagine, if you can, what it might have felt like to be a Catholic and a supporter of a united Ireland and to stand on those ancient walls realizing that your gaze fell on soil that didn’t discriminate against you because of your faith tradition. It wouldn’t have been unlike the fictional abolitionists of my scenario above looking across the Ohio River at the Union state of Ohio.

Things simmered in Derry throughout the 40s and 50s and then at the end of the 1960s, they came to a boil. The situation for Catholics in Derry for most of the twentieth century was not much different from that of blacks in the American south prior to (and after) the American Civil Rights movement.

Catholics and Protestants in Derry and Belfast joined together to begin a civil rights movement modeled after the American Civil Rights movement, but violence erupted on the streets pretty consistently and it all culminating in the Bloody Sunday massacre of January 1972 (the historical basis of U2’s “Sunday Bloody Sunday). At that point, the Northern Ireland civil rights movement effectively died and the militant wing of the IRA, the Provos, basically took over. The whole country, then, devolved into 25 years of communal and state-sponsored violence that simply devastated Northern Ireland.

Nothing good came of all this violence (nothing ever does). Even after the Good Friday Agreement of 1998, the IRA didn’t secure a united Ireland–the very thing it had been waging war for 30 years. But, there were a number of literary figures that chronicled these dark times in thoughtful and lucid ways. Ireland’s greatest poet, Seamus Heaney, hailed from County Derry and attended St. Columb’s College (it’s a high school) in Derry city. Many of Heaney’s most profound poems use the Troubles as foreground and background and it’s safe to say that reading Heaney’s generous and humanistic poetry about the Troubles is one of the best ways to understand that dark period.  One of Northern Ireland’s greatest politicians, John Hume, is a Derry man as is the writer and critic Seamus Deane. The same goes for the great Irish playwright, Brian Friel, who was born in County Donegal and who wrote a number of plays that take up the topic of the Troubles in Northern Ireland. Deane and Friel were the creative forces behind the Field Day project, a literary and historical movement committed to viewing the Troubles through a nationalistic and post-colonial framework.

 

Halfway between the old city walls and the River Foyle is a neighborhood called the Bogside, so named because the land was reclaimed from the Foyle before houses began cropping up in the area. The Bogside is the working class, Catholic and nationalist neighborhood of Derry where much of the communal and State-sponsored trouble took place in the later part of the twentieth century. The Bogside is unique for its many public murals which have become sites of public memory regarding the Troubles and the 30 years of conflict that transpired there.

If you ever have a chance to visit Derry, you must visit the Free Derry Museum. When we visited Derry last weekend, the museum had just opened so I was excited to be one of the first patrons. I’ve visited a lot of museums over the course of our past ten months of our journey and I’d say the Free Derry Museum was one of my favorite. It’s collection mostly commemorates the horrible events of 30 January 1972, otherwise known as Bloody Sunday and there are artifacts and video footage of the massacre that I had never seen so I found the whole experience moving.

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Sports jacket worn by one of the 13 marchers killed by British forces on Bloody Sunday. The yellow arrow marks where the bullet left the body of the young man who wore this coat.

Derry is a complicated city and in a short blog post I can’t do justice to the historical and cultural circumstances that have gone into making it the city it is today. If you are interested in learning more about Derry, I suggest reading Eamon McCann’s War in an Irish Town, Seamus Heaney’s early poems, my friend Andrew Auge’s very good book on Irish poetry, A Chastened Communion or Jennifer Johnston’s Shadows On Our Skin. And, by all means, if you ever find yourself in Ireland, take the time to visit Derry.

On our final day in Derry, we woke up early and walked the perimeter of the old city walls. The children brought along the kites they made the previous day and flew them as they walked the walls. Children flying kites on militarized walls. I can’t think of a better image.

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Flying a kite on Derry’s defensive wall

 

 

We attend an Inauguration protest in Dublin

I collected the kids at school today and we walked to the Maynooth train station where we hopped on a train to Dublin. We met up with my dear friend, Andy Auge, and his student Alex and headed over to an Inauguration Day protest that was being held in city centre.

The kids have been talking about and looking forward to this this all week. They are unnerved and anxious by the ascendency of #45 and sorrowful to see Obama exit the public stage. Atticus was up until nearly midnight earlier this week, composing a thank you letter that, among other things, informed President Obama that everyone Atticus has talked to in his travels over the past six months has supported Obama and that he shouldn’t worry about the people who don’t like him in the States. Attending the protest was a way for the kids to see that there are other people who are worried and angry about what’s ahead for our country and for the world. They were uplifted and excited by the collective action and I think, all in all, it was good for them. They held up signs, talked with other protesters, listened attentively to the speakers and even got an Irish Times reporter to interview them.

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Their first, and hopefully last, encounter with the media

I, on the other hand, have been dreading this moment all week. As I stood there listening to the speakers I just kept looking at the kids and thinking about the dangerous and uncertain world they were inheriting. I was angry to be standing out there in the cold, listening to people shout over loudspeakers, and I was distressed that my country was at that moment being turned over to a band of thieves and charlatans. Money changers in the temple of democracy.  I didn’t feel joyful or hopeful standing about with the 300 or so other folks gathered in the plaza. I didn’t feel connected to something larger than myself, and I didn’t feel at all that things were going to be okay.  As all this was running through my mind, I looked at my phone and read a  New York Times feed: the new regime had taken down all government websites related to climate change and LGBTQ issues.

I remembered a photo of  Obama and Andy’s son, Thomas, taken sometime in 2008. They live in Iowa and on one of Obama’s visits to their town Thomas had a chance to ask Obama a question at a town hall meeting. The shot was taken over Obama’s right shoulder so he’s in the foreground and he takes up nearly half of the frame. You can’t see his face, but you know it’s him because he has probably the most famous ears in the world. And given the aperture setting, what you see of Obama–the back of him from the waist up–is blurred. This in and of itself is unusual–usually the boken (the blurred or out-of-focus part of a photo) is in the background. To see the out-of-focus subject in the foreground and taking up a full half of the frame is part of the drama of the photo.  Thomas occupies the other half of the frame. The camera is trained on him so you see a smiling, clear-eyed and delighted boy  wearing an oversized Packers t-shirt and regarding Obama with a sense of wonder. Thomas’ right hand is in the air with his palm facing Obama and it looks like he’s taking an oath until you notice that Obama, too, has his left hand in the air, palm facing Thomas. They are just about to hi-five.

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Hi-Five.                                                                               (Thanks, Thomas, for permission to use this photo.)

I love that photo because it captures the idealism and the hope that many of us felt in 2008 and because it captures Thomas in what I suspect he’d refer to as a political coming-of-age moment.  I am pleased that Thomas and his generation had a chance to come of age under a strong and compassionate leader who carried our country forward, and I hope that his influence will inspire many of them to become public servants and defenders of democracy. God knows we’ll need them after today.

And I’m also furious that my children and their generation will come of age under an arrogant, bullying and hateful regime that is, as I write, trampling on the things we hold dear.

 

 

The New America Comes to Rome . . . Or Does it?

We have been in Rome for five days and I am happy and relaxed because traveling like this tends to keep my mind off The Unraveling of America. I am more focused, for instance, on admiring the multitude of public fountains, obelisks and statutes in this great city than I am on checking in on the latest Cabinet appointment or tweet from #45. That is as it should be. There will be plenty of time to mire myself in and fight against the reactionary forces that have become my country. For now, I’m just trying to bask in the ancient sunlight of Rome.

For the most part, that’s all gone fairly well. Until last night, that is, when Sujata and I, in that hour or two after sightseeing and before dinner, left the kids in the flat and trundled down the stairs and out the door to a quiet, cozy little wine bar just steps from the Pantheon.

Sujata had stopped in on her own the day before to get a bottle of wine for dinner and the young Italian barkeep, Alex, greeted us warmly and welcomed her back.  We sat ourselves in the middle of the bar’s only table–a long narrow wood-top that faced myriad bottles of Italian wine.  Alex suggested a bold, fruity Cab and in no time at all we were swirling our wine in glasses and chatting with Alex about his life in Rome. Alex is an uncommonly friendly and generous host. He shared stories about his own life and asked us where we were from and about the travel adventures we’ve had over the course of the past four months. At that point it was just the three of us in the bar and we were all laughing and enjoying the conversation.

I felt a cold breeze at my feet and turned to see the door swing on its hinges. A tall blond woman with a fur coat emerged from the street and behind her was a man in a Patagonia jacket and carrying (could it be?) a forty ounce bottle of beer in a paper bag. They had that charmless American habit of talking (loudly) as they entered a room and that, combined with the accents, gave them away as American passport holders within seconds.

Fair enough, there are plenty of Americans here in Rome and most of them we have had contact with have been perfectly nice, so I just tucked my feet under the chair for more warmth and turned back to the conversation with Sujata and Alex.

It became, though, increasingly difficult to focus as the New Arrivals paced up and down the bar, making audible observations about the decor and announcing to Alex that this was exactly the kind of wine bar that they planned on opening in St. Louis. The woman began taking photographs on her iPhone while the man, hunched over his beer, began a discourse on “price points” and square footage.

Alex, who was very happy to serve Sujata and me and to go into great detail about wines we were sampling, made the New Arrivals serve themselves. I was ready to down the wine and get the hell out of there, but, at the same time, I was enjoying myself and why should these people force us out? We stayed, ordered another glass and the New Arrivals, after 15 minutes or so of  continued public observations, picked themselves up and scuttled out the door, in search, no doubt, of another space to call their own.

While all this was happening, I (unsuccessfully) tried to supress a dark thought, so I just whispered it to Sujata. She winced.  Maybe my speculation was just that, just speculation. But, maybe this was it. Maybe this was that Two Americas that we’ve read about since 9 November, that has divided homes, enboldened some citizens to sucker punch, verbally harrass and deface the property of other citizens. The New America that we have  been protected by from our travels.

I hope I was dead wrong and I hope that my thoughts were rash and harsh judgements on perfectly reasonable and kind fellow countrymen and women.

But the sad thing is that the thought even occured to me and that I believe it is occurring to people all over the United States, every day and every hour.

Schadenfreude, Guns and Logic: More Notes on the New America from Abroad

Well, congratulations, America. You have, among other things, made post-communist, marginally corrupt and economically inefficient nations like the one I’ve been living in look like models of decency, civility and economic opportunity.

When we talk about the New America with our friends here in Romania, they laugh and say everything will be okay. They say that Trump will be controlled and that things will eventually return to normal. I can understand their perspective. After what they lived through, Trump and his brand of xenophobic nationalism looks like small potatoes.

They are, though, by and large worried about Trump cozying up to Putin and his threats to pull out of NATO. Most Americans either don’t know or don’t care that most central and eastern European nations have weak and disorganized standing armies. NATO is their firewall against Russian aggression. One good head fake from Putin could cause Trump to turn his head for a moment and voila any or any number of these nations could be occupied.

You may want to lock in that Prague vacation pretty soon. And, if you think that’s hyperbole, remember what Russia recently did in Ukraine.

I think what’s really going on, though, with my Romanian friends is that they are experiencing a pleasant, yet scary, sense of schadenfreude, the German word for deriving pleasure from other people’s misfortunes. The pleasant part is that we are finally experiencing what they suffered under a hateful, autocratic, intellectually and morally compromised narcissist. The scary part, of course, is that Trump, by nature of the fact that he controls the free world, can, and probably will, make choices that affect all of them, and none of it will be good.

I’ve been aware for a long time that guns are a mighty scourge on America. When my students in Romania learn that there are 30k handgun deaths a year in the States, they shiver. When I tell them that it’s common to get a text from my children’s school in Denver stating that the school is on lock down, they gasp. We (I’m using the term “we” more and more loosely these days when it comes to my attachment to America) are so inured to gun violence that most of us hardly care at all anymore.

But living in Romania, where guns are illegal, creates a very different habit of mind, especially when you go to public places. Here’s an example: we took the kids to a movie tonight and I didn’t think for a minute about the possibility of some crazy person storming the theatre and opening fire. Moreover, I routinely walk around Timisoara, or any other given city in this part of Europe, late at night and I never worry about my safety.

I don’t worry about these things because people aren’t walking around with concealed weapons in their coats or strapped to their belts. Because guns are illegal, citizens can enjoy a greater sense of freedom (yes, freedom from the anxiety of getting shot) and ease. God only knows how guns and violence will spread their already-powerful wings over the nation over the course of the four, eight, who knows how many years.

I’ve also been aware for some time that America is a land that plays fast and loose with the truth. Over the course of this past election season, and as I watch from afar as Trump continues his early morning tweets, it appears that reason and logic have simply flown the coop.

I imagine all those old Philosophy Professors who in the 1990s lost their logic classes to general education curriculum revisions that made way for sexier introductory courses. I can see them all gathered around televisions in university pubs across America, sniggering in their beers and shouting at the the television.

When Trump calls Hillary Clinton “very dumb” the Philosophy Professors leap from their chairs and shout, “Ad hominem attack!”

During the second Presidential debate, when Trump was asked to explain his aggressive comments about women and he kept repeating, “ISIS . . . . ISIS . . . ISIS,” the Philosophy Professors, face palm and mutter, “Begging the Question!”

When Trump tweets “Beyonce and Jay Z, I like them . . . I get bigger crowds than they do. It’s true. I get far bigger crowds,” the Philosophy Professors, sing in unison, “False Analogy!”

When the Philosophy Professors read Trump’s tweet, “14% of noncitizens registered to vote,” they just whisper to themselves, “Bat shit crazy.”

Not that even a national course on logic could save us from the mess we’ve put ourselves in.

I understand why President Obama has to publicly encourage the success of the Trump regime. He has to do that–it’s his job as the leader of the nation and the Commander-in-Chief to keep the ship of state right and true.

It’s not, though, my responsibility to do the same. In fact, I see it as my responsibility to do just the opposite of what President Obama is doing right now: Trump is a demagogue and a nationalist and and his brand of racist, anti-Semitic, misogynistic henchman must be stopped.

This should be shouted from the rooftops. We can’t wish or cry this away or think that everything is going to be alright. It’s not going to be alright.

As I write this, word is spreading that Trump and his emerging staff will implement a national registry for American Muslims.

Ominous days.