and i want them galvanized.

If there's one thing you should know about me, it's that I hate to make a scene.  If I'm brought the wrong order at a restaurant, I will quietly eat what was placed in front of me.  I take the time to street-view a new route on Google Maps before I leave the house so I don't look a spectacle getting lost.  And when I'm in a foreign country I long to be invisible, going out of my way to mumble so that no one can hear my accent, or I try my hardest to make everything go smoothly so as to promote the illusion that, even if I'm foreign, I know what I'm doing.  If there's anything I dislike more than eating eggs, it's feeling clueless and unprepared, and that's exactly the feeling that Belfast served up on Sunday.

Our Black Taxi tour began with the driver warning me that I needed to cover my Shanahan sweatshirt logo.  His Northern Ireland accent was a trifle difficult to understand, so at first all I heard was him asking me if I was an Irish dancer.  I smiled a bit and nodded, but he kept talking about my "jumper" and asking if I had anything else to wear.  Slowly, the reality of the situation began to dawn on me, full enlightenment descending when another driver came over and said (jokingly) that it'd be okay because he had a gun in his taxi.  If anyone bothered me... Well, feeling a tad uncomfortable and incredibly embarrassed, I announced that I had a big scarf that would cover the logo, and as I was wrapping it around my neck, I turned my Newman backpack towards the seat and wish I'd stayed home.

This is the sweater I was wearing, but flash back to me on the Antrim coast the day before I realized how dumb it was to wear this.

We were going to the Shankill, you see, and it's a place that was a little hard to believe at first.  Toni Morrison once wrote that all art is political, and I never really stopped to think about that until now.  There are gigantic political murals on almost all the houses in the Shankill, celebrating Protestantism (or in the case of most of them: anti-Catholicism) in the North.  The first one I saw featured your typical Protestant hero, King Billy on a rearing white horse, framed by the date 1690.  Look to your left and there's a memorial to Oliver Cromwell and his hatred of Catholics.  These are pretty standard fare, I'd say, and things I've encountered numerous times studying history.  So, in other words, as angry as Oliver Cromwell makes me, it's a lot like how I feel about Andrew Jackson.  I can distance myself and appreciate what they brought to the table, what they contributed to their times.  These two murals were nothing less than what I expected to see in Ulster.

When you turn around, though, you're confronted with a progression of hatred.  On one mural, a serial killer is celebrated on the side of his family's house for his success in murdering fifty-five Catholics.  Strangely enough, this is followed by a mural that features pastel-drawn children playing on a sunny day, which is followed by the most terrifying salute to the Ulster volunteers.  Our cab driver called it the Ulster Mona Lisa, and, no joke, this is where it gets really freaky, because no matter where you go, the rifle of the gunman follows you.  Up and down, side to side, forward and backward.  I had felt odd before, slightly uneasy, but once this mural was explained to me, I just felt one thing: targeted.

 Looks cheery, right?  In the background is the guy who killed 55 Catholics and who is now a hero for it.

I wish no one had told me about him.  I had nightmares that night.  He really does follow you everywhere.

Now, when someone mentions feeling "uncomfortable" in an OSCA discussion, you can usually count on a chorus of groans accompanied by eyerolls and mumbled annoyance.  This is where I usually get pissed off, get on stack, and yell at people for being disrespectful.  So, for those of you who are probably reading this and rolling your eyes, I would like to inform you that what I felt was real, regardless of how much or how little real danger there may have been (because, let's be honest, the painting was not going to shoot me down).  I am a privileged, white girl from suburbia Ohio, and, as such, I can say that I have never felt so... well... uncomfortable.  History has made me cry before, and I've been angry about injustices to the point of wanting to scream, but I have never experienced this before.  It's hard to describe, but I'm glad I had this experience.  Nothing bad happened, but I feel like I'm a little older after it's all been said and done.  It was really eye-opening, is what I'm trying to say,  and in a lot of different ways.  It brought me closer to my identity as a Catholic; it helped me realize how comfortable I actually do feel in Galway; and it helped me realize just how naive and ignorant I still am...

Moving on before I close out, how many of you have heard of the Berlin Wall?  Alright, well, how many of you knew that there are still walls dividing the Catholics and the Protestants in Belfast manned by British soldiers, covered in graffiti and the occasional burn mark, governed by curfews?  They say it's a little different than the Berlin Wall, and I'm willing to accept that, because it's not keeping people in against their wills, but rather a supposedly voluntary segregation to keep the peace.  It's too high for Molotov cocktails to make it over (hence, the burn marks).  But, on the other hand, the fact is that it's 2011 and I can't wear a sweatshirt without feeling uneasy, and we still need walls to keep the peace because we're so damned stuck in how we are that we can't see how ridiculous it all is.  Like I said, it's really eye-opening.

So, if art is political, what about the art on the other side of the wall around Falls Street?  It's still politicized, but, for some reason, it's less shocking, and, I'll admit that it's in part because I'm Catholic, but I don't think it's crazy to think a lot of you would agree.  Now, I'm not saying either side is right or wrong--they both killed people for reasons that depress me--but what the Catholic side chose to commemorate was easier to swallow.  There were beautiful murals supporting the underdogs in world conflicts--the Gaelic language, Cuba, Palestine, the Basque region--and memorials to the fallen, whether it was the innocent who died on Bombay Street in the 60s, or Bobby Sand's hunger strike.  Both sides committed atrocities, but the difference is in what they chose to celebrate... if that makes any sense?

So, now that I've been properly galvanized, I suppose it's time for me to get to bed.  I had a long weekend and I have a long week ahead.  Expect a more light-hearted entry on gallivanting across the Antrim coast and exploring Belfast City Center sometime soon.

G'night.

the crane.

I may not go out very often, and I may come in very early by normal standards, but I do have a favorite place in town that I have tried valiantly to make a frequent destination, with varied levels of success.  It's called The Crane, a modest-looking green and red building just past a popular, louder venue called The Róisín Dubh.  The walk isn't far, despite what it looks on Google Maps, and it's probably one of the most rewarding experiences to round a corner and hear just the faintest strains of a reel or a jig floating out from down the street, calling you ever so softly home from a long day.

2 Sea Road, Galway.

I wouldn't be lying if I said you can usually hear The Crane on a Tuesday night before you can spot it.  As a Trad enthusiast, it's difficult to keep myself from running up the stairs as soon as I get through the door.  It's a bit like a kid on Christmas morning in reverse.  The music comes in through my ears and, in no time at all, it infects every inch of my body to the point where I really start to have no say at all in where my feet decide to take me and how they'll take me there.  Whether it's a half-hidden treble-step or a more dramatic heel, slide, click, I can still get through a crowd pretty easily, even when I'm dancing, thanks to a year spent living and mobbing for my food in Keep Co-op.

 Yeah, I got my mob face on.

They say you're not supposed to pay attention to the musicians at a pub, that it's meant to be more like background music, but I really can't help myself.  First of all, it's pure magic to watch up to thirty people congregate with a plethora of instruments (violins, flutes, accordions, bodhrán, guitars...) and all mesh on the same tune.  It doesn't start right away either.  A lone instrument will begin, fighting its way through all the voices, and as more in the group begin to recognize the tune, the volume increases until everyone's swaying and head-bobbing together.  I don't think I've ever just sat down in a group, started with the dramatic opening of a symphony, had everyone recognize it, and then join in without hesitation until all the parts were represented.  It just doesn't happen.

 Talent.

Another reason I can't help but pay attention, even if it means being that creeper American in the corner, is that these tunes are so ingrained in my memory that they're like family.  If I could sing, I could sing them.  They have words and rhythms associated with dances that are so familiar to me I feel as if, should I pick up my viola, I could join in the session without breaking a sweat.  But, really, all I know about St. Anne's Reel is that it may (or may not) start on either an E, G, or B.  I can play a slip jig at an obnoxiously slow pace if I concentrate hard enough, and I know one hornpipe...maybe.  So the truth is, no matter how close I feel to these melodies, I still have to keep my distance, and this paradox fascinates me.  It's almost painful, but a good kind of pain, like when you're watching a really fantastic yet horrifying movie, that keeps me on the edge of my seat.  It's almost like all of these notes are trying to break out of my soul, but they have no idea what they'd do if they'd get down to my fingers and so they just sit inside screaming at me that I know them, or that I should know them...  It's very difficult to describe, but it just captivates me.

So, there you have it, folks.  The only place to be on a Tuesday night is The Crane.  It's totally worth it to lose an hour of sleep for the experience, and I only hope that it gets easier to convince people to join me on this crazy ride each week.

cookies & kodak moments.

Move out of the way awesome OSCA cooks, Jen Graham is in the oven now.  Now, before your jaws all drop to the floor and a sound resembling a baby fox in distress squeezes out of your lungs, let me say that I have successfully made lentil curry, broccoli, and mashed potatoes by myself since I've been here, and the triumph doesn't stop there.  This past Friday, to keep myself from eating Oreos & peanut butter, I decided to do some baking.  Yes, Jen baking.  No, house burning.  Here's the recipe (for 48 servings -- I cut it all in half to make 24):

2 3/4 cups of flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup of softened butter
1 1/2 cups of sugar
1 whole banana mushed
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

You combine all the dry ingredients in a bowl, and in another bowl, you stir together the butter and the sugar.  Then you add the banana and stir/mash until it's mostly smooth.  Add the vanilla, and then slowly mix in the dry ingredients.  I like to use my hands for this part.  As I balled them up to set on a cookie tray, I rolled them around in a mixture of sugar and cinnamon.  They cook for about 7-10 minutes in an oven that's heated to 200 C.  Which might be something like 400 F?

And, yes, there are no eggs and no milk!  And you can use margarine for butter I assume, if you want to be super vegan!  (I just hate eggs because it makes me afraid to eat the dough...)  Eggs are a binding agent, and since bananas are sticky, they act the same way!  I didn't have any problems with the cookies with bananas in the place of eggs.  And they were a huge success!  Here is a picture!

Bananas to the right just to prove I did it.  They were really so delicious!

On Saturday, we went to the Burren and the Cliffs of Moher with the International Students Society, and here are some pictures.  I'm really too lazy to say much about it, and I really do think that photos speak for themselves, but I do want to say something about our walking tour of the Burren.  The guy who took us around could tie an ancestor to that land as far back as 200 years.  That's ten times longer than I've been alive.  That's about how old the state of Ohio is, folks, and I certainly can't trace my family back that far, let alone connect them to a plot of land.  Think about how well you'd know a place.  Oh, man, it just blows my mind.

 Cow @ The Burren, which is the Land of the Fertile Rock.  Basically, a boatload of exposed limestone, which releases nutrients into the soil, and also stores water and heat, making this one of the most fertile regions in Ireland.

A little tower of rocks put up by the British so that they'd know where they were in the mountains.  Some people use them as meditation spots nowadays.  Fascinating how meanings adapt to generations.

 Teletubbie Land, or The Shire: 2011, or The Cliffs of Moher Visitors' Center.

 Poll na Brone, an Iron Age (?) portal tomb.

My goals for next week are pretty much the same as my goals for this week.  I didn't accomplish much, but, in my defense, I was catching a cold which has now settled comfortably in my nose.  New goal is to have done a considerable amount of reading, which probably won't happen, but a girl can dream, can't she?  Hope you enjoyed the pictures.  It's off to Belfast next weekend.

Cheers!

choices.

Like everyone, I've been faced with a lot of choices in my life.  Viola, cello, or violin?  Running or dance?  Spanish or German?  Push through, take a semester off, or transfer?  Work or play?  Ireland or Germany?  Even deciding in the morning whether to pack a lunch or try to go without is a choice I make, usually hurriedly, and, not surprisingly, all these choices and decisions I've made over the years have spawned an ocean of 'what if's.  You see, when I'm forced to make a decision in life, I usually freeze or, despite any intense longings for friendship, take the easy, familiar, safe (often lonely) way out.  I've been sure about very few things.  (Would you believe me if I said Oberlin was one of those sure things?)  Maybe I'm a chronic over-thinker to the point of being paralyzed by it, but these past few days have proved a few things to me that I'd like to enumerate below for future use.

Firstly: That, regardless of how many times I have cried, felt intellectually inadequate and lonely, Oberlin was the right choice.  Look at what I've learned about myself, what I've accomplished for myself.  I went in as a freshman with big dreams, no work experience, and no friends.  I left last semester as a junior with five jobs, a lovely group of best friends, and a whole new (free!!) wardrobe.  I feel comfortable in my skin (aka: cherished man-flannel) at Oberlin.  I can make people laugh and I have a family there, and, yes, that includes General Shurtleff.  It really is like home.  I didn't think I'd miss it, but I guess I do.


Secondly: That I picked the right major.  Sure, there are times when people will come up to me and ask me why on earth I'm not studying to be a field biologist, and there are times when I will stroke my chin and wonder that myself.  The truth is, I love plants and animals.  I love to know why they grow here and not there, what different kinds look like and sound like, what's this called, what's that called, how to take care of stuff, how things work, and I absolutely love finding things when I can manage it.  But, like I like my alcohol, so too do I prefer my science lite.  I like looking at pictures and petting animals and going on hikes.  I like making connections and memorizing things.  The truth is, I'm awful at everything else.

It's really hard for me to describe what I really like about history, but it's kind of for the same reasons I love biology.  I love making connections, flipping a page and finding someone else's character smeared all across it in little black type, telling stories.  Numbers and dates are important, but in the fact that they inform the story, lending dimension to the characters and their world.  When I can close my eyes and hear the soft rustle of fabric as cravats are tied, feel a sympathetic smear of ink on my fingers as I take notes on a primary source document... It all means the world to me to feel connected to something.  I couldn't tell you which I love more--biology or history--but I can tell you that I know I'm doing something right.

Do you all need tissues yet?  I'm not finished, but I'll stop being a sap for a second to tell you that I had my first Irish history tutorial on Friday, and I'd like to announce to the world that I participated.  It was fascinating, actually.  We're focusing on the 18th century, and we were assigned this piece on Jonathan Swift and the development of Anglo-Irish patriotism.  Last semester, as many of you know, I was in a pretty fantastic class on the American Revolution and the Early Republic, and the parallels!  Oh, I was practically drooling in my seat.  Does this sound familiar?  "Am I a Free-Man in England, and do I become a Slave in six hours, by crossing the Channel?" Swift was all for economic rebellion--boycotts, self-sufficiency, industriousness.  He hated being taxed and seeing all of Ireland's capital being used to develop England's economy, and he hated hated hated feeling like a second class citizen just because he happened to live in Ireland.  Really, basically, he sounds a hell of a lot like every self-proclaimed Patriot in the American colonies, and it was all brewing around the same time--1763...ish.

But here's the interesting part!  I wrote a paper in my last history class defending the Founding Fathers.  I agreed that they were probably, by our standards, land mongering freaks, but I also argued that it was unfair to apply these standards (and our innate distrust of eloquence) to their grand, sweeping, dripping-in-glitter-and-romance rhetoric, which really did mean a lot to them and everyone else, even if it excluded about 98% of the population.  In that paper, I was extremely lenient towards walking contradictions like Thomas Jefferson, but when discussing Jonathan Swift I just...couldn't...handle it.  I was angry that his reform ideas didn't include native Irish Catholics and the poor.  I turned into one of those cynical, I'm-only-a-history-major-so-I-can-say-you're-wrong people.  I was shocked by myself, squeezing all the romance out of Swift and giving him no free passes.  Why is it okay that Jefferson was a jerk and not okay that Swift was a jerk?  Is it because I grew up with Thomas Jefferson and I hate to see a hero die?  I need to think about this some more, but it's an interesting development...

One more thing I thought about on my walk home was what if (here are the 'what if's again) we had lost the Revolutionary War?  Would we have had a Great Famine?  Would we have been employed building useless walls up mountains, just so that we'd have something to do other than plan another rebellion?  (They didn't employ the Irish building useful things like good roads--no, no, that would be developing infrastructure, and might help future uprisings!)  Would it have been known as the American Rebellion instead?  Would we be a divided nation today rather than the freakish behemoth we became thanks to good ol' Manifest Destiny?  Would Jefferson and Henry and Franklin and all those guys have become disillusioned in failure and, like Swift, have faded into trite?  What thoughts!!  They really make my brain tingle with delight!

And now, before this entry stretches quite from Sea to shining Sea (haha, get it?), I'll hit you with one more realization.


Thirdly: That I made the right choice coming to Ireland.  I could have gone to Germany, and in an alternate universe, I'm probably writing a blog about how studying in Germany was the best choice ever.  I guess the point I'm trying to make is that I'm having a real real Robert Frost moment.  The ~*road less traveled by*~ didn't make all the difference because it was rugged and a path most people wouldn't take.  It made all the difference simply because it wasn't the other road.  I'm not learning things in Ireland because it's better than Germany or something weird and out-of-the-blue.  I'm learning things and making discoveries in Ireland because I'm here, not there, and it's time I make the most of it.

whiskey before roads.

Today I came to the realization that NUI: Galway is a lot like high school.  The girls are pretty and migrate together in inapproachable herds.  The boys are all bros in equally (if not more) inapproachable masses.  What's worse, these gaggles make unnecessary pit stops in the hallway, waiting for stragglers or pausing to gossip (because, everyone who's anyone knows you can't walk and talk at the same time).  As I was rushing to class this morning (on the verge of being late because of America's Next Top Model), I found myself murmuring angrily under my breath about how selfish and immature it is to stop in the middle of the hallway like it's the only way to ~*prove your popularity*~ or like no one else it the world could possibly need to get around you.  Insert eye-roll here.  And that's when I realized: I was back at Hilliard Darby High School.

Except, the last time I checked I was 20 years old.

The parallels don't stop there, either.  All my classes are lectures, and it's just so reminiscent of Mr. Wolf standing up at the front of the class (or, given the quality of my lecturers, rather not like Mr. Wolf) that I'm 15 all over again.  A few of the insecurities are back, as well.  Since everyone dresses so posh and cares so much about make-up, whenever I hear someone laughing near me, I always think they're laughing at what I'm wearing or the way my hair looks.  It's pure torture, really, because all I really want in life right now (yes, I have low priorities, so sue me) is for a boy to tell me that I'm pretty, or for someone I really admire here to ask me to hang out with them sometime.  It could be the most random act of kindness, but you know, one thing I'm realizing as I get older is that every little thing counts.  You have no idea how many notes from middle school I have saved, or letters from family when I'm away at camp.

I'm telling you, guys, let everyone know how much you love them. (I'm taking this page from the Awesome Life of Corey Patrick Harkins, by the way.)  Tell them they're beautiful and everything that makes you smile about them.  You'll feel better and it really means the world to them.

Dear Johnny Weir: You are awesome and beautiful and I love you.  Wow, that felt good.  :)

On Friday, I got the best surprise in the mail ever received by anyone in the history of man.  Yes, I am talking about Welcome to my World by Johnny Weir.  I read it in about 12 hours, a record for someone like me.  It's hard to imagine that everything I feel about Johnny could be summed up in 200-or-so pages, but it's a miracle, really.  He is very open and self-aware, and I really began to feel so much closer to him.  My arena has always been academics rather than a rink, but my parents are so supportive of me, and have sacrificed so much so that I can be where I am today (which is Ireland, by the way).  He's shy in large crowds, uses art as a release, and is a little bit petulant (okay, make that a lot)... Somehow, he touched every single reason why I love him (his artistry, unwillingness to compromise who he is, his pride in his upbringing/background, his innate talent, his passion, his vulnerability) and every single reason why I hate him (his petulance, his melodrama, his headcasing, his love of frivolous luxury, his ego, his treatment of Priscilla Hill).

Basically, what I'm trying to say is that it's an amazing look into the life of an absolutely amazing athlete and artist.  Definitely a worthwhile read.

Oh, yeah, and on Sunday, we went to Connemara.

(Kylemore Abbey)

I realized something else earlier, and that's that I am not an Urbanite.  I can't live in a city or a suburb without an open space to frolic through nearby.  Every single time the bus stopped on the way to Connemara was like an emotional release.  I don't know quite how to describe it, but being able to run around and spin and skip and jump and twirl was like breaking free from these old, heavy, depressive chains.  It didn't matter that the sun wasn't really shining.  It didn't matter that I'm uncomfortable in social situations.  I was in my element.  The air was fresh; I was "psh, pssh"ing at birds like a happy fool; and I really felt like I could do anything.

This is what I want to be doing, what I need to be doing.  I need to be climbing mountains and running through the woods.  I don't think I'm going to waste any more weekends, and I've already started compiling a list of places I absolutely need to visit.  Among these are Fountain's Abbey in Yorkshire, Croagh Patrick in Co. Mayo, the Dingle Peninsula, Kilkenney, Cork, Switzerland, all over Germany multiple times, Majorca... The list goes on and on.  I even thought about making a financially irresponsible decision and flying to Japan for Spring Break.  Wow, daring.  

I don't have much else to say about how Connemara made me feel, and I think pictures say it best, anyway, so here are a few awesome ones from the trip.

That may/may not be the Burren in the background...

 Connemara ponies :D

 "On this site in 1897 nothing happened..."

At the birthplace of the world.

These are "cottier" fields which would be worked by laborers in exchange for a place to live on the land.  A program that developed Ireland into a nation of paupers in the 17th and 18th centuries...

Something also amazing happened on Sunday, and I'll leave you with this because I think that this entry is already way too long.  RYAN BRADLEY IS THE NEW U.S. MEN'S FIGURE SKATING NATIONAL CHAMPION.  Guys, you have no idea how long I've been waiting for this to happen.  He's competed at 11 Nationals and I'm pretty sure he's been the pewter medalist and first-alternate to Worlds more times than anyone ever.  Plus, it's a big "screw you" to those who doubt any skater in their late-20s.  Yeah, that's right.  JEN GRAHAM: SOCHI 2014.  Just kidding, but, really.  Wanna know how much I was dedicated to this?  I Skyped with mom with her camera turned towards the T.V. just so I could watch this happen.  Think I'm kidding?

This... this is the face of dedication.  This is the face of your new Champion.  :D

Goals for next week:

Trip to Cliffs of Moher/The Burren

Find a bicycle

Mail more post-cards

Have a berry Bulmers and make it home alright

Rent an instrument?

Go to a German Soc event

Practice my [nonexistent] Gaeilge