Mitchell Scholar Blogs

I had to take a medical leave from University College Cork for the fall semester, and so by the time I returned to Ireland in January, I was anxious to make up for lost time. One of my top priorities was to visit the quaint villages and historic sites scattered around the Emerald Isle. When I found that I shared a day off from classes with Maggie, I jumped on the opportunity to plan an outing. The trip we took — a day-trip to the small town of Kilkenny – turned out to be one of most memorable experiences I’ve had in Ireland so far.

Kilkenny is an old Anglo-friendly stronghold in the middle of the Republic, punctuated with several historic churches and cathedrals and the famously opulent Kilkenny Castle. We spent the day listening to tour guides, snapping pictures, enjoying the cuisine, and shopping for matching mementos (we were unsuccessful). Two parts of the trip were particularly memorable:

On our tour of Kilkenny Castle, we were both impressed by the staid portraits of aristocrats. Maggie found one of the subjects particularly compelling, and asked a nearby docent about the subject’s story. After providing a thorough history of the subject’s role in the aristocracy, the docent made a poignant analysis of our current place in history: while the subject was gorgeous in the portrait, she was almost definitely not as beautiful in real life. He explained artists would often embellish their subjects’ appearance. I study public health at UCC, and within the field of public health, several have hypothesized that social media gives people a glamorized sense of other people’s realities, causing stress. While social media widens this phenomenon, these portraits demonstrated that it wasn’t entirely absent hundreds of years ago. I pondered that point throughout the rest of the day, even as we scrutinized our selfies.

In the afternoon, we visited St. Canice’s Cathedral, which dates back to the 13^th century. As we walked in, I saw someone walk into a small cutout of a cylindrical tower. I excitedly turned to Maggie, hoping that we could climb the tower as part of the tour. When we discovered climbing the tower cost just two extra Euro, Maggie, indifferent to medieval tower climbing, obliged. I began climbing the stairs only to discover that, once inside the 1100-year-old tower, stairs gave way to a series of steeply inclined ladders. After just a few flights, I developed a sudden onset fear of heights. Maggie had to coax me up the remaining steps. The view from the top was magnificent — but then I had to figure out how I’d get down. After assuring me that a helicopter rescue was unlikely, Maggie coaxed me back down the stairs – walking backwards the entire way. Each step was a trust exercise.

On the bus back to Cork, it dawned on me that, without the Mitchell Scholarship, I’d likely never meet someone like Maggie. We have vastly different interests – she studies national defense and diplomacy, while I work in health and economics. She lived an international childhood, inhabiting several countries I’d have to look up on a map. Until this year, I’d spent my entire life in the contiguous 48. We have different political views, different career aspirations, and were involved in different activities in college. Despite (or because of) our differences, however, we now share unforgettable memories of Kilkenny. Though I’ve only been in Ireland three months, I know I am part of the Mitchell family, and I’ve enjoyed every minute I’ve gotten to spend with the other Mitchells. I look forward to the adventures I’ll share with my Mitchell family this year and beyond — in fact, I’m writing this post from Tyler’s room in Dublin!

“You talk funny,” the four-year-old standing in front of me noted in his thick Cork accent, a spirited grin spreading across his face. His dad apologized as I threw my head back laughing. In late January, I eagerly accepted a position assisting a young Irish couple as the wife recovered from surgery. Primarily, I was to aid in the daily physical tasks associated with running the home and minding their two boys: a bouncy one-year-old and his brother who, at present, was staring inquisitively up at me with cartoon-scale blue eyes.

If you want to be immersed in a culture, I recommend spending time with children born into it. While adults tend to politely infer meaning from context, children will let you know – in no uncertain terms – if what you say or do is out of place. Usually, there will be tears. This is how I found myself Googling “how to make beans on toast” at lunch one afternoon in case the dish was not as self-explanatory as one might think. (Spoiler: it is.)

Oh, but what it must be like to grow up in Ireland.

Rain is far from a deterrent of afternoons at the park; we simply slip a rain suit over our school uniform and wellies and shield the buggy with a plastic cover. Puddle jumping is an extreme sport among the friend group of my elder charge and shadow games on the illusive sunny day might extend our walk from playschool by nearly an hour. “The Salmon of Knowledge,” an Irish fable about the value of wisdom and perseverance, is a naptime favorite of boys I anticipate I will, one day, recite to my own children.

In early March, a cold front dumped several feet of snow on Ireland – the most seen by the country in over 30 years. I cantankerously tugged on my hiking boots for the trek to work, muttering under my breath how I thought moving here meant sweet relief from the regular blizzards of my Colorado childhood. Nobody in Cork shared my disdain for the storm. With much of the city shut down, the local adults took to the streets to play. Play. Snowmen of all shapes littered unplowed sidewalks and baking trays became makeshift sleds. I witnessed one random passerby blissfully return fire after becoming the unintended target of a rogue snowball.

The door of the family home flew open and out waddled several layers of clothing which concealed a four-year-old. “Have you ever even seen this much snow?!” the clothing squealed. Dad and mom joined us in the garden and, under the supervision of their eldest son, started to build the first snowman of their lives. The toddler gripped my knee as he explored the sensation of snow under his boots. He bent and scooped up a handful of snow and offered it to my lips in the same way he extends to me every piece of his lunchtime “beans on toast.” Grinning, I bit into the chunk and he roared with laughter. Somewhere, buried beneath 24 years of school and work and heartbreaks and lessons regarding the way one is supposed to operate in the world, one-year-old me giggled, too.

I am growing up in Ireland.

I am realizing I am strong enough to thrive despite the clouds. I am exploring the ways in which the sun hits the earth here; it’s different from other places I have called home. I am singing new songs and speaking new words and trying new foods; I am learning to exist in a world that is only just becoming familiar. And, with any luck, it will make me a better person.

As I sat rocking a snoring toddler that afternoon I prayed that, as time passes, he and his brother will continue to cherish their Irish roots. I know I will.

For as long as I can remember, one of the best spaces to become present to the people and places around me has been during a car ride. Whether it was the usual summer family road trip, long drives on familiar roads with those closest to me, or exploring the streets of new cities I was moving to, car rides have proved to cultivate an environment of storytelling, community, and bonding. Without fail, whenever my sister and I had free time, a new album to listen to, or really needed to think through a problem, the sound of, “wanna go for a beach drive?” was music to our ears.

The night before leaving for Ireland, my sister and I went for one last beach drive before the big departure. Windows down. Teary eyed from laughing. Music Blasting. I am at home in the passenger seat of her car. “This is what I’ll miss the most,” I thought to myself. A small part of me was (naively) convinced Ireland couldn’t hold a candle to what we had right here on the coastal roads of New Jersey.

Fast forward to January, watching my sister hold her breath as we are driving on the other side of the road from Galway to Cork, half fighting because of the stress and half laughing because if we make it to our destination, it will be a miracle. Both of us in awe of the scenery around us and neither getting sick of the other saying “look, more sheep!” We used the time in between sharing new songs to catch up on everything we already told each other on the phone over the past six months. Before I knew it I was already thinking, “this is what I’ll miss the most” not only about her visit but also my time in Ireland.

My sister and I taking a break from almost driving off the side of the road.

The magic of car rides quickly proved to be an important part of my Mitchell year. Within the first week of moving here, new friends from Cork offered to pick me up at “half eight” to go for a drive. Passing from the busy streets of Cork City to the countryside, I discovered new sights while also learning about what it’s like to grow up in this place I’m about to call home. “That to the left is my family home…to the right thats an old abbey…oh have you been out west yet? We can drive there one weekend.” Just like that the unfamiliar starts to become familiar and new plans are created in the time it takes a traffic light to turn from red to green.

Back home, a staple of any road trip, no matter its distance, is Bruce Springsteen. I used to think that there was no better place to blast Thunder Road than Ocean Avenue in Monmouth County, New Jersey with beach views on both sides of the road and Springsteen’s voice blaring through the speakers. That is, until I got to Ireland — a land that might give New Jersey a run for its money with their love of the Boss. On a drive back  from Belfast to Cork, I heard the beloved words “play some of your favorite Springsteen songs.” As Thunder Road began playing and I took in the scenery around me, I realized how much moments like these blur the lines between home in New Jersey and home in Ireland.

From the time best friends surprised me with a car already rented and ready for a week of adventures across Ireland, to family friends from Cork City packing the car for a day of discovery, I have found that the best way to get to know this country has been from the passenger seat of a car.

Friends from home leading the way on our week long road trip through Ireland.

Views from the backseat of a drive through West Cork with my childhood best friend and her Irish family.

Bruce Springsteen and I most likely bonding over our love of road trips and New Jersey.

Exciting Irish car ride destinations!

When we visited Corrymeela in Northern Ireland for our mid-year Mitchell retreat, I was unprepared for the deeply philosophical conversation that ensued – much like I felt prior to our initial retreat in Limerick. Padraig, a community leader, orchestrated the convicting discussion, accompanied by the beautiful backdrop of the Irish Sea.

To me, conflict resolution, as a practice, seemed foreign in that the work is often overlooked in periods of “peace.” Corrymeela takes an opposing stance. Routinely, they host a variety of groups on varying topics in a region still feeling the undertones of its sectarian conflict. According to Padraig, the conversations range from talks about LGBTQ+ inclusion to religious differences. After we probed as to how Padraig exactly conducts these talks, he followed with a seemingly paradoxical remark: “I am uninterested in consensus. I am interested in disagreement.”

Such caused me to reflect on how often appeals to universality are used to cure conflict. For example, as an opposition to the onset of identity politics, many Americans champion the zero-sum response of suppressing differences, be it race, gender, income, sexual orientation, etc. to uphold this idea of being “American.” Albeit tangentially related, Alastair Bonnett addresses this topic, differing between the strands of anti-racism in her book entitled, Anti-Racism: Relativism and Universalism. She loosely endorses a relativist approach where uniqueness is emboldened to further peace. In some ways, Padraig held a similar view.

Upon reflection, Padraig’s comment is incredibly wise. Embedded in feigned consensus efforts can be divisiveness. While our humanity bonds us, our lived experiences separate us. That dissonance is what contributes to the richness of cultural exports. However, when efforts are not made to understand the fruits of individual dissonance, an embargo is placed on individuality. Suddenly, a society becomes too concerned with trying to agree rather than being comfortable with distinctiveness.

Conflict resolution is not about changing another’s mind or defending one’s dignity. It is, however, about finding “strange ground for peace.” That is something I can get behind. Thanks for the lesson, Corrymeela.

Whenever the weather allows in Galway (which can never be guaranteed), I like to walk the Salthill Promenade. On one of my first nights here, Azza introduced me to the walk and ever since then it’s often been a place of processing and reflection for me (and of enjoying the beaches and admiring the local dogs). Luckily, today Galway put on its best sunny show; so off I went. With my birthday, fencing intervarsities, and St. Patrick’s Day falling across the last three weekends, as I walked I was happily flooded with memories of celebrations.

To be fair, my birthday actually fell on a Tuesday. The bad news being that as a weeknight, some of my friends couldn’t make it out that night; the good news being that that meant only one thing — double the birthday celebrations. I shared a laughter-filled dinner on my birthday with two of my longest-held friends in Galway before heading to the pub to meet the fencing club. Tuesdays are our usual pub night as a team, so I anticipated the usual banter when to my surprise they pulled out a cake and a pack of Kinder Eggs (my first ever). The following Saturday, I had dinner with a group of my friends in our usual dinner spot. When we got back to their sitting room, they brought out a cake complete with trick candles. With some help, I did finally manage to get them all blown out.

“blowing out” the birthday candles (probably attempt 6 or so with no end in sight)

Before I knew it, only days later I found myself on a bus surrounded by the fencing team at the beginning of our seven-hour journey to Coleraine for intervarsities – a team competition across the universities of Ireland and Northern Ireland. Saturday evening, there is a celebratory dinner that was described to me beforehand as “like a wedding reception with no wedding attached.” Sitting together around two tables sharing our meal, competing in various party games and races, and dancing the night away, it was a time for the whole team and the whole fencing community to come together to celebrate all that we’d accomplished that weekend and throughout the year. And we left with some pretty wonderful photo booth print outs too.

NUIG Women’s Foil Team

Then just a few days ago, I found myself in a sea of green – my first Irish Paddy’s Day (I was warned sternly not to ever say Patty’s Day – duly noted). I watched as children’s GAA teams, various cultural groups, performing arts programs, and everything in between marched through Galway during the parade. Then we filed into the pub to watch the Ireland-England rugby match – a game I never knew I’d be into until surrounded by cheering, swearing, nail-biting fans. After an Irish victory, the celebratory spirit carried on long into the night. The town was packed; Irish flags were hanging from store fronts; banners were flying across the streets; and laughter and singing filled the air.

Caught mid-cheer during the rugby match

In thinking about each of those nights and what I loved about them, I realized that I kept coming back to connection. Celebrations are a time of joy, a time of achievement, a time of reflection on contributions and identity, but what makes them truly celebratory is often the community of people that you celebrate with. When we celebrate, we look to those closest to us and in doing so we both acknowledge and deepen our sense of community. Walking along the Prom today, I reflected on how lucky I am to find myself in so many supportive communities here and how lucky I feel to have so much to celebrate.

Studying conflict can be intensely demoralizing. Every day seems like a new lesson in mankind’s potential to be cruel, and every solution seems painfully imperfect. We learn to pull our far reaching hopes in, to make our goals a bit smaller, and to ultimately view peace not as a singular leap but instead as a multifaceted process that may never be fully complete. These are hard lessons–most of us are young idealists who always dreamt of saving the world, many of us are heartbroken to realize how impossible that may be. At times, I have found myself edging perilously close to cynicism. In February, a group visit to the Corrymeela Community served to remind me of the human potential for change, for progress, and for good.

In contrast to the breathtaking coastline upon which it sits, Corrymeela’s buildings seem quiet and unassuming. It was established in 1965 as a space in which to have difficult conversations. During the Troubles, bitter political rivals could meet here as a first step in overcoming devastating social rifts. Our introduction to the organization was provided by current community leader Padraig O Tuama. His speaking style was an echo of the place itself–quiet, comforting, unpretentious, and yet decidedly charged with power and meaning. I wish I could remember every word he spoke; I wish I could write them all here and have them wash over you the way they washed over me, somehow shaking me to the core while simultaneously providing me with a sense of strength. Knowing I can’t manage that I offer instead what I found to be his three most potent thoughts:

1. Seeing the bigger picture. Padraig told us the story of a conversational impasse, a moment when all sides felt so mired in their differences that they could not speak productively. One member of the group suddenly looked through the window and pointed to the ocean: “There are dolphins out there!” The group broke, moved outside excitedly, watched in amazement as the animals leapt and swam. The group was able to come back to the conversation with a sense of the larger world and its meaning beyond the divisiveness of any single issue.
2. Feeling safe. “Before anyone enters the room,” Padraig explained, “there are hundreds of phone calls being made. Most of these are assuring guests that they will be treated with respect.” It makes sense–who would want to enter a space knowing that those within it are waiting eagerly to tear you to pieces? Regardless of the perspectives from which group representatives might come, much of Corrymeela’s burden is to ensure that they feel safe enough to engage in productive dialogue.
3. Speaking the same language. When discussing his work combating homophobic legislation abroad, Padraig mentioned its alleged moral roots in the Christian Bible. Instead of condemning the authors and legislators as heartless or broken, he approached them with a Bible in hand. Together they sat and worked through the texts that both sides valued, ultimately finding the passages to be far less in favor of dogmatic punishment and far more in favor of acceptance and empathy. When their moral framework was respected, they were far more open to change.

None of these are solutions in themselves, but they are elements of a larger process that holds infinite potential. Corrymeela stands as proof that great change is made up of small-scale action, and that one organization, one group of dedicated individuals, even one young idealist, can move the arc of the moral universe a little further towards justice.

First, you will want to get an early start to the day, plan for a 9 o’clock breakfast in Cathedral Quarter, where you can sit down to a great meal at one of Belfast’s new hip restaurants. You’ll want to take your tea sitting by the window of the restaurant, to watch as the parade organizers begin marshaling their massive floats. After indulging in a light breakfast and friendly banter with the staff, bundle up and brace for the cold.

Walk to St. Georges market where you can shop the stalls for festive attire. Paddy caps, Aran sweaters, green scarfs, and gloves are all appropriate but don’t forget the jovial items of flair (these will be essential later). As you enjoy the market and make conversation with the stall keepers, you’ll be serenaded by live traditional Irish music (trad for short). Here you might stop to enjoy some sweets or a Belfast Bap, certainly a tea, as you tap along to the songs and watch the people dance.

Around a quarter to noon, make your way to city hall at the city center where the parade makes its loop. Here you’ll soak up the culture of the city as floats begin to ferry by, marveling at gigantic mythical St. Patrick and the ironic Titanic float, accompanied by more trad music and river dancers. After the parade finishes and you’re thoroughly frozen, it’s time to head into a pub for warmth and preliminary drinks. Find a decent snug to sit with your friends in the Garrick, and chat away while you thaw. Following a pint or two, it’s time to find another pub as the crowds begin to swell. Head down to get a proper meal in the Cathedral Quarter and stake out a table to watch the Ireland England rugby match.

After a proper feed, steel yourself for the cheer as the 3 o’clock match kicks off. This is where your newly acquired flair will come in handy for making new friends, as you cheer the all-Ireland team on against the pompous English. Strangers of all shapes and sizes become acquaintances, and then fast friends as Ireland carries the day and wins the rugby grand slam. Join the crowd in singing songs of victory as you partake in a now slightly drunken revelry.

Now as the day turns into evening, the celebration gets into full swing. Venture to Madden’s, Kelly’s Cellars, and then Hudson Yard (now Peaky Blinders) for the best wings in Belfast. After some good bar food, the pub crawl continues as you go from bar to bar, band to band, finally getting a booth at The John Hewitt. While the band plays yet more trad music, you join in the choruses and singing. End the night at the harp bar, where everyone begins to funnel as the rest of the bars close.

Head back to your Airbnb overlooking St. Anne’s Cathedral for rest from a St. Patrick’s Day you won’t forget.

When I got the email saying that my play was going to be produced in Dublin as part of the Smock Alley Scene + Heard festival, I cried tears of joy. The play that I had submitted was called Escapegoat. It followed the conflicts between an invasive species of goat and native species in the Galapagos, and the ethically questionable ways in which scientists intervened. I was excited to do this play in Dublin because, while many of my plays directly address American political and social issues, this play does not deal with human cultures in any significant way, and is primarily told from the perspectives of different animals. This makes it the play of mine that is best suited to cross-cultural collaboration. Smock Alley was the first theater I ever went to in Dublin, and it is a beautiful space with a rich history, so I could not have imagined a better home for my playwriting debut in Dublin.

While the process of staging a play in a new city was challenging, and there were moments when it seemed nearly impossible, I was touched by the support I received from my Irish and American circles. My professors met with me to give me advice and inform me about resources available throughout the city, as did several theater artists to whom I reached out because I admire their work. One professor even secured us free rehearsal space, which helped us immensely. Friends recommended actors and a director, and two of my classmates were involved (one as the producer, and the other as an actor). American friends and family were incredibly generous in helping us fund the production and spreading the word. And, of course, the Mitchell family has been a constant source of support to me throughout this process. When we faced challenges, my fellow scholars were often the ones to enthusiastically cheer me on and inspire me to keep going. Many of them came to see the show, and Carolina (the Mitchell Director) was also able to attend while she was in Ireland. I always feel fortunate to be part of this community, but I was especially aware of how special it is in the weeks leading up to my play.

One question that this process has raised for me is the extent to which plays have to be culturally specific in order to resonate. Several of my Irish colleagues in theater remarked to me that this play was very different from the majority of plays they have seen in Dublin, simply because its subject matter had nothing to do with Ireland. Indeed, all of the plays I have seen in Ireland interrogate what it means to be Irish, or address the most pressing social issues in Ireland today. I have often heard the critique that Irish theater is “navel-gazing,” and I generally object to this opinion because it assumes that Ireland is not important or culturally rich enough to be worthy of writing many plays about. After all, countless American plays deal with specifically American politics and national identity, and no one ever accuses American theater of navel-gazing. However, I also believe that Irish audiences deserve access to stories about other parts of the world on their stages, and that Irish playwrights should not feel that they must only write about Irish topics if they want their work to be produced. Putting up a play in Ireland as an American writing about the Galapagos has complicated this debate for me in a constructive and eye-opening way.

I’ve played trombone since I was about eleven years old. Picking up the instrument seemed natural to me. My father played trombone when he was younger and always had an old musty instrument in the basement that, when I was a kid, I’d sometimes take out and attempt to make what I thought resembled music on it, although not very successfully. I’ve been lucky enough to play in some great ensembles in my life, including four years in the Spartan Marching Band at Michigan State. After graduating I’ve still pursued my desire to play, and continued to performing in a community ensemble in Flint.

When I moved to Dublin, one of the first things that I wanted to do was find an ensemble in the community to continue making music with. I didn’t want to skip an entire year of playing with passionate musicians, and Ireland is a nation with no shortage of passionate artists, whether they be musicians, painters, or most famously, writers. After a few weeks searching through brass bands, wind symphonies, and symphonic orchestras, I reached out to the Dublin Orchestral Players to see if they were in need of a trombonist. To my luck they were, and I began attending rehearsals in the fall.

After attending weekly rehearsals every Tuesday evening, our first concert was on a gorgeous night in early December at Kings Inns on the north side of Dublin. While the concert included the obligatory Christmas carol medley, it also included a gorgeous Haydn oboe concerto and a beautiful Mozart symphony. The talent of my fellow musicians was overwhelming and getting to perform in such a beautiful space made for an emotionally fulfilling evening that I’ll remember for some time.

Following this concert and a break for the holidays, we began rehearsing again for our spring concert. Unlike the first concert, this one included trombone parts in every piece, including a fairly challenging part in the famous William Tell Overture. The overture was accompanied by a beautiful cello concerto by Elgar, with a guest cellist who was breathtaking, and the famous Requiem by Fauré where we partnered with a local area choir to round out the piece. To top it all off, the concert was held in Christ Church Cathedral, one of the most breathtaking churches in all of Ireland. I’ve been fortunate enough to have fellow Mitchell Scholars attend each performance with their sincere and encouraging, if sometimes embarrassing, vocal support.

I’ve been lucky throughout my performances to be welcomed by the friendliest of people, fellow musicians in Ireland. The Irish are well-known as a kind and welcoming people, and in my time with the Dublin Orchestral Players I have found them to be nothing but eager to accept me into their group and make me feel a part of the ensemble, an ensemble which includes players who have been members for decades. It has been the chance to get to know fellow musicians here that has been the most rewarding part of playing with the DOP. While the music has been enjoyable, and the venues breathtaking, the kindness of the Irish people stands out as the most memorable part of playing with this ensemble. I count myself lucky to have been welcomed into the group with such open arms and can’t wait to make more music across Dublin.

The first concert in December at Kings Inns in Dublin

My wife Olivia and I after the December concert

Christ Church Cathedral during our March performance