Mitchell Scholar Blogs

As I have found to be par for the course, coffee with classmates seven hours ago has somehow landed us packed shoulder to shoulder with dozens of other strangers in a Cork City pub. Irish Bob Dylan is perched at the edge of a makeshift stage bathed in orange light. He points his microphone towards the crowd which responds with inebriated vigor, yell-singing the chorus to “Like a Rolling Stone,”

How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
A complete unknown
Just like a rolling stone?

I hate this song. It ends, and I wish my classmates luck on our final paper before making my way home. Strolling down the main street of City Center, the cheery twinkle of millions of Christmas lights is amplified in the ever-present rain.

I pass a man and woman dozing on a mattress in the doorway of a store and feel my gaze drop to my feet as I attempt to ignore the sickening pull of my heart as it plunges into my gut. Cork’s main thoroughfare is a high-end retail district. But, after the shops close, the homeless of the area who are without a bed at a rescue take refuge in the entryways of Brown Thomas and Debenhams and Penny’s – a stark juxtaposition to the gleeful occupants just hours earlier. These are the “rough sleepers” and it seems their numbers grow every time I find myself in city center after dark.

The 2008 recession left Ireland to battle a severe housing deficit in its wake. Thousands of individuals nationwide are without homes, presenting a unique circumstance for policy development. As such, homelessness has become a natural point of exploration in my social policy courses at UCC. I would be lying if I said it has been simple to endure. Nothing about battling for care of the human condition is palatable but the problem of homelessness has an exceptional grasp on my heart. In part, I credit this to the difficult memory of my family’s brief stint with it several years ago; however, it is important to note that homelessness in Ireland is exponentially more visible than any place in which I have ever lived. And, with visibility comes discomfort. I watch as others pass the rough sleepers and mimic my implicit actions; eyes avert, belongings are clutched tighter, paces quicken. All of this is done as if the rough sleepers have nothing more pressing to concern themselves with than the anonymous passersby. Imagine: “How does it feel / To be on your own / With no direction home /A complete unknown/ Just like a rolling stone?”

93% of human communication is nonverbal; What one says pales in comparison to accompanying actions. What does it say about my supposed dedication to the welfare of others if I can’t bring myself to look them in the eye? I am here to learn about and, hopefully one day, improve upon methods of social welfare policy. Lesson one is forcing myself to be uncomfortable, knowing full well it will never match the discomfort of those I aim to help. Ireland has reminded me of the obvious and painful truth that there are faces and names and stories which serve as impetus for social policies. With all due respect to Bob Dylan, they don’t have to go unknown.

I never realized how hard it was to describe a snack food by relation to other snack foods until I had to try it not once but twice. December brought with it winter break, Christmas, and the opportunity to head back to the United States to visit my family. Before heading home, I headed to three different stores on a mission to find Irish snacks for my family to try. Lifting my suitcase onto the scale in the Dublin airport, I realized I’d never had to wonder if the weight of the amount of digestives I decided my family would need would push my bag over the weight limit. Luckily for all of them, my bag and I got through just fine. “So…what’s in it? Like, what’s it like,” asked my dad with a skeptical look as he held a bag of Bacon Fries. “Try to imagine like…a Frito maybe, but bacon flavored and shaped and colored like a strip of bacon? Except it isn’t really like a Frito…I don’t know, just try it.” Needless to say, the bacon fries were deemed “powerful.” The one in my family who liked them the most though might just be my older dog, Henry. Digestives went over well all around, and my dad enjoyed “the simplicity” of the candy names which tell him “exactly what he’s in for.” The break was full of everything I needed from home: walks on the beach with my family, laughs over board games, and giant breakfasts from Waffle House.

I flew back to Ireland just before New Year’s Eve, but before I did I found myself wandering around a Walgreen’s snack aisle in hunt for stereotypical American snacks I could bring back for my friend Amy who, after hearing all I was bringing back to the States on the front end of my trip, said she’d like to know about American snacks. The weight of digestives in my bag was quickly replaced by some additional clothes, a Slim-Jim, Chex Mix, a Rice Krispies treat, Sour Patch Straws, and a roll of Hubba Bubba Bubble Tape. “Is it a pepperoni? What’s in it?” Amy looked skeptical of the Slim-Jim after approving of the Chex Mix as “nice.” “Um, I’m not sure that really many people know what’s in them…I guess it’s somewhat like a pepperoni? Or a jerky? But not hard? I don’t know, just try it.” The Slim-Jim wasn’t deemed a favorite – maybe if Amy had a dog, that could have been the biggest fan like Henry was of the Bacon Fry. The Rice Krispies treat was a success at least. After celebrating and ringing in the new year with Amy and friends, I woke up hearing Amy in the kitchen. She popped her head into the sitting room where I’d slept on her couch, “oh good, you’re up. I’m making breakfast now – do you want tea?” White pudding from her hometown and all, Amy made a full Irish breakfast for us to start the new year off right.

Yesterday, while on the Salthill Promenade, I realized that in both North Carolina and Galway I’ve been able to enjoy reflecting while on long walks next to the shore. Going into this new year and new semester, I am beyond grateful to have loved ones on both continents to laugh with, introduce new snacks to, and finish vastly over-portioned breakfasts next to. Turns out sometimes home, whether in the States or Ireland, feels like a full post-breakfast belly laughing and chatting with those who know exactly how you like your coffee and tea and are always open to trying more snacks.

Sunset over the Atlantic in North Carolina

Waffle House (note American bacon…and portions)

Breakfast by Amy (the best way to start 2018)

Sun reflecting off Galway Bay

“The name of this town is written in the imaginations of many,” the monsignor begins. He goes on to tell us about the history of Enniskillen: the residents who fought in World War I, the 1987 bombing, Queen Elizabeth’s visit in 2012. “And now,” he concludes, looking at us, “you’re a part of that.”

What, you might ask, is a Jewish girl from New York City doing at a Saturday night mass in a small town in Northern Ireland?

At the beginning of the school year, I joined Trinity’s Chapel Choir. I initially joined for an opportunity to improve my singing and sight-reading skills, but I have grown to love the choir community. Since we sing music for church services, it has also been a way to learn firsthand about the role of religion in Irish life today. Before this year, I could probably have counted the number of times I had been to a church service on one hand. While I still don’t always understand what goes on in the services we sing in, I have learned to find beauty in them because I share them with my fellow singers.

When my choir announced that we were doing a weekend trip to Enniskillen, I signed up without knowing anything about the town. The conductor told us that we would sing a Saturday night mass at the town’s Catholic church and a Sunday morning mass at the town’s Protestant cathedral. I did not think too much about where we were singing; I was more preoccupied with making sure I knew all the music for both services.

The monsignor gave us a welcome speech before we sang, and it was only then that I realized how much our presence in Enniskillen meant to the people there. The bombing of Enniskillen, as I learned from the monsignor’s speech, marked a turning point in the Troubles and motivated both sides to pursue peace. The town has transformed a painful event into a hopeful future through commemoration and interfaith cooperation. The fact that we sang in both churches in one weekend moved townspeople of both faiths, and the priests in each church eagerly announced to the congregation how special our trip was in this respect. Even though I do not belong to either faith, it was spiritually fulfilling to me that my friends and I could contribute to Enniskillen’s healing process in some small way.

I am left with a lingering curiosity about Northern Ireland, and I look forward to visiting Belfast with my Mitchell class in February for our mid-year retreat. But on a more basic level, I am left with a deeper appreciation for how music brings people from different backgrounds together. I never thought I would find myself in a church in Enniskillen—but I’m so, so glad I did.

I don’t remember first beginning to read, but I do remember years of being unable to stop. Mesmerized by the newfound magic of words, I walked and ate and slept with a book in my hands. My mom would tease me for being so deeply lost in the story, gently reminding me to pause and take note of the living, breathing, ever-changing world that surrounded me.

My first semester as a Mitchell was an echo of that unbridled enthusiasm. Inspired and challenged by my courses, I threw myself into them completely. Having been raised in a postcolonial country, I had come to Ireland hoping for a critical education of international power dynamics. My program exceeded those hopes: the personal colonial history of Ireland provided our conversations with nuance, and afforded other postcolonial states the attention and dignity that I felt they deserved. Again, I found myself mesmerized.

But I am a firm believer in activist scholarship–I find that the lessons we learn academically are most powerful when paired with lived experience. As an undergraduate, I was determined to make my education three dimensional, and I actively sought opportunities that placed my readings in a larger context. As a graduate student, I had planned to do the same, but by the time I looked up from my schoolwork it seemed the semester had already slipped through my fingers.

Determined to make up for lost time, I set out in search of that lived experience. In particular, I was desperate to see Belfast. The Troubles had loomed large over my education in conflict and reconciliation: I read countless articles, heard firsthand accounts, and traced the lines of political murals that were printed in my books. On a personal level, I was struck by the relevance of African experiences to the Republican narrative. Having spent years defending the importance of African independence movements and their leaders, the murals seemed to be an affirmation of the vital mark they had left on the world.

It was from this international framework of conflict that I approached my visit. I mentioned South Africa in particular to a man I met while there. Suddenly enthusiastic, he told me that he had been a political prisoner before the Good Friday Agreement. He expressed how he had been personally inspired by South Africa’s story of resilience and recovery post-apartheid. Wanting to see the new South Africa firsthand, he had saved up and traveled there quite recently. He described meeting ex-political prisoners from the African National Congress, an interaction that was initially stilted but suddenly changed:

“When I mentioned where I came from and what I had been through,

and in that moment, we became brothers.”

My conversation with him and others grounded what I had already witnessed in the classroom: cross-cultural empathy. What I have found in Ireland is a standard of looking beyond national borders and of recognizing the humanity and the dignity of distant others. In the ongoing and necessary effort to make our global order more just, this tendency to recognize supranational commonalities is a powerful example for the wider world.

Without a doubt, I am so glad to have looked up from my book, and I am so grateful to have seen a little more of this living, breathing, ever-changing world.

You might have heard that the culmination of the glorious European Master’s degree is christened by the loveliest paper: a thesis. Although I must say that my 20k word requirement was assisted by a relatively easy choice for my thesis advisor. Before starting my course, I spoke with my course director about my research interests. I have to admit that I was nervous whether an interest in social movements, specifically, the Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement could be appeased in Dublin. After a few minutes, my worries were easily subsided when my jovial professor’s sarcasm surfaced: “Yeah, Donovan. I have never heard of BLM as a sociologist.”

But, what seemed to begin as an above average academic relationship quickly blossomed into more of a friendship. In December, my fingers only typed half the speed of which I could read (#frustrating). 10k words stood between me and the prestigious “Waffle House” franchise back home in South Carolina. Paper topics made things tolerable. For example, I explored the ambivalence of the Israeli/Palestinian debate, the dream of post-racialism, and the pervasiveness of civil society. Rough drafts seemed sufficient as I boarded the plane for the holidays.

However, editing my papers was sidestepped by the most fascinating black ideological debate of this decade: Tai-Nehisi Coates v Dr. Cornel West. Of course, I confess my description of this disagreement might be mildly dramatic. But for the 5% of Americans not being distracted by the media monopoly of our President, it might as well have been the heavyweight championship.

A long story short, in an unprovoked media interview, West criticized Coates for being an overly-celebrated, neo-liberal whose coverage of the black struggle has significant blind spots including the expanding spectrum of sexuality, the proliferation of surveillance, and the stagnation of the poor black plight. Coates responded with a point-by-point rebuttal via Twitter in which he cited and referenced his previous writings. The strength of his counterarguments was unfortunately thwarted by his admittance that he failed to cover topics where he lacked expertise. Overwhelmed by the incited disagreement over social media, he decisively deleted his Twitter account saying, “This is not what he signed up for.”

I am rambling about the details of this somewhat catty disagreement because Coates is a writer whose wordsmith talent inspired me, among other things, to apply for the Mitchell. I remember being 21 when I read his infamous “The Case for Reparations” in which he traced the unfortunate organs of slavery’s subjugation to the “newfound” parallel within our criminal justice system. He essentially argues that African-American reparations never ceased after the end of the almost foreign Jim Crow era; more so, not even the principal has been paid. His resistance was raw, but it was wrapped in a style that not even the political far right could unfairly critique. He helped me fall back in love with writing again, specifically on issues concerning my community.

I told my thesis advisor of my Coates admiration before classes started. He shared a similar sentiment. And this was only compounded when he emailed me over Christmas break to share in my fan freak out of the disagreement. It meant a lot to me. It meant that he listened. It meant he valued my opinion. It meant that this academic relationship had friendship undertones. It made me feel special, understood, and celebrated. Thanks for the personal touch, Trinity. In this new year, I feel less international and more Irish – if that’s possible.

The day before I left for Ireland, I spent my morning as most not-so-religious 25 years olds do prior to leaving home for a year: having a coffee date arranged by my Nana with the priest from my local parish. Father Dan is originally from County Kerry, but has been a staple in our community and family for as long as I can remember. That morning he wanted to hear about my upcoming Irish adventures and share some advice. As we wrapped up our time together, he left me with an incredibly important lesson for anyone entering a new space: to be respectful, open to new experiences, and to remain humble. After our talk, I began thinking about how best to prepare myself to sit in the discomforts and uncertainties that will inevitably arise as an outsider in a new country.

Well, I can certainly tell you that I did not plan to sit in that seat so soon- yet there I was, not even 48 hours later- standing in the Dublin airport at 6am as a customs officer stared at my documents and said, rather loudly, “Well, what is so compelling about you?” I was taken aback. In my head all I could think was, “Nothing sir, literally nothing, I am so sorry goodbye.” Before I could respond or get on the next flight home, he continued, “This letter here from the Mitchell Scholarship says there is a compelling reason that you are here today, well, what is it? Why should I let you into this country?” Halfway through awkwardly explaining my course of study at University College Cork and interest in Ireland’s criminal justice system, he stamped my passport and declared me “compelling enough”.

This question, “what is so compelling about you,” haunted me my first few weeks here in Ireland. While my transition to living in Cork has gone rather smoothly, I’ve felt at ease living here in a way that has not come as naturally in other places, I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that my transition back to being a full time student presented a new set of personal anxieties. The self-imposed pressure to pick the perfect classes, dive in headfirst with student groups, and hit the ground running with research, all weighed heavily on me. For someone who hasn’t been a student in over three years, returning to school felt more like unchartered territory than something I would easily get back into the swing of. When things didn’t click right away, different versions of that question of being “compelling enough,” crept into my psyche and filled me with doubt.

While discussing some of these anxieties with my professor, he asked, “Kathleen, have you considered taking the scenic route?” At first, I was perplexed by this. However, after thinking more about this, the lessons from Father Dan about being open during my time here filled my mind. I realized that this was not only my professors polite way of telling me to calm down but also that his advice applied to how I should spend all my time in Ireland, both inside and outside the classroom. Over the past two months, I have come to appreciate what taking the scenic route really means: slowing down, opening up, asking questions, and practicing patience with myself. I am finding that each day here in Ireland is an opportunity to discover new routes to enjoy and lessons to learn.  My cup overflows with gratitude and excitement as I look towards a year of learning, exploring, stumbling, and growing along the way.

Smiling in awe of Brother Anthony at Glenstal Abbey talking about his trees

University College Cork’s beautiful main campus

Enjoying Trinity’s amazing library

Befriending the locals in Kerry