Mitchell Scholar Blogs

In Robert Putnam’s Bowling Alone, he laments what he perceives as a collapse in participation in civic life as a consequence of a lack of involvement in meaningful, community building interactions. In today’s politically charged climate, it is not hard to find evidence for this belief; when voting, people generally forget about down ballot, local races because, as Putnam writes, people are less engaged in their local communities for a variety of reasons: technology, the ease of transportation, and the rise of pressures to excel in sports, academics, etc…

One of the first cultural differences I picked up when I arrived in Ireland was that all politics is local, vastly different than today’s American election. This may be due to the fact that the island would be a small state–geographically and demographically–and the Westminster form of government lessens the tensions between local and state politics. Yet, the largest reason why, to me, seems that contrary to Putnam’s assertion, people are more engaged here in Ireland because they allow themselves to be alone at times.

Eating alone; this is something that, out of necessity with odd class schedules or the fact
that many Irish students go home on the weekends, I have experienced on a number of occasions these past two months. But these experiences have not been bad. Whereas in the US, going to a restaurant alone would be frowned upon, no one here seems to mind. In fact, I have seen many Irish eat or travel alone in ways I would never see in America. I have found in these experiences opportunities to reflect and meditate on the day in ways I never could nor had time to while in the states. And, in a bonus, I got treated to a wonderful fireworks show on Halloween night from a gem of a restaurant in Dublin, Sophie’s, which has 360-degree views of the whole city!

When the opportunity arises then to participate in an activity with others (see photos form trips across Ireland below), I have found myself becoming much more engaged and fully present in the moment, because in reflecting on how I have arrived at this wonderful opportunity, I have learned much more about myself (a feat I did not think was much more possible after the intense reflection required to apply to this program!).

My travels all over Ireland so far, to Sligo, Wexford, Waterford, Cork, Bray, and Wicklow, have afforded me a chance to explore a beautiful Island and culture while fully engaged. While this has been an amazing cultural and historical experience, the occasional excursions around meal times to new restaurants alone has granted me a new perspective on the apparent decline in civic engagement in America: that while we may no longer participate in “civic” activities and groups, we do fill our time too much with other, at times superficial, activities. One can see this in the rise of people who may be glued to their phones rather than allowing themselves to just enjoy nature while on the walk to work. While we in America we no longer bowl together, we also do not allow ourselves to eat a bowl of anything alone. And in this we miss out on a chance to reflect and grow individually–which allows us to grow together when we do participate in activities.

In a truly Mitchell Scholar fashion, a group of us had a debate over this very topic following the Google Reception; we debated the role that “The void,” played in how people perceived politics and civically engaged today. We discussed how ignoring the negative, silence, and a sense of being alone with ones self may contribute to the politics of shouting past one another and of no compromise. There was Heidegger and Beckett, Black Elk and Aristotle, all in one sentence. And maybe this meal would not have been possible had we not all, pondered alone over a cup of hot chocolate (I estimate, without any real proof other than my own perceptions that Hot Chocolate is consumed at a 500% higher rate here then in America, and its great!), the own voids in our lives.

Just some food for thought.

Now for those travels:

Clocktower in Waterford

View from mountains outside Sligo

A  beautiful sun shower at Trinity

A quaint Saturday Market in Bray

“It shook me to the core,” she said, her voice shaking, “that what happened to hear could easily have been me.” Jenny, an organizer for Galway Pro-Choice, spoke of the story of Savita Halappanavar, an Indian-Irish dentist who died in Galway after having been refused an abortion. The sun was setting over Galway Bay and a group had started to gather, holding small candles and standing in a semi-circle.

About twenty minutes earlier, I was running on the treadmill when my phone pinged: “Hey! This is a really Galway thing, come check it out.” I hopped off the treadmill and headed straight home. As a filmmaker, you don’t wait for stories. You charge your camera and chase them.

People of all ages were trickling in, carrying “REPEAL” signs and candles and babies. I powered up my camera and noticed two other Canon-carriers within the group. The three of us made generous eye contact, speaking a silent, urgent language: I’ll move out of your shot, let’s convene after to talk footage, this feels important.

The gathering was short, straightforward, sincere. Savita’s friends and fellow organizers led a march along the main cobblestone street, ending up outside a church. We marched quietly, speaking when answering questions from passers-by about what we marched for. Whom we marched for. I filmed as much as I could.

Along Quay Street, the main medieval street brimming with fish and chips and fiddle players, organizers had placed small candles with short, handwritten prayers. After a moment of silence, the celebrated Irish poet Elaine Feeney read her poem, a self-proclaimed political poem, called “Rise.” She dedicated it to all the women gathered there, gathered anywhere:

“Rise up your hand and answer my question/rise up your hand and question my question/question their question, question their answers/rise up and laugh, throw your head back.”

After the formal program ended, I wove my way over to the other filmmakers. Maya, from Greece, is an Erasmus exchange student doing a film on the abortion debate from an international perspective. Hanan, from Somalia, was grabbing the last footage for her film profile of Galway Pro-Choice. And Azza, from the USA, wasn’t quite sure what she was doing yet. Hanan folded up her tripod and we headed to a cafe, sipping hot chocolate and telling our stories about how we got here — to Galway, to film, to the REPEAL campaign. We laughed how these three foreigners cared so much about Irish politics, finding ourselves in this ancient coastal city. We drank till the cocoa went cold and the cafe closed. Can’t wait to see your footage, where it takes you, and to see you again soon, we said. We meant it.

They say Galway is the place where ambition goes to dies, the graveyard of ambition, the place you never leave. They say it like it’s a good thing, though, and the American in me is forced to question my question about ambition. American culture privileges work over play, chaos over calm, productivity over inner peace. I was taught to prepare for today by doing tomorrow’s homework, that faster is better, and that extra time is like leftovers; it must always be repurposed.

Maybe Galway is the place where ambition goes to die. But for me, Galway is the place where anticipation is born.

November 7, 2016

During Fresher’s Week at UCD, I stopped by the Societies Tent after class. Before I could take three steps into the tent, I was accosted by several members of the International Students Society, who seduced me to join with their promises of a 7V7 intramural football (soccer) league. A week later, I found myself at the UCD field hockey pitch for my first game, looking for the Team H to which I’d been assigned. I can only assume we were the last team to get to choose our uniforms, because when I finally found my team, I was presented with a long sleeved, neon pink jersey, paid for by my society fee.

In a surprising twist, my team turned out to be almost entirely Irish, with names like Gearoid and Declan, despite the fact that I signed up for the league through the International Students Society. This was a pleasant surprise, as most of my classmates are actually from countries other than Ireland, and the Irish students I do know tend to be about a decade older than I am. We played our first game a man down. Our missing a player and initial disorganization cost us dearly, as we conceded four unanswered goals before we rallied, pushing the game to a tie three times before we ultimately fell, our six goals to their seven.

Immediately after the game ended, while we were all still doubled over and wheezing to catch our breath, the league commissioner came by to ask us what our team name was. We silently stared at each other’s neon pink jerseys at a loss, still in shock from a last-minute goal that went in the other team’s favor. I had spent class earlier that morning learning about zoonotic diseases from livestock, giving particular attention to pigs. As I stared at the neon pink jerseys, coughed into the cold rain, and lamented the fact that we almost certainly would have won in an even-strength match, I halfheartedly muttered what I’m sure everyone else was thinking: “Should we call ourselves swine flu? Then at least no one will want to defend us. Might be easier to score.” The tall, bearded commissioner blinked twice, giggled, and quickly scrawled the name into the official game log before he darted away to record another game score. Thus, a legend was born.

Despite the Swine Flu’s unfortunate defeat in the first game, greener pastures awaited (though of course, all pastures in Ireland are green, and we’ve been playing on artificial field hockey turf where you just slide around, fall, and inevitably scrape your knee anyway). Our second game in which we were supposed to play I lied, I do know Jeff was rescheduled. We then proceeded to win three consecutive games, defeating Ivory Toast, Borussia Teeth, and The Virgins by a combined ten goals. I tend to prowl the back line as a center-back, mugging aspiring goal-scorers who get too close to our goalie and launching long-distance shots that occasionally find the back of the net, but more often hit a defender in a sensitive part of their body and then bounce out of bounds. It’s been good craic, as the Irish say. I’m not sure if they hold playoffs in Irish beer-league soccer, but if they do, I’m 63% confident that Swine Flu is ready.

One of the aspects that fascinates me most about Ireland is its sports culture. Every town has its own Gaelic Athletic Association (or “GAA”) club, which serves as a center for local events (bingo nights!) as well as youth sports specific to the island like Gaelic football (a sort of soccer-rugby-basketball hybrid) and hurling (ditto, except with sticks). From these smaller, community GAA clubs, the best players will go on to join teams that represent their county in countrywide competition.

At the highest adult level, athletes in these sports are celebrities. Sport celebrities, of course, are no surprise to this American — I remember being at basketball camps growing up, remarking on the fact (or spreading the rumor?) that the face of Michael Jordan was more recognizable in the world than that of Jesus Christ. What is surprising, though, is that the GAA stars are amateurs. Doctors, teachers, and beyond, GAA athletes have to keep their jobs and have very limited opportunity to profit directly from their athletic endeavors. Moreover, because one’s team is decided based on his or her hometown, there is no trading of players or free agency period that allows richer clubs to sign away your favorite local star (sorry, Yankees fans). It is, to me, a perfect arrangement that facilitates regional loyalties while simultaneously investing in youth sports locally.

Since arriving in Dublin, I have been lucky enough to become friends with a number of people integral to the country’s GAA setup. In late September, I accompanied them to the women’s Gaelic football final at Croke Park, the legendary GAA venue north of the Liffey in Dublin. More than 30,000 spectators watched perennial powerhouse Cork take on the local Dubs side, which has been to a number of recent finals without a championship to show for it. I was struck by the large numbers of young girls dressed in their local GAA teams’ colors attending the match with their parents and coaches. My friends told me that the GAA has, in the last decade, started to focus more on girls’ sports, reflecting broader changes in Ireland that have made it a place of rapid social changes in gender rights. Ultimately, despite my own “Come on you girls in blue!” (#coygib) cheers, it was Cork again holding the trophy at the end of 70+ hard-fought minutes.

After the match, my GAA VIP pals brought me to the post-match reception in the club level at the stadium. Between pints of Guiness, I was introduced to President Michael Higgins and Taoiseach Enda Kenny. The Taoiseach fondly called me “one of Trina’s boys” (in reference to US-Ireland Alliance founder Trina Vargo) before proceeding to roughhouse some other lad into a headlock. Striking was how easily approachable and conversational both politicans were, with minimal security detail or insistence on officialdom.

My afternoon at Croke Park may have been the end of the women’s Gaelic football season, but it was the start of my own GAA fandom. A few weeks later, I invited some other Mitchell Scholars to a pub to watch the men’s final; now, when the next season starts, I’ve got a whole crew with which to watch.

Perhaps the most peculiar thing I saw during the first week of classes at University College Cork was the Hot Beverage Society. I was confused how a student organization could keep membership when its primary purpose was the communal appreciation of tea and coffee. Yet the group’s table was the most popular in the quad! As it would happen, some of the most formative moments of my first two months in Ireland and its southern gem—Cork—would involve beverages of the hot variety.

Soon after moving to Ireland, I headed out to Kylemore Abbey in Connemara. While there, I spent time with a few of the Benedictine nuns living and working at the abbey as well as those involved with the new Notre Dame Centre at Kylemore. It was a fantastic fáilte to Ireland and its beautiful west.

After long walks and talks around the gardens and grounds, some of which devolved into quick jogs back to shelter in the incessant rain, tea was the ubiquitous healer and conversation promoter. Before driving in Ireland for the first time, late at night on the pitch-black and sheep-laden roads of Connemara, a shared cup of tea amongst my car companions was my invigoration. I credit it’s soothing sensations as the only reason I was calm (and awake) enough to slam on the breaks when greeted by a snoozing sheep sprawled in the middle of the road just a few feet around a curve.

Another kind of fáilte!

As I’m learning, Cork likes to assert a rebellious nature. The painted electrical boxes throughout the city centre speak to Cork’s self-assigned importance: “End Dublin rule in Cork!,” or “Ireland is like a bottle. It won’t float without a cork.” Perhaps one of Cork’s most important points of pride is—dare I say—tea.

Barry’s Tea to be exact, based in Cork.

There are twelve students in my masters program at UCC, ten are Irish, one is Colombian and Lebanese, and one is “the American,” as they’ve jokingly started calling me. We’ve formed a great bond quite quickly, enjoying conversations about the world, sports, and politics. The relationships started in class, but they were strengthened over tea and shared meals. This past week, we gathered together in my apartment for tea and biscuits. I mark this as my first Irish #madeit moment.

My new friendships with other Mitchells have also grown over hot beverages. Tea and coffee is in ample supply at Azza and Carla’s beautiful Galway abode, gracing our conversations and explorations along the Atlantic. It’s also fueling Azza and my new attempt to write a novel in November with NaNoWriMo (wish us luck, please). Sharing hot beverages with Claire and Chris has made our times sitting and chatting on St. Stephen’s Green that more special. Megan and I relaxed after a long day jazzing at the Cork Jazz Fest with another kind of hot beverage, this one made with lemon and cloves among other things.

Now, I’d be lying if I didn’t report enjoying a pint or two of Murphy’s over the last two months, but tea has been the unforeseen through-line, kindly steeping my new Irish life with friends and great conversation.

In the past 23 years of my existence, I’ve learned a few hard truths about myself. I’m not particularly funny. Sure, small children like to laugh at my singing in church sometimes, but joke-telling has never really been my thing.
I’m not very creative either. I like colors and will do just about anything for the chance to rearrange furniture – even if it’s not mine – but it often takes me more effort to think of a ‘unique’ way of doing something than if I were to just do it the first way that came to my mind.
The last two months in Ireland have also taught me that I do not have, nor will I ever have, the Irish wit or drinking tolerance. I know I sport a fancy Celtic surname, but I’m simply missing the genes which were supposed to go along with it.
Living in Dublin has also validated something that I always knew about myself. Big reveal: I’m an extrovert! And in my natural extroverted way, I’ve spent most of my time in this country striking up conversations with just about everyone I have met. Thus, the only conceivable way for me to proceed with this blog post is to showcase the fascinating characters I have met as a Mitchell so far.
Humans of Dublin, as told by Megan McNulty (pictures to follow next addition)
Marie doesn’t own much. She has a simple style and a fierce face and is eager to tell you of her Russian background and current legal battle with her landlord. She doesn’t want attention; she wants a friend. I met her for coffee after running into her at the Saint Vincent De Paul campaign to end the hidden homeless problem in Dublin. I bought her coffee and she immediately lit up. She proceeded to read me her poetry and explain her love for her new country, Ireland. She wants to make a movie one day on the festering wounds of Ireland and the legacy of British Imperialism. She asked me if I, as an American, knew Steven Spielberg and if I could put her in contact with him.
The Gallagher’s are the proudest parents and grandparents I have ever met. With their children in Canada, America, Ireland, and England, the couple is abroad babysitting more than they are at their home in Tralee. I was taking some high school friends to Cork on the Sunday morning train when they asked us about our travels. We soon began to exchange tales of our journeys, and their excitement was obvious as they talked about their upcoming trip to Vietnam. Since their kids started their own families, the Gallagher’s plan to see the world one country at a time. They told us the best places to visit in the area and demanded that we give them a ring if we were ever in trouble. Then they asked who we were voting for.
James is five. He hears everything that is said around him and will never let you forget a promise. He likes sweeties, though he’s not supposed to eat too much of them, and he spends a considerable amount of time trying to figure out how to be the perfect big brother to his two younger sisters. He is extremely tactile and touches books and biscuits as he counts them. I met James in passing through his Auntie, but he’s quick to take a liking to someone as long as they don’t treat him like a baby. I talked to him like he was an old friend, and now he gives me the biggest hug whenever I see him. He calls me Miss Megan.

As the Mitchell Scholars studying in Galway this year, one of the most useful pieces of advice Azza and I received before moving to Ireland was to get to Galway early. We were told that there is a pretty serious housing crisis in Galway that is especially exacerbated when entering first years get to campus after receiving their Leaving Certificate Examination results in late August. Taking this advice to heart, Azza and I booked our flights for August 15th — three weeks before classes started.

Thankfully, getting to Galway this early did the trick. Within 3 days of arriving, Azza and I had secured a beautiful apartment on the charming docks of Galway Bay. Being in such a nice location (right on the water and a stone’s throw from both city centre and the NUIG campus) and with plenty of room for visiting guests, Azza and I joked that our apartment resembled more of a hotel than a student apartment.

Luckily for us, our charming apartment (and personalities 🙂 ) have allowed us to host many friends and fellow Mitchell Scholars and show them what we love about Galway! To name a few, Peter has traveled from Cork to explore Galway Bay with us, Ally and Emma have visited from Dublin to experience the weekly year-round Galway farmer’s market, Megan stopped through Galway on a road-trip with two of her friends from the US, and we even had Mitchell alum Katie Van Winkle stay with us for a few nights to show us what she loved about Galway when she lived here a couple years ago. My favorite guest was a lost dog, Simba, we found wandering around the docks late at night that we were able to reunite with his owner the next day.

Azza and I joke that it’s our apartment that draws our friends and fellow Mitchell Scholars to visit us in Galway, but we know the real reason is the desire of the Mitchell Scholars to form a tight-knit community. The Scholars’ desire to travel around Ireland to spend time with each other and the various events the Scholarship holds throughout the year for Alumni and friends really speaks to this strong community of the Mitchell Scholarship. The Mitchell strives to foster a community, both for social and professional support. Just from my couple of months here and the great times I’ve spent with fellow scholars in Galway and elsewhere in Ireland, I can see that one of the most unique and attractive aspects of the Mitchell Scholarship is the sense of community and family among the Mitchell Scholars and extended network.

Each Passover, my family gathers together to retell the story of the Israelites’ escape from slavery in Egypt. The Seder contains myriads of precise rituals conducted according to the instructions of an ancient manual, the Haggadah. These unusual practices are intended to draw us out of the quotidian, filling us with curiosity and, hopefully, driving our attention to that which we may take for granted, our freedom. With the topic of liberation drifting between us and my paternal grandparents, both Holocaust survivors, sitting at the end of the table, not a Seder goes by without conversation turning to their personal emergence from servitude and oppression.

“Shoes on the Danube,” Budapest

This year, as I sat across from my grandfather, Siegmund Listwa, he began to tell me stories of his experiences directly following his liberation. Freed from the camps, but deeply scarred and without any knowledge of whether the rest of his family had survived, my grandfather moved restlessly between the cities of Central and Eastern Europe.

As I spoke to my grandfather, I noted the overlaps between his post-war travels and my own recent trip through Central and Eastern Europe. However, while the cities he saw bore the fresh wounds of the suffering and displacement that had occurred there, the cities I visited showed no scars, or at least hid them well. Instead, the histories of these cities and the people who once inhabited them were to be found in various museums and memorials. While I am fortunate to have two grandparents who can share their memories of the Holocaust with me, for most others it is these public markers of memory that have the most profound shape on their understanding of these events. This places upon the governments and local organizations that create these monuments an essential responsibility to the victims.

In each of the cities I stopped at, I took the opportunity to see how that charge was being carried out. In Budapest, for example, I was struck by a row of iron shoes that lie in unique pairs facing the Danube River. The shoes commemorate the Hungarian Jews who, in the winter of 1944-1945, were shot on the banks of the river by the Arrow Cross Party, the ruling Hungarian national socialist party that was aligned with the Nazis. In three places along the length of the sculpture, a plaque reads “To the memory of victims shot into the Danube by Arrow Cross militiamen in 1944-45,” emphasizing the Hungarians responsible for the tens of thousands who were murdered during this short period of time.

“Monument to the Victims of German Occupation”, Budapest

Not all the monuments I saw, however, took so seriously the responsibility to honor the victims. Just a few minutes’ walk from the sculpture of the shoes, I came upon a classical colonnade at the edge of a cobblestone square. Like a Roman ruin, some columns were broken, and in the middle stood a mournful, winged figured, the Archangel Gabriel. In his right hand was a globus cruciger, a globe topped by a cross, a Christian symbol of authority here being used to represent the sovereignty of Hungary. The globe seemed to slip from the angel’s hands—a consequence of the fierce eagle of imperial Germany swooping down with its talons extended. Along the display was inscribed “Memorial to the Victims of the German Occupation.” The symbolism of the memorial was clear to me: the victim of German occupation was none other than Hungary itself, here embodied through the imagery of Christianity, the country’s dominant religion. In this representation two things were entirely washed away: the identity of the victims, particularly the many who were Jewish, and the responsibility that Hungary and its citizens have for their deaths.

Facing this monument was a sort of a counter-memorial, one that sought to challenge the whitewashed message contained in the colonnade. With personal items—suitcases, photographs, books—and individual narratives printed on laminated cards, this informal memorial gave face and voice to some of the half a million Hungarians who died in the Holocaust. Signs and banners countered the implied message of the monument, demanding the Hungarian government to accept responsibility for its role in the murder and persecution of its Jewish citizens.

Detail from the “Counter-Memorial”, Budapest

The counter-memorial reflected the controversy that has arisen after the monument had been installed, just a couple years ago, by the government of Hungary. The Hungarian prime minister, Viktor Orbán, who leads a right wing collation government, has defended the monument in a letter, saying that “we cannot undertake responsibility for what’s not due,” arguing that mass murder and deportation would not have occurred without the German occupation. In the same letter, he wrote that the victims, whether they be “orthodox, Christian or infidel,” fell at the hands of the “German empire.” In the picture he paints, Nazism and its racist/anti-Semitic ideology, Jews, and Hungarian responsibility are absent.

“El Holocausto,” by Manuel Rodríguez Lozano

Such a piece of public art cannot simply be about history—it is also a political statement about the future, a forward looking claim about the obligations that arises in relation to human tragedy, whether it be the refugee crisis in Europe, the disappeared in Mexico, or the discrimination of blacks in America. Like the Passover Seder, memorial art has the power to make us see differently, beyond the everyday and into the dialectic between the abstract idea and the realm of experience, as events and symbols intertwine. The result is a sense of empathy that carries through time and across worlds, forming the basis for confronting the humanitarian crises of the present.