November 2009 Reflection

Posted on November 1, 2009 by aschierenbeck10

A little over a year ago, as I put the final touches on my application for the Mitchell Scholarship, I spent a night reading through scholar reflections from years past. I can’t tell you exactly what I was looking for – maybe I thought I could find some tip that would give my application an edge or that I could gain some dim sense of what kind of people I might spend a year with. Maybe I just wanted some clearer idea of what a year in Ireland would mean. I don’t know it for a fact, but I have a hunch that most of those who read these reflections are people in that same position. With that in mind, consider this reflection addressed to you – the applicant.

If you know anything about the Mitchell Scholarship, you know it involves moving to Ireland for about a year. Before I arrived in Dublin a few months ago, I had only left the United States a couple of times. When my friends spread out across the world for their semesters abroad, I stayed back home – I was always too wrapped up in campus life to part with it. And while I wouldn’t change my college experience for the world, I regretted not getting the chance to live abroad as an undergrad. More than anything else, I applied for the Mitchell to get a chance to live in another country. Not just to visit, but to live – to immerse myself in another culture. As a bonus, I wanted to get the chance to travel widely in Europe and get some ink on my passport.

So far, so good. I’m writing this reflection on a night train from Krakow to Budapest. Having barely left the country before this fall, I’ve already explored much of Ireland, visited the United Kingdom twice, and gone backpacking in Eastern Europe. Next weekend, I’ll be in Paris. Other scholars have run the marathon in Athens, gone to Oktoberfest in Munich and spent Halloween in Derry. If you plan things right, you’ll have no problem exploring Ireland and the continent without missing class.

As for living in Ireland, I am constantly finding new reasons to fall in love with the country. I like sweater weather and Ireland is perpetually, comfortably cool. I’m a talker and the Irish love to talk. I love politics and history and the Irish are passionate about both. Even the cab drivers are good conversation – as you’ll find, they are experts on everything from philosophy to economics.

While I expected Irish education would differ in style from what I was used to in the States, I didn’t anticipate any substantive difference in the focus of my courses. Having taken international relations courses as an undergraduate, I expected my masters degree in international relations at University College Dublin would build upon what I already learned – complicating, tweaking, and revising the basic framework I developed in college, but not upending it. Instead, I’ve been struck by the ways in which the study of international politics in Ireland is fundamentally different in its orientation than the discipline in the United States. Talking with the other Mitchells, it seems that many of us are finding the Irish (or is it European?) orientation in our courses can radically depart from the perspectives to which we are accustomed. All of this is to say, intensive study outside the United States can offer things that a course within the United States cannot.

You might be wondering what the relationships between the Mitchell scholars are like. Put simply: I’ve rarely had the opportunity to spend time with such fun, intelligent, eclectic people. When we’re all together, I’ve heard conversations that effortlessly jump from property rights in Afghanistan to chicken farms to James Joyce. I think it’s a testament to how much we like each other that, aside from getting together at all of our program events, we’re bouncing around the island to visit one another and traveling around Europe together. I’ve only known most of my fellow scholars for a few months, but I can safely say I’ve already made friends I expect to keep for the rest of my life.

Fortunately, my stay in Ireland has only just begun. I hope to have quite a bit more insight to share by my next reflection. In the meantime, I’d like to again thank the staff of the US-Ireland Alliance as well as the sponsors and governments that make the Mitchell Scholarship possible. I cannot but poorly express how grateful I am for this opportunity.

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November 2009 Reflection

Posted on November 1, 2009 by lpmarino10

I have a thing for birds. Last year, while living in Uganda, I became obsessed with identifying every weaver, hornbill, and crane that crossed my path. And although the birding is a bit less thrilling here in Ireland, I swoon every time I see a swan gently paddling down the canal that feeds into the River Corrib. So back in September, when Michael (Mitchell scholar), Jon (my husband), and I stumbled across a flock of 40 (yes, 40) swans while on a walk through the Claddagh, I knew that living in Galway would make me very happy indeed.

This year in Galway marks my second year living as an expatriate, and I find myself constantly comparing my life in Kampala to my life here. I’m sure you can imagine the many differences: in Galway, I wash our clothes in a spiffy little machine that resides in the kitchen. In Kampala, laundry was a chore I spent hours doing every week by hand (although, believe it or not, I rather enjoyed it). In Galway, every time the sun shines, I soak it in, because I know it won’t last long. In Kampala, I was constantly seeking out a patch of cool shade. In Galway, the language is English, and I manage to blend in, despite my painfully American accent and fashion sense. In Kampala, I struggled to use my hard-earned Luganda (the local language) correctly and became accustomed to the feeling of being watched. The similarities between my two adopted homes are apparent as well. In both Galway and Kampala, drinking tea is an important social custom, the soccer fans are zealous, and the people are so warm that you are immediately put at ease. Both Kampala and Galway have made their mark on me, and in Galway, I know that the process is still just beginning. Galway, with its twisty cobblestone streets, omnipresent street musicians, and sweet salt air, affords me with somewhat of a fairytale existence. It is easy to while away a day exploring the passageways near my apartment, in the center of the city, window-shopping when the weather is dry and escaping into a café when the rain inevitably begins again. And since Galway is a big tourist city, it’s easy to forget that I’m not actually on vacation; that I’m here to do work.

Work is definitely a big part of my life in Galway. Although at times it is frustrating to have my laid-back vacation bubble popped, I am so grateful that my program is turning out to be exactly what I hoped it would be. The MA in Gender, Globalization and Rights is a part of the Global Women’s Studies program at NUI Galway and is introducing me and my 10 classmates to the intricacies of feminist theory, the Bretton Woods institutions, the UN’s Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, grassroots development methods, and how they are all connected. In other words: more than I bargained for, but in a good way. I am confident that what I’m learning now will be useful in the near future, and that’s a good feeling.

Although I love Galway, I have used the majority of my weekends to escape to other places in search of adventure. Traveling throughout the island of Ireland has been a main feature of my travel thus far, and I’ve spent time in Belfast, Cork, and Dublin with the Mitchells. In fact, tomorrow I’m taking a day trip to Limerick to learn more about Irish Aid and to pay a visit to Shane. I’ve also had the chance to visit London with friends from home, and Bremen, Germany, with Irish friends, Michael, and Jon. All of the travel has given me an excuse to improve my photography, a hobby I’ve kept up since my Uncle Cliff taught me how to use a darkroom in the fifth grade. Meanwhile, I am watching Jon and myself become more and more Irish as the days go by. Jon is starting to add “like” at the end of his sentences. I prefer “Dja know?” as it is awfully close to the old Minnesotan saying, “Dontcha know?” I’ve stopped complaining about the rain and started drinking tea several times a day. The familiar process of acquiring the idiosyncrasies of a place is beginning to happen to me once again.

I can’t write a about my first couple of months without mentioning my fellow Mitchell Scholars. So many words come to mind when I think of the group: energetic, social, well-read, empathetic, hilarious, loyal, open-minded. I’ve already had so much fun with the group, as well as with people one-on-one, that it’s exciting to think that we have much more in store this year. I feel especially lucky to have Michael in Galway with me, to share the joys of our Mitchell year, and look forward to having Rebekah join us here in January. To my fellow scholars: Here’s to many more weekends where we all sleep on the floor, meals that are cooked communally, days exploring whatever locale we end up in, and nights dancing to a certain Black Eyed Peas song.

I think it’s pretty clear that my life in Galway, and in Ireland more generally, is turning out to be pretty fantastic. Between the traveling, the perfection that is Galway, the Mitchell scholars, and my program, I’ve basically got it all. It is truly humbling to be a member of the Mitchell class of ’10, and I’m so grateful for this incredible opportunity. But the cherry on top has got to be this: a flock of swans lives less than a kilometer from my front door.

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November 2009 Reflection

Posted on November 1, 2009 by remanuel10

It has become a weekly ritual. I put my huge black backpack down on the table, and she looks up and says “Hi, love?” We both know what will happen next.

I will gather 4 pounds of apples, 2 pounds of pears, 1 big bag of mushrooms, and the potatoes and carrots that look like they are from their farm, plus whatever else is fresh that week into an ungainly pile. I wait till she is done with the passing customer to ask how much the lettuce is (always the same but I always forget anyway) and then take one head. Often she feeds me slices from the pears, just to share how good they are. I already know, but I don’t object to the slice. All the while she’ll be asking about my week, and where I am going for the holidays. She’ll tell me again that she has a cousin in Chicago and she visited him once. I’m from Chicago. Then, as I put the bags in my backpack and she counts (£1 £2 £2.50 —amazing me every week, she gives me 14 apples in a bag. £1 for 14 apples?) she keeps on wondering how I can eat all this food—how many must I be cooking for?

Then, as I heave the bag onto my shoulders, and move away to keep exploring the stalls, she offers to take my backpack and put it under her table it so its easier for me to move about St George’s Market. When I come back with blue cheese made one county over and a goats cheese that was just made 4 days ago according to its creator, she laughs. She says, “See you next week, love.”

At orientation they warned us about this. They stood up at the front of the auditorium and went through lists “How now brown cow” “ Hello, love” “Good crack.” A polite English girl said each first, and then a local Belfast student repeated “hao nao braown cao” with laughing eyes to the room of foreign students who wondered how they were going to survive the very local accents. “Hello love.” “Hell oh luhv.” When the Belfast lad said sadly only old ladies tend to greet him “hello love,” the room erupted in laughter. We laughed louder, and less sure we could believe him when he explained that good crack did not mean a great bit of cocaine but a good bit of fun, and that it was a totally different word—properly spelled ‘craic’ not ‘crack.’ That you could have good craic at an amusement park, at a friends dinner party, or at the movies, or at a local dance. Since then I have confirmed our trusty guide’s quip—only older ladies greet me as “love.” But for all that’s true, many more could.

Love seemed like the right word for my local French teacher, who once she found out I love traditional Irish fiddling, brought be several CDs to listen to and reminded me when special instruments I had never heard of much less seen would be playing in an open session at the pub up the road. Love seemed like the right word for Ricky, Aaron Kurman’s (Mitchell 07) old roommate, and his girlfriend Laura who invited me to stay the weekend at his parents house to show me all around his native city of Bangor and take me to visit his grandmother—a more Irish old lady you may never meet. And love seemed like the right word for my Ceilidh dance teacher who was all worried that I might not find the “Culturlann” and so wanted her husband to come pick the three of us up so we would not get lost in getting to the dance hall—she would have come but she was calling the dance so she had to be there early with the musicians.

At home, ensconced in the kitchen, scooping out pears in advance of our dinner for all nine housemates (how many are you cooking for?), I tell my housemate Ailish about the fruit vendors week and her nephew and what the plan is for the dance on Sunday, and I think back to the woman’s words “Have a good week, love.” Yes, I think I shall.

Recipe: Cut pears in half, lengthwise. Use a small spoon to remove the center. Place face up on a roasting tray. Roast for 50min at 170 deg Celsius or until blistering and brown at the top. Serve hot with French Vanilla ice cream.

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November 2009 Reflection

Posted on November 1, 2009 by jbrestoff10

Cork’s charm comes through even after a trans-Atlantic red-eye. Circumscribing the entire city is classic Irish countryside, and the River Lee meanders through metropolitan Cork, separating the hilly northside from the relatively planar south. The storefronts are almost invariably handsome and give the city a mainland European feel, an effect that is consistent with the cosmopolitan nature of this city. Cork is small (by American standards). There are 300,000 people here. But in my first two weeks in Cork half the people I met were from Italy, Iran, France, Denmark, Congo, and India. Where did all the Corkonians go?

After dropping off my bags at Victoria Lodge, a University College Cork (UCC) apartment complex 10 minutes from campus and 30 minutes from city center by foot, I explored the side streets and shops of Cork and found a pub with a patio on St. Patrick’s Street, the city’s main thoroughfare. Considering the fact that I had been awake for 40 hours, I correctly reasoned that the best thing I could do for myself was to order two pints: one Guinness and one Murphy’s, the latter being Cork’s local stout. A taste test was in order, and true to my scientific nature, I have repeated this experiment many times in many places and have come to a steadfast conclusion that, in Cork at least, Murphy’s is a superior pour. Sorry, Arthur. I know it’s your 250th anniversary, and I truly enjoyed your Jazz Festival in Cork, but Murphy’s has become my stout of choice.

The Guinness Jazz Festival, while deficient in Murphy’s, was a wonderful showcase of Cork. Held in late October each year, the event attracts over 100 bands from around the world and brings tens-of-thousands of tourists, many of whom are from other cities, towns, and villages in Ireland. I invited and hosted the other 2009 Mitchell Scholars for the weekend. We enjoyed the music and city, and we met with local leaders, including gay rights activists and businesspeople. The current Mitchell Scholars are some of the most genuine, inspiring people I have ever met, and I feel privileged to be in their company. It truly is an honor to be in a position to build friendships with them.

This year, although only one-third complete, has already been formative for me, not just because of the people whom I have befriended in Ireland but also because my Masters in Public Health program at UCC has significantly informed my academic interests and career path. My goal is to become a biomedical scientist engaged in both prevention-oriented research and the formation of health care policy and public health initiatives. While in Ireland I have realized that the confluence of basic science and its application for the betterment of society is, in fact, the field of public health.

As a complement to my academic program at UCC, I am currently attempting to initiate a public health initiative in Cork. On November 20, 2009, rapidly rising water levels from the River Lee caused major floods in many parts of County Cork, resulting in the worst flood in the region in over 800 years. Thousands of people were displaced from their homes and hospital beds. In early December, the city is still working overtime to recover from the flood. To ensure that the various needs of flood victims are met, three of my M.P.H. classmates and I started with Project Cork Underwater. Our goals are 1) to build a website and automated cell center that consolidates information on all of the resources currently available to County Cork flood victims, 2) to conduct a thorough county-wide general needs assessment using five complementary approaches, and 3) to generate solutions to address currently unrecognized needs and to report our findings to Irish authorities. We believe that Project Cork Underwater will greatly aid the recovery of Cork flood victims by simplifying the processes to acquire recovery resources and by identifying needs that are not yet recognized.

I derive a great deal of satisfaction and energy from my work with Project Cork Underwater and my public health studies, but I have also found time to explore other interests in more depth. I am taking two massage therapy diploma courses, one in Holistic Massage (Swedish technique) and one in Shiatsu (Japanese technique). The latter is a surprisingly powerful healing modality and dramatically accelerated my recovery from a knee injury. If possible, I hope to be able to start a therapeutic massage clinic when I return to Philadelphia next year. Additionally, I have been gaining teaching experience. I am the anatomy and physiology instructor at the Cork School of Shiatsu, and I teach biochemistry to second- and third-year undergraduates at UCC. I truly enjoy teaching, even those subjects that I dreaded learning as an undergraduate, and I am looking forward to continuing in the spring semester.

Other highlights from my time in Ireland include attending the 2009 Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA) Irish Football National Championship game with Matt Baum (made possible by the generosity of Sean Dorgan, Chairman of Ulster Bank); traveling to Munich for Oktoberfest to consume stellar Bavarian beer with Adam Harbison; and going to the Traditional Irish Music Festival in Ennis, a small city in County Clare on the western side of the island, with Christina Faust. I can’t fail to mention the countless fantastic times had with all of the Mitchell Scholars in Belfast and Dublin. We shall dance on….

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November 2009 Reflection

Posted on November 1, 2009 by mbaum10

Where are you from? I heard the question repeated time and again. I could feel that each strangely accented word leaving my mouth sent ripples across the Trinity cobblestones screaming, “American! I’m American!”

“I’m from Boston,” I replied.

Spending one early night at the Pav, the Trinity student pub, I heard the now familiar response com from a young Dubliner I had met at Gaelic Football practice, “Oh, then you’re pretty much Irish? If you go far enough back…”

Smiles spilled over pints. I began to explain that, to my own amazement, I have no genetic Irish roots. In fact, I seem to be everything but Irish, a veritable European Mutt.

“Well,” replied my friend, obviously puzzled at encountering his first American who had not come to dig through history to find the one-time home of an uncle, grandmother, or great great grand da. “Why did you come to Ireland?”

Now far away from my childhood diet of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Super Bowls, I thank Roddy Doyle, Flann O’Brian, and contemporary Irish literature, the perhaps unlikely ambassadors that opened for me a small window into the complex culture of the Emerald Isle. The famine, the war for independence, the troubles, torn identities, inherited hatreds juxtaposed on paper pages against the darkly humored Irish sensibility tumbled me into a budding love affair. So perhaps it is investigation of an intellectual heritage, rather than a genealogical one, that prompted my leapfrog across the salty Atlantic puddle.

Now that I have stepped through this window onto the brilliant green lawns of Dublin and beneath its tall grey skies, I am only beginning to realize the incredible richness of the heritage. I found, through Enda Walsh’s the New Electric Ballroom (now in NY, NY; go see it!), the Dublin Fringe Festival, and the Beauty Queen of Leenane in Belfast, that the themes addressed in the novels are met full in the mouth and lived nightly on the stage.

In an effort to gather a wider context, I turned to Irish fairy tales (a collection put together by our friend W.B. Yeats), which were very enjoyable, yet greatly puzzling. A lot of them start off on track to drive home a strong moral like we are used to fairy tales doing in the States, but then the story ends up twisting so that the moral crisis is entirely avoided! For example, in one story, a man befriends a Merrow (merman) and later discovers that the Merrow is keeping the souls of sailors lost at sea “warm and dry” in lobster pots. The man gets the Merrow drunk and releases the souls, yet feels guilty at having deceived his friend. We would expect some sort of confrontation such as a scene where the Merrow realizes what has happened, but this never comes! Instead, the Merrow just simply disappears one day and the story ends with the man wondering where the Merrow has gone… I am not sure if this theme of conspicuously absent moral crisis reflects something larger, perhaps designed to acquaint the listeners with the harsh idea that reward and punishment are seldom doled out in a strictly moralistic fashion? Perhaps I need to read some more. I picked up another book of fairy tales the other day…

All this was just the start. Faces painted and wearing the county colors, Jon and I cheered as the Kerry Gold stormed the pitch at Croke Park after their spectacular win at the Gaelic Football All-Ireland Final (the US-Ireland Alliance and Ulster Bank defied all odds by procuring us these tickets that are more precious than diamond). I later had the opportunity to play some of this incredible game myself with the Trinity team; considering I was the only one who had not tumbled out of the womb playing Gaelic, I managed not to embarrass myself too badly in our victory over Dublin Institute of Technology! Later, I waded through teetering towers of documents to meet with a Trinity Law professor I had emailed out of the blue to talk about the recent reforms to Irish Mental Health Law.

At every instance I have been struck by how open and welcoming the community has been when I or any of the other Mitchell Scholars have shown interest. And speaking of the Mitchell Scholars, never before have I encountered a group of such singularly interesting, varied, fun, engaged, and thoroughly grounded people; we have had several conversations I would count among the best in my life as we walked the cliffs of Howthe or warmed hands over a peat fire at a cottage on a Derry dairy farm.

I feel like our adventures are just beginning. As I sit here, I cannot help eagerly awaiting what will surely be amazing times to come. Next week we are set to meet the Minister of Education and sit down to a very Mitchell Thanksgiving. Just a few days ago, I went to the Hercules in Dublin to speak to the Irish Wrestling Association Commissioner about starting a club at Trinity. As I was shown around this gym straight out of Rocky (if it were filmed in Dublin instead of Philly) a whole new window opened. There are plans on the horizon to travel to Prague and Pompeii. I can only hope that somehow the time and energy necessary for all this will materialize, and still leave enough for my neuroscience research that promises to bring intellectual challenge and will soon begin. (now If I could only do something about that accent of mine)

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November 2009 Reflection

Posted on November 1, 2009 by aharbison10

I am not the type of person that can quickly adjust to a new environment. It took me almost six months to get over my desire to return home to Alabama and to finally feel at home in Washington DC. However, here in Belfast, something strange has happened to me as I truly love this city. I can’t pinpoint what made this happen. I know I first realized this though as I felt the overwhelming joy of returning to my beloved city after a long weekend in Dublin for Mitchell Convocation. I felt the pure relief of being back “home” in my tiny flat at Queen’s, and I then become conscious that this unique city and country had found a special place in my heart.

I am continually amazed by how fast time can fly. A year ago, I had completed my semi-finalist interview before heading out to Ohio with the RNC to campaign. My Republican party suffered through quite a sound beating, but a few weeks later, I learned that I had won the George Mitchell Scholarship. I still remember sitting in my living room in DC watching an Alabama football game with two friends when I got the call. For the next nine months, Ireland always seemed so far off in the back of my mind. A full year later, everything has come full circle as the GOP is resurgent, Alabama is again at the pinnacle of the football world, and I have been on the Emerald Isle for two months.

After two years of working, being back in school is a strange feeling, especially in a foreign country. However, I have become immersed in my study of Rural Development and getting back into the swing of student life. From the first day of class, I knew my program would be a good fit for me when I discovered that many of the students come from a rural farming background like me. I feel like I learn something new every time I attend a lecture, whether it is about the history of the EU and its future with the Lisbon Treaty or about using community partnerships that allow rural citizens to bring about development and pull themselves up by their boot straps. More importantly though, I learn the most over lunch or tea breaks with my class students as I listen to their perspective on the future of farmers, politics and divisions in Northern Ireland, and cultural competencies and linguistic differences that I need to be aware of in order to get by in Belfast.

Since I have already mentioned them, it’s no secret that I have two passions and vices that I cannot get by without: politics and Alabama Crimson Tide football. My worry about moving here was that I would not be able to be engaged and follow both of these, but this has not been a problem. I knew I wanted to do something political here instead of just following the news back home. At the Fresher’s Fair (a student org fair), I stumbled across the Young Conservatives table. Having always admired the UK Tories, I immediately signed up with the party so I could help with elections and see firsthand how their creative policies will bring about a change in 10 Downing Street (and hopefully carry some of these lessons back home). At my first meeting, I was also asked to stand as a candidate for the Queen’s Student Union Council. My campaign was simple: ask my housemates and classmates to vote for me. Thirteen votes later, and voila! I now serve as a Postgraduate Councillor, which should be an interesting experience as I see how student politics work here.

With regard to football, I have been lucky enough to watch or listen to most of Alabama’s big games. I followed along to the Kentucky game via text messages while taking in Oktoberfest in Munich with Jon Brestoff and a friend from Alabama, and I listened to Eli Gold call the LSU game from a hotel rooftop in Marrakech, Morocco with a college friend in Peace Cops there. Thanks to the Mitchell Scholarship and its generous funding, I have gotten to take some amazing trips, and pairing football with it only makes everything that much sweeter! I have also started to follow football here, or as we know it in America, soccer. Bre Detwiler and I were privileged enough to go to a match between Northern Ireland’s best two teams and biggest rivals. I only thought SEC football was intense as this game was the rowdiest sporting event I had ever seen before complete with fans throwing firecrackers at each other. While taking this in, we also got to chat with our host a bit about how the role that the sectarian politics here even plays in football. The game was a truly great experience, and our team even pulled out a 2-1 victory. I definitely hope to catch more games.

The best part of being here thus far has been time spent with my fellow Mitchell Scholars. We are such a diverse group with a range of experiences and fields of study that always makes for stimulating and engaging conversations whenever we get together. The group is continuing to grow into a close knit family here on the island through trips to Dublin, Belfast for a play, Cork for the Jazz Festival, Derry for Halloween, and even to the Bray for a filming of The Tudors. I feel quite blessed and humbled to be here in Ireland with the other eleven Mitchell Scholars. I cannot thank the US-Ireland Alliance and the scholarship’s benefactors enough for this wonderful opportunity. My goal for the next year is simple: to take advantage of everything Ireland has to offer as I expand my intellectual horizons and live life to the fullest. I am quite excited and looking forward to all the adventures yet to be had in my temporary homeland.

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November 2009 Reflection

Posted on November 1, 2009 by msolis10

Due to a hurricane that was spinning its way up the East Coast, the Newark airport personnel assigned me to an earlier flight that was only minutes away from boarding. The problem, however, was that I had just checked in my luggage with a different airline, and it was too late to get it back.

“So what am I supposed to do about my luggage?” I asked a frazzled airport worker with wiry blond hair and dark pools under her eyes.

“There’s no time!” she yelled, acting like it was Armageddon. “You have to make a choice!”

I sighed and turned around to see through the airport’s wall-sized windowpanes that it had started to rain. Mesmerized by the water and the orangey glow of the sky, I pondered my options:

1) Go to Ireland and lose my suitcases, or…

2) Not go to Ireland and still lose my suitcases.

Since I was quite sure I wanted to go to Ireland, I nodded at the airport worker, confirming my willingness to travel. She flashed me an approving grin and directed me towards security. Before long I was on the plane, Shannon-bound, while my bags in all likelihood were zooming off towards Chicago.

I tried to remain calm during the flight, but secretly I was in mourning. Not for New Jersey, regrettably, and not because I wouldn’t see my family or friends again for quite some time, though I was going to miss them. I wasn’t even nostalgic (yet) for all the summer loving that had happened so fast either…

What I was pining over were my clothes.

While soaring over the Atlantic in a stuffy airport cabin, I wondered what I was going to do in Ireland without my history of lost fabrics. So many things were in those bags. The bird shirt that I spilled my first Korean meal on. The green sunga (aka speedo) I bought in an attempt fit in on the beaches of Rio. The hooded shirt that I acquired in Buenos Aires but spilled red wine on in Santiago the night all the lyrics to “Just Dance” came true…

It was just fabric, I tried telling myself. And I knew that it probably had all come from China anyway. But that wasn’t the point! Acquiring those articles from the various places I had lived had somehow given them meaning. So many of my memories and moments could be measured by the contents of my bags, and I was genuinely fearful that I might never get to see…or wear…them again.

Had my luggage arrived with me, which it didn’t, perhaps I wouldn’t have had to start buying clothes my first day in Ireland. Since it was cold and rainy in Galway and I was dressed for summer, a season that apparently bypasses Galway altogether, I needed something long-sleeved. So I ended up making my first purchase, a sleek black sweater at Penny’s for 13 Euros. Penny’s is great – sort of Walmart meets H&M, and beneath the mounds of sloppily piled clothes there is almost always a diamond or two in the rough.

Fortunately, though, I didn’t need to purchase all of my new clothes at Penney’s. Some were given to me as gifts, including the Manchester United shirt from my Irish roommate Johnny that usually hangs, lonely and unused, in my closet. Though Johnny never tells me directly to wear it whenever Manchester has a match, I can tell by the disapproving look he gives my black Penny’s sweater (after I’ve worn it for seven consecutive days) and his hinting reminders (“Don’t forget Manchester’s playing today, Mike!”) that I should make more of an effort to show some team spirit.

Soccer bores me to no end, but I do enjoy watching Johnny unleash his limitless supply of creatively crafted curses at the television screens in pubs. He yells his “fooks” and “Jayzuses” when the game isn’t going according to plan and then shouts “What a ball!” and jumps in circles when Manchester scores. Knowing that I’m not supposed to remain silent while the pub rejoices, but also unwilling to scream or jump in circles, I usually end up twirling my finger and flashing a forced smile at the enthusiastic fans in the nearby vicinity.

“He must miss baseball…” I once overheard a drunken man tell Johnny.

No comment.

Another recently added collection to my wardrobe is the Galway Bay Half-Marathon shirt I received after a race in early October. Ever since coming to Ireland, I’ve been training consistently, running at least four days a week in preparation for races, including the Athens Marathon. When I’m not dodging toy dogs or old ladies on the Galway Bay Promenade, I’m usually running through the hills of Rahoon where the cows, horses, donkeys, and sheep roam free, usually munching on the plentiful supply of shockingly green grass after the morning mists have dissipated. If I’m extra lucky, a sheep dog or two will try to chase me down in an attempt to huddle me in with the rest of the herd.

Sometimes I catch the animals staring at me with their quizzical and beady eyes. I can only imagine what they must be thinking:

“Why is this kid running around in circles all the time?”

“Doesn’t he even know it’s raining?”

“Dude, what’s with the hair?”

“Moooooooooooooo……….”

I have been rained on for the entirety of ten-mile stretches. Once I was nearly pelted to death by a surprise October hailstorm; as fate would have it I was caught on a very long bridge, wearing short shorts, with no shelter in sight to protect me from the huge ice clumps that were ricocheting off of my skin. Needless to say, Ireland prepared me well for Athens, where the rain cloud followed and showered on us crazy runners for nearly half of the race.

But of all the clothing I have acquired over the years, I think I have finally made the purchase of all purchases here in Ireland. That would be the sexy yellow and black number, a 3 euro dress also from Penny’s equipped with two wing-like flaps, which hangs coquettishly in my closet, waiting patiently for the day that it will be worn again…

Understanding this brilliant piece of haute couture requires a bit of background. My second day in Ireland, with so few possessions to occupy my time, I ended up doing what the tourists do – taking a boat ride along the River Corrib. Lo and behold, the boat ended up being a gay cruise for the celebration of pride weekend. Subsequently, I spent the afternoon and evening dancing with some of the Ls, Gs, Bs, and Ts of Ireland, while forming what turned out to be a few very close friendships.

The gay cruise was much more than what the outside observer may have perceived as a superficial display of dance, drink, and occasional stripping. For me, it was a testament to how far Ireland had come since 1993, the year homosexuality was decriminalized due to Senator Norris’s landmark case before the European Court.

Bill, one of the Irish guys I met, later invited me to crash at his apartment while I looked for a place of my own in Galway. I had no idea how to repay him, but the opportunity arose when Bill asked me to attend a costume party with him in Dublin. The only catch was that I had to dress in drag.

I shrugged and agreed without hesitating. After all, it was really the least I could do.

Fast forward to the Dublin rooftop party where Bill was wearing a blue dress and spandex, a pink visor and matching sandals, a neon yellow bag, and a bleached blond wig. I went Gaga in my black and yellow winged dress with painted black nails, black lipstick, shades and light pink hair.

As women we were beauties of the frightening variety, but that didn’t matter, for the company we were with was happy, open, and welcoming, despite the atrociousness of our outfits and the unshaven hair on our legs.

Eventually, my suitcases did end up arriving in Galway. I’m glad they did, since now I can finally wear my green Brazilian speedo to the gym when I go swimming. In retrospect, though, I am grateful for the initial, luggage-less moments when I felt vulnerable and slightly lost in an unfamiliar land. During those days, I was forced to see and do things in Ireland that I may not have seen or done otherwise. Open-mindedness and willingness to explore have already made life here so thrilling and unpredictable, and I know such tenants will remain crucial in allowing me to get the most out of the rest of this experience.

But until the Ireland saga comes to its end, I look forward to seeing how my closet and drawers fill out over time, not to mention how many more stories I will come to attach to the ever-expanding collection of cloth.

That said, retailers and wig shops of Ireland beware…

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June 2009 Reflection

Posted on June 1, 2009 by erhoda09

This time last year, I was in a hospital, visiting a good friend who had just swallowed a bottle of pills. His hospital room was packed with friends and family, and we played flute and guitar and sang. The nurses usually wouldn’t let so many people in his room, but it was his birthday. He smiled sometimes. His hair was unwashed. He looked so tired.

A few days later, my publisher at the newspaper called everyone together—the reporters, editors, people in advertising, the layout designers—and told us that our newspaper was being bought by a rival company. We could all lose our jobs. Some people had worked at the paper for more than thirty years. People had families to support. One woman was pregnant. We still had a deadline to meet. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I wrote an article. Other people left the building and sat in their cars, talking on their cell phones. The reporter next to me kept sniffling and blowing her nose.

Around the same time, my 1987 Toyota station wagon didn’t pass inspection. It wasn’t a surprise. I’d accidentally kicked a hole in the side of it because the body was complete rust. The windshield had a crack splitting it in two. Someone had snapped the door handle off the right side. I had to refill the car with oil every few hundred miles. To make it up a steep hill, I had to floor it before the incline, and, even then, I usually ended up in third or second gear by the top of the hill, with a couple pickup trucks behind me, swerving across the line to see when they could pass.

I loved that car. I once did an article about Stockton Springs for the newspaper, and my friend came with me. Afterwards, I parked the car at the base of a mountain, and we sat in my spacious trunk and had a picnic, while it rained. He’d brought avocado, cheddar cheese, and homemade bread. Maybe we talked about high school or about our plans for the future. I don’t remember.

He was the first person to whom I showed a draft of my Mitchell essay. I read it to him as we drove down Route 1, and he offered his suggestions. I don’t remember where we were going. I suppose we never know how long we have with people until they’re gone. At the end of June last summer, I was being re-interviewed to see if I’d keep my job, and at that moment my friend was out of the hospital, alone, sitting, facing the ocean, when he made his decision. He’d never even liked guns. I don’t think he’d ever even shot one before.

About a quarter of the people at the paper lost their jobs, but, for some reason, I was re-hired, even though they knew I was leaving in two months for Ireland. So I used all my money to buy a new (used) car—it’s impossible to get around Maine without one—and a tow crew came to bring my old car to the scrap yard. They hoisted it with their levers, and I watched as it left my driveway and disappeared over the hill, in chains.

After that summer, Ireland has been like a dream—the kind where I can’t tell if I’m awake or asleep. I can’t qualify my time here or explain what it means to have people believe in me. I don’t know how to describe this country or the other Mitchells or Trina or Mary Lou. I’ve experienced what it’s like to have nothing to do but write; I’ll have traveled to twelve different countries in ten months; I’ve met influential people in Irish business and politics and academia.

Now I walk the streets of Dublin, past the hordes of tourists on Henry Street and Grafton Street, past the women selling flowers, the people begging on the bridges. The River Liffey divides Dublin into north and south but it connects both sides to the open bay and the sea. The buses drive an inch away from the curb, and the spire reaches higher and higher, and yet none of these things matter to me.

It was my golden birthday a few days ago. I turned twenty-five on May 25, and the other Dublin Mitchells and I went to Bray to have a picnic by the ocean and later watch short animation films by filmmakers throughout Africa. We sat on the rocks, balancing paper plates on our knees, and shared an assortment of picnic food, including avocado and good bread. It rained the way it often does in Ireland: as if a cloud has descended instead of raindrops. It’s the kind of rain that an umbrella cannot protect against because it comes from all around, not just from above.

As we sat in the rain, the wind blew a paper cup of wine onto Vicki’s boots. Catherine was nervous being so high up on the rocks, and Jose must have been cold without his coat. Vicki’s friend Caitlyn carried around a box of crumble for hours that we ended up not eating in Bray. Catherine’s Danny came along even though he’d been traveling the entire weekend and hadn’t yet been home, and Ryan came even though he was leaving shortly for Paris. Travis joined later after rowing practice. And it’s that mad jumble of our lives together that I will miss, cramming everyone into my kitchen, and singing happy birthday the way my family does—as loud as possible and off-key. I’ll even miss the Trinity security guards and their absolute adherence to the rules, making me go to the junior dean for having people over past midnight during exam time! People—not buildings—make homes. I am becoming comfortable here; I feel as if I’m becoming a part of a whole. It’s funny how it takes leaving people—or having people leave us—to finally feel as if we belong.

I’ll be home in Maine the day before the anniversary of my friend’s death. Even after a year, I feel as if there’s a silence surrounding him in my brain. I can’t quite relate the pain accurately. I have to get at it from the side—like how sometimes it’s only possible to see a star by looking at the night around it.

There have been and will continue to be many people who enter and leave my life, and I am thankful to know them at all, thankful to belong to them for a moment. Trinity’s bells are chiming as I finish this reflection. They call me back to the time, to the present, and how swiftly it is passing.

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June 2009 Reflection

Posted on June 1, 2009 by tgreen09

Relaxation always seemed a strange thing. My friends talked about times without activity, without thinking, without action, without feeling like they were missing something, and I never really understood why they craved it so much. Then again, maybe I’d just forgotten what that felt like. Pre-school, elementary school, middle school, high school, college, and even the time leading up to my first reflection on this scholarship felt like a constantly accelerating blur of life. By getting the chance to just stop for a while, I remembered what it felt like to truly and wholly relax. It’s meant not planning out my life and taking advantage of the unexpected movie or trip to Newgrange or lecture on epidemiological studies of social networks. Simultaneously, that flexibility has led to liberation from the feeling that a constant connection to whoever wants to reach me is a necessity.

Like many good things, that time is coming to an end, and I’ll be returning to a very different and increasingly connected world, one where each of us is expected to be constantly connected by cell phone, email, Blackberry, iPhone, or tin-can-and-string. Neuroscience tells us that these devices should increase stress in our lives because people are always looking for the best way to use their time. The easiest choices are those where there exists a clear answer, like laying in a lava pit or on a feather bed, and the hardest ones are those where the outcomes of choices cannot be well judged. By positing the current environment against the huge range of possible environments available to us electronically, we create situations where the best use of our finite attention is constantly impossible to judge.

That expectation leads friends to check their email by sneakily reaching into their pocket, pulling out a smartphone, face staring straight ahead as his eyes flit down to the screen held underneath the table, thinking that the rest of us somehow don’t notice. It means that we stop paying attention to the present reality, and begin to focus on an abstract reality where we are constantly evaluating whether those trying to contact us through the ether are more important than those physically around us. We become disconnected from our surroundings as our mental focus flits across the world and across the spectrum of ideas.

There are times where this is negative, but those are counterbalanced with positives: connecting families with video chat across oceans, enabling students to access libraries across the world in full text, and even enabling revolution. That said, this constant connection means we can never truly relax because there might be someone or something out there that is more important than who we are with or what we are doing.

Being able to disconnect has been enlightening. I can focus better and longer without responding to the most recent email or text. I don’t feel that wrenching in my stomach whenever my cellphone dies as I wonder if someone will call me about that really important thing that can’t wait. It means that I can go for a few days without checking email and surprise myself at not missing anything. It means I don’t feel some bit of the stress of modern, connected, urban life.

It disappoints me to possibly be shifting away from this relaxation and disconnection. I feel reminders in things like the phantom phone buzz, a well-studied phenomenon where you think your phone has gotten a text because you feel vibrations in the area where your phone usually is, even if you don’t have it with you. I periodically need to stop myself from compulsively checking email, waiting for those that will determine where I live and what I do this coming year. When I go do something spontaneous that keeps me away from the connected world, thoughts intrude that I might miss that important phone call or not respond to those seemingly pivotal emails fast enough.

In addition to so much else I have learned, I have had the opportunity to take a chance on the present and the immediate, and found that I didn’t know what I was missing.

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June 2009 Reflection

Posted on June 1, 2009 by rmccartney09

At Duke, my senior column was titled “A Senior Column.”

Creative, I know. I had spent four formative years sitting at various desks in the Chronicle’s endearingly bedraggled, 1970s-chic newsroom. There, I had reported on jejune Duke Student Government policies, popped Champagne when I was elected editor, and bluelined a volume of papers I will be proud of for the rest of my life, with people I will never lose touch with. But when all was said and done, all I could write was another senior column.

The fact of the matter is I’m really bad at saying goodbye. Whenever I try to be profound, it comes off as cliché and irrelevant. There is something about a final column or a final reflection that has always stifled my creative juices.

So here I am, late again with my fourth and final reflection for the Mitchell. It’s been nine months since I arrived in Dublin. In that time, I’ve finished two (relatively) productive semesters at DCU and begun to embark on a Master’s dissertation that will (hopefully) dissect online political campaigns in the June 2009 EP Elections. I’ve traveled across Ireland and Northern Ireland and I’ve gone to Athens, Barcelona, Stockholm, London, Oxford, southern England, Prague, Paris, Nice, Florence, the Amalfi Coast, and Rome. I’ve unexpectedly found myself saying “OK” to running two marathons and enduring “Tough Guy” in Wolverhampton, England. All the while, I’ve had some of the best conversations I’ve ever had with some of the most interesting people I’ll ever meet — the Mitchells and the many friends of the Mitchells who have traveled through Ireland over the course of these past nine months.

It was a year lived — by and large — in the now.

When I won the Mitchell in November 2007, I was sitting at the editorial editor’s desk at The Chronicle. I was immersed in the grind of deadlines and daily production. I had not yet begun to think about a senior column let alone the type of year the Mitchell would bring. I was ecstatic. But I was also pretty baffled. After all, it’s rare that you’re given a gift with no real strings attached. But I also felt a tremendous relief that I would have an extra year to focus on academics in a laid-back way. To enjoy life, I guess, at a point and time when a lot of people our age get thrown onto a trajectory and can’t look back.

Yes, I’ve learned a lot this year. That goes without saying. But I didn’t learn nearly as much as I thought I would in the classroom. I learned it during those moments when I was consciously (and perhaps irresponsibly) ignoring the paper I had due the next day in order to go out for dinner or a pint with some of the Mitchells. It’s liberating, this idea of “Irish time” — this mindset that is so anathema to the grind of deadlines and daily production but all the while inspiring and motivating in its own right.

But there is also a part of me that has been — and continues to be — “itchy.” I’ve gotten that feeling throughout the year. It often comes after I’ve spent three weeks living in the moment. As weird as it sounds, I’m ready to take these hundreds of memories and move on to the next step, whatever that might be. I’m excited for that.

To the new Mitchells: Congratulations! Your mugshots are now front-and-center on this Web site, which means the torch has been passed on. The current class waited with eager anticipation to see your bios go up. You’re a part of a community. You know that. And I think I speak for the entire ’09 Class when I say don’t hesitate at all to reach out to us at any time, because we’ll drop whatever we’re doing to talk. That’s what Nick, Frank and the previous Mitchells did for us. It’s the least we can do for you.

You’re in for an incredible ride. And, throughout that ride, always remember our man Oscar Wilde’s famous words: “Life is too important to be taken seriously.”

To the current Mitchells: I owe several of you money for dinners at Trinity. I hope that time and fond memories will allow us both to forget this debt.

Seriously, though, we’re hitched. The spiffy rings indicate that. But, honestly, I can’t think of a better group to be married to.

Jose, the only thing that surpasses your work ethic and inability to pronounce names is your impeccable sense of European style. Joshua Tyler. Dude. Dude. Seriously, dude, quit the law route and become a Euro stylist. Al-righhht? Travis, I’m sorry I called you Tyler so many times. Please keep the golden locks thinned and layered for us all. Adam, you still smell. But your ability to do 16-term sums (partially) makes up for it. Chris, the stadium tour starts this fall in St. Louis. Chris and KC, I hope that one day your kids will open the Sweden section of the family photo album to find pictures of “Uncle Ryan” with Mom and Dad. KC: ’Sup. Katie, you’re so buying me a steak dinner this Fall. Catherine, we’re so going to get (veggie) pizza in New Haven after Katie buys me dinner this Fall. Lara, I will always respect and admire how you can go up to a bartender in any traditional Irish bar with traditional Irish music playing in the background and order — without hesitation — a shot of tequila. Damn. Andrea, oh, you lawyer, you! When you join the Supreme Court, remember those of us who may or may not be living in a cardboard box.

Hi, Vicki! (But seriously…)

To Trina and Mary Lou: Adam probably said it best in his Mother’s Day Card, but thank you both for giving us the nod and finding in us things that we haven’t begun to see in ourselves. We’ll never forget you guys. And Mary Lou, in particular, you know you’ll be missed. I guess we’re graduating the Mitchell together this year. I hope time and fond memories will allow us both to forget the fact that I never turned in a journal on time. Yeah?

So there it is. The fourth and final Mitchell reflection, cliché or irrelevant as it may be, written in the now of a sunny, September-like June afternoon at DCU.

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June 2009 Reflection

Posted on June 1, 2009 by vmoore09

As I walked down Dame Street with Chris, Katie, and KC the day after the Mitchell graduation ceremony, my taste buds ecstatic after ingesting Queen of Tarts’ phenomenal strawberry and rhubarb crumble, I realized what I would miss most about Ireland: the other Mitchell Scholars.

As we passed the Olympia Theatre, Chris, rather poignantly, pointed out the difficulties of explaining this yearlong Irish blip on our resume to people outside of the Mitchell community. Very few people can relate to such a travel-filled, incredibly pampered and (relatively) responsibility-free experience. Lucky for me, I’ll always have the other Mitchells with which to reminisce as I consider many of them to be some of my closest, quirkiest, and most extraordinary friends.

For my final reflection, inspired by a high school writing exercise I did based on a column in the Washington Post, I wrote 11 100-word haikus. In no particular order, each haiku paints a portrait of each scholar, allowing the reader to hopefully glean some insight into why I appreciate these people so much.

Lara

(Rome in April)

Feeling like mannequins in an upscale department store showcase, Lara and I dine in the outdoor glass enclosure of Café de Paris. Our collective stomach delights in the chocolate soaked profiteroles. In the corner, a duet croons Elton John, creating an ambiance conducive to our passion: people-watching. Lara and I try to decipher the family tree of the party the next table over, make use of Wikipedia to answer burning questions, and giggle at the audacity of the rose vendors. Sipping glasses of red wine served by our tuxedo-clad waiter, we toast to our next romantic dinner being a date!

Chris and KC

(Belfast in February)

Our fingers glisten with grease as we savor the best fish and chips in Belfast. Sitting in Chris and KC’s bedroom/living room/dining room, we discuss faith and Chris’ love of v-neck sweaters. I laugh as Chris and KC’s jokes complement one another in the same way the fresh, thick chips balance the fried cod. Following the meal, I model the gown KC and I discovered that morning. Chris smiles, wipes oil off his fingers, and says he feels like a proud father seeing me dressed up. I giddily thank him as we walk to the city centre to find matching shoes.

Tyler

(Glasgow in December)

While I pretend to pilot a tugboat in the Glasgow Science Museum, Tyler pulls me aside and asks me, in his southern manner, how to tie a bowline. After delivering his standard apologies, he looks on quizzically as I demonstrate step-by-step how to tie the knot. With his yellow Armani sweater (which he always refers to by brand name) draped over his shoulders, he copies my motions and shares childhood memories of fishing off a boat near his plantation in Alabama. Exhilarated when he quickly masters the bowline, he eagerly dashes off to hold a cockroach in the next exhibit.

Ryan

(Dublin in May)

Clad in shirts showcasing smiling Kenyan and Indian children, Ryan and I stuff grocery bags full of rashers and Tayto chips in Dunnes. Coins clank in our plastic buckets as we explain Suas’ ambition of “education for all” and my upcoming trip to Kenya. During lulls in the check out, we chat with Spanish cashiers about the amount of sausage Irish people consume. A customer remarks that Ryan is a remarkable friend for dedicating his weekend to helping me raise money. Ryan, unassuming, just continues in his routine. At 7pm, slightly sore but smiling, we leave to catch the 46a.

Travis

(Dublin in May)

Travis strolls into Gruel wrapped in his trademark Kermit-the-Frog-colored fleece. Complete with his bike helmet accessory, he orders the lunch roll, which, to properly fill him, should feed a family of four. As he sits and tosses his distinctive golden locks, he informs me of the latest twist of events in the UCD Crew soap opera. I talk to him about home. Always in favor of nerding out, we then decide to take a tour of the Four Courts. We walk along the Liffey, remarking on how much the tide has changed over the course of the year.

Jose

(Oxford in May)

It’s like he hasn’t seen me in years as I greet him at the door. Despite the overnight bus ride from Dublin to Oxford, Jose looks fashionably European in his thigh-hugging trousers. He so enthusiastically rushes to give me a hug that his fingernail accidentally scrapes my cheek. Always willing to help a good cause, Jose “plays Oxford” with me as we sip Pimms at Christchurch for Wounded Warriors. He introduces himself to others as “West Side Story meets Hairspray.” We then strut to the organic kabob van where Jose’s enthusiastic “mmm!” signifies his palate’s approval of the lamb burger.

Erin

(Bray in May)

We sit around the table at our “local,” the GMB. Knocking back glasses of Erin’s selection of Bulls’ Blood Hungarian wine, we sing her “Happy Birthday” the Rhoda way: as loud as possible and completely off key. It’s unique and fitting, just as the whole day has been in commemorating Erin. After absorbing the distinctive messaging and melodies of an African cartoon showcase and picnicking in Bray literally on the rocks (much to the chagrin of my wine-soaked boots), I tell Erin, in my best Maine accent, “Happy Birthday!” as we dig into her birthday crumble.

Catherine

(Dublin in April)

“Was there seriously no dialogue for the second half of that movie?” I wonder to Catherine following a viewing of an Earth Day documentary. Snacking on the best brown bread in Dublin, Catherine says, bluntly, “Yeah, that blue tinted, slow food movie took itself a little too literally.” I smile, recalling that I never fail to be surprised by the directness of Catherine’s words. During dinner, we talk about New Year’s plans, life on a boat, and how things will change when she stops sampling in Ireland and starts researching at Yale. Certainly fewer trips to O’Neil’s, we both gloomily agree.

Andrea

(Dublin in April)

Following a pilgrimage to Joyce Tower in Sandy Cove, Andrea, Catherine, Ryan and I gather for Ryan’s birthday dinner. As the waiter serves us fresh mozzarella, Andrea recaps her recent trip to visit Kurdish refugees in Carrick-on-Shannon. Her passion is palpable as she shares the story of a young girl who will be the first in her family to graduate secondary school. Later, as she thoughtfully and precisely argues the benefits and challenges of coding data in the social sciences, I move onto my ravioli and think to myself, “This girl is meant to be a lawyer.”

Katie

(Prague in May)

Thanks to Katie, the ultimate bargain shopper, we lay in the king size bed of an $18 5-star hotel room in Prague after the marathon.

Seriously. $18.

Full of red wine, Pilsner, chocolate fondue, and a recently nibbled sausage roll, the glamorous, bleached blonde old soul/part-time philosopher and I talk girl talk, prescription drugs, and plans for next year. Like three people-in-one and consistently full of surprises (Where in the world is Katie this week?), Katie reveals a different layer of Vicki—the one that ditches schoolwork for fun and eats chocolate first thing in the morning.

Adam

(Howth in May)

Preemptive laughter erupts from my mouth. While hiking Howth, Adam decides to turn his convertible pants into shorts and leave his pants legs around his ankles. I giggle. In his deadpan, monotonous voice, he tells me to keep walking and that he’ll show me something really funny. A magic trick perhaps? I eventually turn around. There he is with pants legs still around his ankles, no shirt, and a ninja mask on his face. This guy is the smartest guy I know? Tears of laughter stream down my face as I try to compose myself, fail, and just kept laughing.

It’s been a real privilege becoming close with such an incredible group of people. Whether racking up frequent flyer miles throughout Europe, dining on Korean food, or simply chatting over a pint, it’s been a ton of fun. Thanks for the memories and I’m looking forward to our New Year’s reunion in San Diego!

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June 2009 Reflection

Posted on June 1, 2009 by jcanto09

The main interest in life and in work is to become someone else that you were not in the beginning.

Michel Foucault

This has been a Foucauldian type of year for me.

I came across the writing of Michel Foucault back in September when I first arrived at UCD. Upon my arrival, I decided to catch up on 20th century French philosophy and one of the many benefits of the Mitchell year has been the chance to read Foucault’s canon. These include such classics as The History of Madness, The Birth of the Clinic or Discipline and Punish ,just to name a few. One book, however, is often overlooked by the most erudite Foucauldians and it’s one I too only came across recently while digging through the used books basement of Hodges and Figgis on Dawson Street. The book is called Raymond Roussel and it’s the key to unlocking the meaning of Foucault’s life-long work and my Mitchell year.

Similar to me, Foucault discovered the writings of Raymond Roussel while digging through some used books at a Left Bank bookstore in Paris. Roussel was a rather eccentric French writer whose odd style of prose was a little too much even for avant garde Paris in the early 20th century. His prose is one of strong objectivity; his poems, plays and novels are ones of dense description of objects, events and people and little narrative of characters’ thoughts, feelings and emotions. It seems to me that what drew Foucault to Roussel is the possibility to escape the fetters of human emotion and to see oneself and society from a detached, neutral position.

Foucault was a man who tried to live out Roussel’s prose. His central aim in all his writings is to detach himself from the currents of mainstream society and to offer a critique of established institutions (modern psychology, medicine and governmentality). On a more personal level, Foucault himself believed in detaching himself from his own dispositions to evaluate and re-create himself by pushing himself to new and higher levels of creativity, risk and self-renewal (what he called ‘limit experiences’).

Like Foucault, my Mitchell year was about taking a new detached look at myself, attack preconceived notions of my limits and to push beyond. My Mitchell year has been about doing the unthinkable, taking that risky step and never looking back. At Georgetown I loathed the three hour bus ride to New York City. This year I took a two-week roadtrip from Dublin to Rome cramped up in a 1983 Mercedes. At Georgetown I would never run more than a few miles a day and got tired out pretty quickly. Never would I have thought to find myself running a marathon in Prague and even more so wearing shorts and a sleeveless plaid shirt at the top of a 15 meter-high ropes course in snowy weather during the Tough Guy Competition in Wolverhampton, England last January. Nor would I have even imagined sitting in a library all day reading works of French continental philosophers like Michel Foucualt. But I pushed myself to do it.

For me, the Mitchell year was the chance to do the unthinkable, the un-doable. And it is for this reason why this year has been most rewarding and self-invigorating.

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