The AmeriCan't

As a kid, I wasn't allowed to do a lot of things based on the notion that I would become "Too American."

I wasn't allowed to attend sleepover parties.
I wasn't allowed to go swimming.
I wasn't allowed to eat a hot dog.
I wasn't allowed to wear shorts.
I wasn't allowed to eat marshmallows.
I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend.

It was believed that if I were to do any of these things, I would lose my sense of culture, heritage, and religion. I quickly learned that these rules were imposed on me out of fear and a smidgen of ignorance, but mainly out of love and parental protectiveness. Except when it came to the hot dogs and marshmallows. That was because of religious food restrictions. But, my parents just wanted to keep me close, and away from the lure of glamorous American decadence. They were just trying to do right by me and our ancestors.

As an adult, I have now done all of these things and thoroughly enjoyed each and every one of them. Recently, I was told that I am not allowed to be happy. This is, by far, the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever told me not to do.

I'm engaged to be married to the most amazing person in the universe, and I want to be happy, damnit.

Actually, I AM happy. I'm happier than I have ever been before. My entire body has been smiling since the proposal. I hear birds chirping all the time now, and no matter how grumpy work makes me, or how frustrating job-hunting gets, or how many times I stub my toes, all I have to do is look at my left hand and see the physical representation of a joyful future, and I get giddy. Giggly, even.

So, when I am told that I have to keep this happiness a secret, I don't understand. We're HERE because of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Somebody forgot to read the fine print...

Journalism FAIL

I saw Robert Fisk tonight. Rather, I heard him speak at a lecture called, "Politics, Journalism and Globalisation of the Middle East." Man, what a crock of shit.

Not only did he do his damnedest to sell his book(s) but he wouldn't answer my question. At all.

FISK: Yes, the young lady in the back.
ME: Mr. Fisk, since you have mentioned that online journalism isn't going to succeed, and print journalism is a dying art, where do you recommend readers get their news, and moreover, how and where do you think journalism is going?
FISK: Oh. You're an American, eh? Well... journalism is changing, and that change can be seen on the internet, and making sure that online journalists can maintain a readership is important, but completely different from MY experiences... blah, blah, blah, buy my book(s).

Listen up, Fisk, I know that you're a big shot and you don't have to answer to anybody because you've achieved a buncha great things in your life, but your profession has to answer to someone, and that someone is The Rest of Us.

I wish I'd gotten an answer and then I wish I hadn't re-read his articles, because now I'm just pissed off that this guy gets to write garbage and is revered for it.

i don't know that for a fact. i can't say that. he obviously has some serious in-depth analysis and his writing is cohesive and well-supported. but it's still biased. and now, so am i.

Can you answer to THAT?

London Calling

I must be Irish. There's no other explanation for how I reacted, or rather, WANTED to react to the British customs officer when we left Paris...

picture this:
a long hallway in the train station, the French customs officer five feet in front of me, and the British customs officer stationed five feet beyond that...

FRENCH OFFICER: Do you have anything to declare?
ME: Nope. Just going to London.
FRENCH OFFICER: Okay. Move ahead.

I walk a few feet and come to the British officer.

BRIT: Do you have identification?
(I pull out my passport and Irish "Garda National Immigration Bureau" card -- GNIB card)
ME: Yep. Here ya go.
BRIT: Hm. Ireland, eh?
ME: Yes, I'm studying there.
BRIT: I take it that you mean SOUTHERN Ireland then?

MY THOUGHTS: What?! SOUTHERN??? How DARE you call it SOUTHERN! It's the REPUBLIC! Nothing you would know of, you English ASSHOLE! They broke their backs for YOUR country, and now you have the nerve to describe the majority of an island your ancestors attempted to colonize as a REGION? How DARE you?!?

ME: (after some nudging from Evan) Ahem. YES. Southern Ireland.
BRIT: Enjoy your visit. Move ahead.

GRRRRRRR. Maybe it's having been in Ireland for a few months, maybe it was the fact that I knew my history, but man, that guy annoyed me.

That was the last irritation I suffered from during my time in London, though. Evan and I took another bicycle tour, where our guide turned out to be Irish. I felt a certain kinship with him from recognizing his accent as Cork, and we conversed as I would with any of my friends from Limerick.

We saw the palace, although it was a bit disappointing after having visited Versailles, which made the English palaces look like a two-bedroom ranch-style house in the suburbs, comparatively. We saw some beautiful monuments, the National Gallery, the Portrait Gallery, and a messload of other places. The biggest difference I saw was how Paris looked like it might fall apart if you shook it too hard or stomped your feet. It was delicate. London is a SOLID city -- stable, reliable, and above all, intimidating. I also enjoy the fact that they speak English there.

We went to see "Les Miserables" near Piccadilly Circus on Friday night, which kindled my interest in seeing as many big shows as possible now: "The Lion King," "Chicago," "Wicked..." I want to see them all. As soon as possible. You should too.

You should also visit the Churchill Bunkers. This is easily the BEST museum I have ever been to -- it was interactive, informational, and, because Churchill was such a character, thoroughly entertaining.

The weekend and our trip concluded with a visit to the British Museum and dinner with friends. It was fairly amazing. You should try it sometime.

the spin-off series

Synopsis: Evan, Brian, and Shama bid a fond farewell to Maureen, Brittany, and Marc as they head off to Dublin. The three reach the bustling city and find their hostel, Oliver St. John Gogarty's, named for a scoundrel of a man. Will the three friends have adventures worthy of this notorious man?

Also in this episode: A trip to the Guinness Storehouse, a visit to The Book of Kells, and the Trinity College library. Evan decides he wants a hurley after a tour of Croke Park Stadium. Shama discovers her new ability to fall asleep standing up, and Brian departs for the U.S. leaving Evan and Shama to their own devices. Music for this episode provided by the mysterious "Silver Fox."

A lot happened in the few days we spent in Dublin, and I wish I could remember the details, but alas -- I went and got older, and my memory isn't what it used to be. Of course, the pictures are what really tell the story. I'm glad we started our visit with the Guinness Storehouse. It was more of a museum, re-telling the history of the dark stuff. It's got some history, including a 9,000 year lease Arthur Guinness took out on the building when he first began the brewery. It's true that there is poetry in a pint of Guinness. There's poetry in all of Dublin. If you can get to the tippy-top of the storehouse, you'll see it all laid out for you, through the observation deck. If you're lucky, there might be a rainbow waiting there for you too, like it was for us. The city is astounding, and to have it so immersed in it's own history through Joyce's works is fascinating. I might give Joyce another shot.

The Temple Bar area is a whole other adventure, albeit a bit tourist-y. Then again, we're tourists, so what's the harm? The pubs were pretty, bright, and full of rowdy, boisterous people. We did miss our friends, Kevin and Evans though. Those Welshmen were great. We had a nice night out, but I was so tired that I excused myself a bit early, even though I was missing the traditional music stylings of a man only known as, "The Silver Fox."

The next day, we said goodbye to Brian. Then we went to Trinity College. Gorgeous, majestic, old Trinity College. It was strange to walk into the campus straight off of the main streets. It was an entirely different world. I loved looking at the Book of Kells, and Evan and I marveled at the work that was put into it. The library was even better. I want every library to look like Trinity's.

Evan and I decided to take a tour of Croke Park Stadium before heading back to Limerick. I don't know much about sports in general or Irish sports in particular, but I know how much pride a country and city takes in its sports by the look of their stadiums. Ahem, U.S. Cellular Field? I'm talking to you. Croke Park Stadium took my breath away. Maybe it was because of the size. Maybe it was because of all the walking we did. Either way, Evan and I took the tour with a few other people-- an older couple-- and we quickly found out that the gentleman used to play. I couldn't figure out whether or not I was in the presence of a Babe Ruth, or a really good Little League coach. I don't suppose it really mattered, because in Ireland, the players don't get paid. That's right. They play because it's a privilege, and honor, and they WANT to.

Saint Patrick's Day

... is a holiday here. An honest-to-goodness holiday. I'm not entirely sure of which holiday I can equate it to though. Some of it reminded me of Memorial Day. When I walked out of the house today I was greeted by blaring music, footballs being tossed around, people sitting outside on the grass or on couches they had dragged out. There was a scent of barbecue and beer in the air. The weather was outstanding, and I think Spring is finally poking her head out from behind the dreary damp in the form of a million bright yellow daffodils.

It also felt a little bit like Chicago today. Specifically, the day of the South Side Irish Parade. Except without the mobs and drunken buffoonery. Well, no mobs at least.

Is this a drinking holiday? Sure, but I'm from Chicago, where Flag Day could be considered a drinking holiday. Did I indulge? Not really. I was happy enough to down my Fanta and just watch as everyone around me joked, drank, and generally had a good time. They tried to subject me to "beer pressure," but I was happy enough knowing that I was in Ireland for this event. Who wouldn't be?

As the day progressed, I kept thinking that it felt a bit like Halloween too. Everyone was dressed in their finest of cheap, gaudy, green hair ornaments, hoodies, boas, or in some cases, capes. It felt a little bit like New Year's. The noise, the celebratory greetings, the jovial hollers of, "Happy Saint Paddy's Day!"

Of all the holidays it felt like, it occurred to me that it couldn't be compared to any holidays I've experienced in America because, quite simply, this is not America. Well, maybe it felt a little like Christmas too.

the hyphenated world

Identifying with a culture, class, religion and country has always been a strange fascination for me. I know I have written about the multi-cultural aspects of Ireland before, and I have also written about my own minor identity crises, but I still don't quite know what it is I truly identify with or how much it even matters these days. We are all hyphenated, to a degree.

Pakistani-Indian-Muslim-Middle-Class-American? In Ireland.

Ireland has a strange history of being oppressed and colonized, while struggling to find its own true voice in the world, and for that my sympathies go out to this country. But what about the fact that the Irish language is dying? What about the fact that Yeats CHOSE to write his masterpieces in the language of the oppressors? Why do we allow our native languages to be overshadowed by English?

I am trying to learn French. I have a bit of Spanish. I can understand most Urdu very well. I try very hard to pick up Irish phrases, but it's so unlike any other language I've ever heard that I can't make sense of what I read and how it should be pronounced, and I LOVE that.

When my mother speaks to me in Urdu, I hear her in English.
Yo le puedo oír sólo en inglés.
Je peux vous entendre seulement dans l'anglais.
Ich kann nur Sie auf Englisch hören.

I can only hear you in English. I can only dream in English. Yet, I have a heritage that is older than America, and I can't access it. And that makes me unbearably sad. When I see Irish words on the street signs and hear it on television, I feel so hopeful that this country will never let its language die, the way I let it die within myself. And why did I let it die? To belong.

All anyone wants is a sense that they belong somewhere. It's home. But what I didn't realize, growing up as a first-generation Pakistani-Indian in America, is that I would never fully belong in America. I have a strong grasp of English, and I have centralized my education on it, but I will never be without the hyphen -- that divisive line which reminds me of a past that hold precedence over my present and my future.

So, why is it that there is only 10 percent of Ireland that speaks Irish? What happens in 20 years, when it's only 5 percent? And then what? Will this gorgeous language become obsolete?

I saw a short movie today in class that made me weep. Yes. I WEPT. Here it is. I hope nothing gets lost in the translation.