A Myriad of Randomness

Blogging is a funny thing. Some blogs are about very specific things (i.e. travel, cooking, research), some set out with a specific goal, some are funded or sponsored, some corner a specific market, and then there are the ones that just kind of exist. Arguably, the time of personal blogging is no longer in its prime. There was a time when having a blog was new and exciting and everyone jumped on the band-wagon, eagerly putting their thoughts out there for all to see. But then social media came along, and the phenomenon of putting your individual thoughts in 140-character snippets somewhat overshadowed the more organized, in-depth character of sitting down to write a blog post. As a couple of my fellow students and I sat around a seminar table this morning (waiting for others to arrive), this came up in a way. One student (in fact, the aforementioned adamant early medievalist) was complaining about the incessant emails he's been getting from an undergraduate tutorial student who seems to email at all hours of the day, just to communicate thoughts that come to mind. I put forward that a good solution would be to just tell this person to get a blog - because then they have the satisfaction of getting thoughts out without having to annoy anyone specifically with their inane or irrelevant chatter. The young man sitting next to me sniggered a bit and quipped that blogs are just fancy "circle jerks" where people self-indulge and pretend they're important. On one level, that's true. If I didn't have at least some ego, I wouldn't write my thoughts down and then publish them for anyone with an internet connection to see. [But then, if I had no ego, I wouldn't be a tour guide, either.] On another level, that's not necessarily the case because there's no guarantee that anyone at all will read one's blog. The internet is littered with useless information and sites no one ever visits. Food for thought, I suppose, but I enjoy writing this blog, and I enjoy reading other people's and so I don't plan to stop any time soon.

That being said, I find it increasingly hard to find topics to really write about. I could go on and on about totally boring, single-incident moments, but that's not even interesting to me. I have toyed with the idea of making this more personal, but then... is that crossing a line into an online journal? Hmm. But then I decide to just bite the bullet, begin writing, and see what happens.

Edinburgh is still basking in some crisp, relatively warm Fall weather. Or rather, it was until this morning at about 9:30am when gale-force winds and soaking rain rolled into town. I, sadly, had not dressed for wet weather and so I have been quite wet several times today. No bueno.

For some reason, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. I could not tell you why, nothing is really out of sorts in my life at the mo. Well, that's not entirely true, but life is pretty damn good. Last night I curled up on a couch with home made hot chocolate (melted dark chocolate and warm milk), almond thins, and Downton Abbey. I absolutely love the show, and the addition of snuggles, cocoa, and cookies certainly made it that much better.

I've been reading some pretty interesting articles recently, as well, on the Loyalists during the American Revolution. It's a funny topic - everyone knows they existed, their presence is well-documented and well-acknowledged and yet they are still under-studied. Just reading about their treatment in the colonies after the war as well as in Britain (including other parts of the empire) made me realize how little we are actually taught about them. I'm not interested in them personally for research reasons, but I'm part of an Early American History reading group that will meet later this week, and Loyalists are the topic we'll be discussing. If nothing else, the culture of reading groups, seminars, lectures, and workshops outside of any prescribed course activity or my own research is the number one thing I like about being a post-grad at such a large university. That and chatting over tea or pints with my supervisor. Which I must go do now. Ciao!

Methods, Shmethods?

What is it that historians do? My generation keeps being bombarded with post-modern theories, we are constantly warned of our biases and made conscious of our narrative structures. Until this past week, I would have mistakenly made the generalization that historians of my age and position have moved beyond this - that we understand that we are not, in fact, looking for the truth, that history is amalgamous and ambiguous and porous. Of course we have biases, of course we all interpret things differently, and of course this comes out in our writing. The very acts of deciding what to include in our writing (let alone our research), how to structure it, and which words we will use all impact our eventual readers. The professor conducting my methodology seminar this week made the point that the title of that day’s seminar, “Theory and History,” falsely implied the two could be separated. You cannot write history without theory, without employing some methods, whether conscious or simply background to which you pay minimal attention. That point seems obvious once made, but it struck me in the moment. And yet, as discussion progressed, and indeed it was actually a continuation of our introductory “Historians and Historiography” session of last week, it became clear that there are a couple people, and definitely one very adamant young man, who still ascribe to the traditional, out-dated “Historians look for and present the truth” maxim. This not only annoyed me, it surprised me. How, in a world where we acknowledge the relevance of individual interpretation and experience, how can one possibly still think that there is a definitive right answer to “what happened”? Yes, of course, one cannot claim complete falsehoods. You cannot go around saying that Robespierre died in 1800, it’s simply not true. But there is no single correct interpretation of the French Revolution, of its various phases, of what the Terror was. There are traditional, conventional, normally agreed-upon versions, bien sûr, but we are not beholden to them. If I wanted to, I could play with the dates, claiming that, actually, the French Revolution began in 1787, when active resistance to Louis began at Versailles, rather than the “normal” 1789 argument. I can claim that the French were actually spurred to action by the residents of the Austrian Netherlands (today’s Belgium), who had begun a serious resistance to Joseph II in 1787 when they refused him his taxes. [For the record, these are all simplifications.] How can this colleague truly continue to think that we historians search for a truth and (more scarily) that we will one day find it?

What frustrated me perhaps more was an incredibly condescending discussion of the difference between “popular” and “academic” history. Words like “the public” get thrown out with derision dripping from the speaker’s mouth, a snotty smile crossing their face as they mention historical fiction or the audacity of that television series to bend dates and simplify ideologies. It’s entertainment, you jerks. Cinematography, publisher demands, and pure time and space sometimes dictate changes a “pure history” would prefer not to make. This does not have to make it useless. Entertainment is fun. Willing suspension of disbelief. Stop over-thinking for a minute and enjoy, damnit. A large part of my class jumped down the throat of popular history, drawing a massive gulf between it and “real” or “academic” history. What’s the difference? Academic history tends to be more technical, drier, more boring, more into minutia, they answer. Why? Dear god, why? I actually brought this up: why do we write “boring” things for academic journals and exciting, more literary-stuff for “the public”? Surely it comes down to style and it would be completely possible to write less dryly for an academic article. No, I was told, that would make my work look less professional. And besides, “the public” does not want to know the origins of a specific Pictish word, they want the romance of William Wallace. Again, why? And who the hell are we to decide? “The public cannot handle the complexities and nuance of real history.” Fuck off. [Clearly, this is a pet peeve of mine.] Museum exhibits tend to be more popular when they confront people with new ideas, new approaches, or contradicting interpretations. [For a powerful example of this, see Eric Foner’s essay on his career as a historian. It’s chapter 1 of his Who Owns History?] People like to be challenged. There is a dignity and a flattery in turning to someone and saying, “What do you think?” This is not to say that professional historians shouldn’t have jobs. Please, I need to be employed someday. But we can certainly engage with “the laymen.” Afterall, history is everyone’s. Everyone has a history, everyone can engage with the past. Ok, everyone probably does not want to sift through the archival material on the Brabant revolutionaries of 1787-1790. But I bet their story would be interesting to someone. Presented in a relatable, exciting way, any history can be captivating. Lists of names and dates are boring, even to historians! They are not history, though, which brings me back to the original question: what do historians do?

A list of the facts, of the empirical evidence, is nothing. It is a chronicle. It has no inherent value. Not until someone picks it up, reads it, and begins to think, does a set of facts become real and important. [Jenkins discusses this a bit in Re-thinking History, to those of you looking for footnotes or references.] The choice of things included and the choice of things excluded are the first elements of importance, of shaping that a historian undertakes. Then there are the inferences drawn from the list. Will I present it as a list? Will I give explanations of each thing? If I do, what kind of language will I use? “Democratic” takes on many meanings. I may write it with one intention and my audience read it with another. Historians interpret. We give voice to what we find in the archives, and that voice is none but our own. We can pretend that we are “objective,” as I’m sure my particular colleague would, but we are not. We never will be. We are human beings, with feelings, thoughts, prejudices, and value systems. I’m currently reading R. R. Palmer’s Age of Democratic Revolution (1959) and it is so dated, it is laughable. He speaks of parallels between the 18^th and 20^th centuries and their “revolutions” - the 20^th being communism. He makes moral judgments on both, coming down hard on the Western side in opposition to communism. He reminds his readers that, just because we do not like revolution now (in the 50s) and the implications of what happened in Russia are mostly negative to his audience, doesn’t mean we should write off the 18^th century revolutions as inherently negative as well. Now, that last point does make sense, but to be preached at about the evils of communism is quite annoying when reading about the Atlantic world of the 1790s. And yet, his example proves my point (which, for the footnote enthusiasts, is again closely related to some Jenkins): no historian can be taken out of their own context. Palmer’s book will undoubtedly paint the Jacobins and more leftist revolutionaries as extreme, and I will have to account for that as I read, but that does not make him wrong or irrelevant. It makes him dated, certainly, but his is only one available interpretation and anyone reading it is free to agree or disagree as they see fit. This should be obvious, I lament again. Of course everyone has an opinion. Somehow, though, historians have come to be seen as some kinds of scientific experts, giving the world the “right” versions of past events. 

When are we going to get to a point where everyone knows to read with a grain of salt, to take people’s backgrounds and ideologies and interests into account? When are we going to move past needing rights and wrongs and into a world of maybes and gray areas? When are we going to enjoy the debate for its own sake and revel in the availability of different points of view? When, when, when?! 

When I get my PhD and get out there into the real world, that’s when. [She writes arrogantly.]

NB: The above is all my own interpretation, shaped by my own interests, history, current events, and world view. You are free to disagree.

Take That, Maudlin Post

I may very soon be living in a new flat! So exciting! It isn't entirely secured yet, but unless a reference falls through or the agency decides we suck, it shall be ours on November 4th. It's lovely - views to the castle from both bedrooms and the potential to get a cat. Aaaaand it's in a lovely part of town, quite close to Bennets (my views on which can be seen here). So hoorah.

The morning after we viewed said flat, as I rode the bus into work, I thought about how wonderful it will be to begin to carve out a little space for myself here. To live in Bruntsfield, to have a 20-minute walk to work, to be so close to the Meadows, to have a little flat (and possibly a cat) where I can put my things just as I want them and possibly buy some new little knick-knacks. How exhilarating! And as I thought this, sitting on a double-decker bus, watching the world go by, I realized that I love Edinburgh. I do. I have become quite fond of this city, and I'm finally beginning to feel at home here. Gone is that feeling that I don't quite fit. Gone is the sense that I cannot belong. Maybe it's the fall weather, maybe it's the fun of wearing scarves and sweaters while seeking out my favorite spots to show new friends, but whatever it is, it feels great.

 

Happenings, Happenings the World Over

Today I had my second meeting with my PhD advisors. Yes, I have officially begun! It's a scary prospect to think that in three years I have to have finished my project, complete with an 80,000- to 100,000-word thesis. It's going to be a comparison of the revolutions and resulting constitutions in what became the United States and Belgium. Not entirely obscure, but definitely not a run-of-the-mill topic. Each meeting reinforces why I am here, why I have always wanted to be here. Talking about the project, the things that may (or may not) prove relevant, the directions my research could take, the possibilities of further research is not just engaging, it is purely enthralling. To a degree that I find rare in other corners of my life. I remarked to one of my supervisors today that I'm genuinely intrigued to see where this will all lead. At this point, from this vantage, none of us can really see the clear path - no roadmap has been hammered out yet - but the elements are beginning to surface through the murk and the mud. In many ways, academic work takes on a life of its own. Everyone always says that, I realize in typing it, but there's a very good reason: it's true. You cannot tell where a project will go until you are in the middle, or possibly near the end. And that is a pure joy. People sometimes liken a PhD thesis to someone's child, usually jokingly. But, like children, someone's thesis takes them to unforeseen intellectual spaces, challenges their limits and their sense of self, and grows into something quite different from what was perhaps expected. I'm just at the beginning. (In the child analogy, probably still pregnant, really.) Already, though, I am excited and ready and rearin' to go. Ah, the sweet smell of academia. How I missed you these past (4) weeks. [NB: the break was welcomed with open arms.]

In other news, I finally browsed the NY Times today for the first time in quite a while. Not having internet at home (crazy flat-moving going on... too much to mention) means my forays onto the wonderful worldly web have been fairly specific, short, and sweet. But today I have some time and so news came to the top of the heap. The first article to jump out at me was one on the general anti-establishment nature of recent uprisings the world over, and a sister article about the protests in Israel. It was interesting to consider the idea that the world at large is moving beyond the governmental structures we know so well. It was a joy to everyone to see the use of Twitter and Facebook during the election protests in Iran over a year ago, and it seemed everyone in the West could unite in condemning state shut-downs of internet access to stop peaceful organization through social media. Hell, the very fact that I can write about social media on this here blog says a lot, considering this girl only got Twitter to follow the great Rachel Maddow. That all made sense without necessarily impinging on our own little worlds. But that first article I mentioned puts forward an interesting premise: that even in the West now, people are going around normal "democratic" processes and using social networks to take matters into their own hands. The article emphasizes a true disappointment on the part of the public when it comes to the effectiveness of their governments and the legitimacy of their voices in elections and polls. It struck me as I read that we are at the precipice of a brand new world, one that could potentially exist without traditional structures and nation-states made up of vast, intricate systems that require cloak-and-dagger diplomacy and special ops forces. Are we as humanity moving beyond the nation-state? Is there about to be a break that, for students of the future, will represent a new fall-line, demarcating the start of a post-Treaty of Westphalia universe? I doubt anything that drastic will actually come to fruition, but the implications are mind-numbingly awesome. How tantalizing to think of tearing down structures that have given Wall Street, bankers, and career politicians the power that monarchs, viceroys, generals, and career diplomats used to have. [You didn't think I'd be able to leave my study of 18th-century revolutions out of this did you?]

[Side note: my Twitter feed just popped up with this tragically hilarious (and relevant) article from the Onion.]

In truth, part of why all of this caught my eye to the degree it did is because I've recently been on some outings with a charming PhD in Education student whose interests lie in social media, technology, etc. and the implications for education. Interesting stuff. I don't get on the Twitter all that often and I don't use LinkedIn or any of that jazz, but I realized that maybe in letting that kind of thing pass me by I'm doing more than sitting in a comfortable cocoon of insulation. Maybe I'm missing out on something. Maybe not.

Whatever the status of the world and its revolutions, Edinburgh is proving itself splendid as ever. An Indian summer has descended upon us, and I welcome it with open arms. Today I actually sat in the Meadows in a tank top... I think I even got a little tan. Being a funded student has meant that I can finally take a little advantage of this fantastic town. In the spirit of revolutions, the other night involved a fantabulous dinner at Pancho Villa's in the Canongate and dessert at Chez Jules (both extremely highly recommended). I'm looking forward to the next three years. For their academic fun, their opportunities, and for the chance to know and love Edinburgh even better.

The Slightly Maudlin Post (it had to come sooner or later....)

Why are some things easier to obsess over than others? Admittedly, I'm prone to obsessing. My true nature is a classic hypochondriac-worrier-worst-case-scenario kind of person. Over the years, though, I've worked hard at being less neurotic and more able to go with the flow, as it were. I don't always succeed and I do always have that nagging feeling like I should care more, but for the most part I've been able to become fairly laid back about most of what life throws at me. Until something comes along that, for some reason, sticks in my craw. There's generally no rhyme or reason to what that thing will be but once it's there, oooh boy, it is tough to get rid of.

Without going into unnecessary detail, suffice it to say that the latest unwanted kernel of thought relates to a relationship. (Serious pain in the ass.) It's been ages, I've tried everything. The pain has dulled, the emotions come through like haze on a hot Carolina day, but for some reason my thoughts still turn to it way more often than they should. This morning as I walked across the meadows in glorious Fall sunshine, the castle to my left, Arthur's Seat to my right and Edinburgh a true feast for the eyes, I hit on a possible reason. There is a small part of me that does not feel welcome here. Not in any immediate sense - the hospitality of this country certainly rivals anything Southerners have ever offered this Yankee - not even in any way social. It's a deeper, nationalistic feeling. There is a part of me that can't shake the countless times I was told, "You're not actually Scottish. This isn't your country." That may sound trite. It certainly sounds lame to just look at it like that. But over months of hearing that, of seeing severe reaction to anyone claiming any kind of Scottish heritage (which, for the record, I do not -  we're from Sligo in Ireland, way back when...) it's hard to feel like I can ever own a piece of this. It's hard to get that feeling like I could maybe adopt Scotland, or it could adopt me. And, as a citizen of the world who would gladly change her passport, that's hard to come to terms with. Even Paris - a city owned by no one, a city as wild and free as any I've ever come across - even Paris took me in and gave me a small part of herself. Perhaps my tendency to turn my thoughts to that affair does not stem from anything to do with the events between two people. Perhaps it comes from a search for why I don't feel quite at home here. For why I can't hear the bagpipes on Princes Street and feel a sense of belonging. Who knows? What I can say is this: what a ridiculous way to feel. And all because there's someone out there who doesn't think you should look back several generations to understand who you are. As a historian, I cannot accept that. And so, as a person living in Scotland, I will not accept this. I am going to change this - I am going to own my own little part of Edinburgh. This city will be mine in some little way. And I will love it, pretensions and all.

Bedknobs and Bathtubs

So, I've moved into a new flat. It's in a very lovely part of Edinburgh (in fact, a very posh part) but it's just that extra bit further away from both my jobs and the center of town to be convenient. Also, it's a one-bedroom that my flatmate has lived in for 5 years. We're meant to be moving to a larger, two person flat soon. Soooooon.

But, despite the crampedness, living in a real-person house with a person I actually can have a conversation with is such a breath of fresh air. Take it in. Breathe. Feel the relief. The best way to maximize such relief is in the bathtub. Some of my friends think I'm a little crazy when it comes to baths. They don't quite get my apparent obsession with them, my poetic odes to them. But if you were incapable of having one for months on end, I imagine your love of them would increase as well. At least in part. But I do recognize that I have a serious affection for them that is not entirely common. This, I think, is in part tied to the lack of emphasis our society puts on truly relaxing - on a daily basis. Yes, we have ads about getting away and taking time for yourself, but they're generally for 5-star getaways at fancy spas. They're not for your everyday life - that's apparently meant to be hectic and insane. Why? Why do we have to allow ourselves to get so overwhelmed that our only escape could be thousands of dollars worth of massages and plane rides and mai tais? (I've never had one, I don't know if that's actually how you spell that particular cocktail.) It's like cleaning, or organizing, or meeting a massive deadline: do it a little at a time and it's never too much to handle. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time, of course! Take a bath every so often. Not a quick one, a real one. A long one. With a glass of wine, or whisky, or Bailey's, or a beer (or orange juice if you're teetotal). Let yourself really soak. Think about how the water feels between your toes, over your tummy, behind your neck. You'll suddenly realize you're not thinking about work or laundry or dinner or anything else. Really concentrating on your body can be so therapeutic. It can allow you to recollect yourself so that, when you get out of the tub, you can face the world again with determination and hit-me-with-your-best shot pizazz.

Oh Hello, Autumn, We Missed You

It's officially September. The time of year when you break out sweaters (or jumpers if you like calling them that), get out scarves and coats, and wait for the leaves on the trees to turn fantastic shades and then fall under your feet as if begging to be crunched. Unless, of course, you live in Scotland. Here, the demarcation from Summer to Fall this year was hopelessly underwhelming. It's been scarf weather for at least 2 weeks here and the tree outside my window has been yellow for at least 10 days. Everyone has been saying that this summer was particularly miserable, even by British and specifically Scottish standards, but I don't think that's accurate. I think that somehow, for some reason, the gods of nature forgot Scotland this year. Time stood still or sped up or was warped somehow, because summer never came. This year, we in the land of haggis, neeps, tatties, kilts, and whisky were left behind in Spring and then fast-forwarded to Fall in the blink of an eye. Doomed were we to hear of others' afternoons at the pool sipping daquiris, to hear of romps in shorts and bikini tops, to dream of sizzling barbeques and content ourselves with a pub dinner in jeans and long-sleeved shirts, hoping to catch a glimpse of a tourist looking bewildered by the rain that stops and starts 10 times in as many minutes.

Ah, but still... life, she is good. For how could one drink a whisky and a pint in hot weather? How would one get adequate use out of umpteen scarves if not to wear them all-year-round? And - best of all for those of us who wear aprons at work - how else but by freezing rain will customers stop ordering bloody Frappucinos? Yes, this weather has its advantages, and though I cursed and swore and ranted several times this summer, I refuse to have my optimism squashed. And now that it's officially September, balance has been restored and wearing a scarf does not need to induce rage.

In other September news, it is the start of a new school year. In my case, a new degree! Ha! I've just handed in a Master's thesis (literally - 2 weeks ago) and now I get to start my PhD! The good thing is that PhD's are much more personal and self-based research and so it's not like finishing one year of undergrad and hopping into the next in a fortnight. (Yes, I said fortnight). I'm looking forward to getting back to the academic part of my world, if for no other reason than it means I get to forcefully scale back my hours at the Bux and have a great excuse not to take tours when the office calls looking desperately for a guide. Hoorah!

Meet Me At the Pub

So, as you may have realized in my last post, Edinburgh is currently pretty insane. Really insane. Ok, not as insane as London was a couple nights ago, but a civil insanity bent, not on destruction and chaos, but on art and turning streets upside down for creative reasons. And, as I so blatantly stated, I am not enjoying this.

However, all is not lost in this higgledy-piggledy town. There are bastions of peace and tranquility, at least comparatively. Pockets untouched by the festival where citizens can get away from the tourists, the students, the gawkers, and the performers and sink back into the middle-class quiet and respectability Edinburgh likes to pride itself on for the other 11 months of the year. One of these pockets happens to be the part of town that contains my favorite pub: Bennets Bar.

I was first alerted to Bennets by my beloved advisor. (Postgrad advisors are so much more than academic guides.) It's his "local" and so one afternoon we popped in after a chat in the office. (One thing I love about grad school, and especially grad school in Britain/Europe is the complete acceptability of having an amiable drink with a professor.) This place is brilliant. According to Michael Fry, it's one of only 5 pubs in the city that maintains its Victorian (1890s, specifically) layout and style. And sure enough, the ceiling, the glasswork, even the ladies' side bar are all still there. The seating area opposite the bar is done in little pseudo-alcoves around small round tables, so it has a cosy, intimate feel no matter where you sit. Even better? They stock a large number of whiskies, including obscure ones.

This past Tuesday, I stopped in to Bennets for some me time. A pint of Timothy Taylor, a dram of Edradour (Scotland's smallest distillery), me and my journal at one of the wee tables. The weather was disgusting - it's been more like a wet fall than a summer here lately - but with one sip of the Edradour and a look around, it was easy to forget all the stress and cold and dissertation and festival. The colors from the internal stained glass give the whole place a happy feel, and if you try hard enough, you can almost feel like you're in a cheerful, warmer version of the Saint Chapel in Paris. Sitting there, soaking in the place, made me realize that there is one thing you cannot, under any circumstances, in any way, fault the Brits for: pub culture. People here can sometimes (especially to an American) come off as pompous, fake or just obnoxious. But once you walk into a pub, that melts away.  All those annoying little quirks dim and a cheerfulness seeps in. Everything takes on the warmth and color of an amber beer, or a Speyside whisky (my fave region, for the record). Conversation lightens and loosens and people get positively jovial. Even the women drinking half pints, as if they, too, are left-over from the Victorian era, give off a charm you can't seem to find anywhere else.

So here's to Bennets. And whisky. And Scottish pubs. May we always have one around when life gets to be too much.

The Good, the Bad, and the Pipers

It's August here in Edinburgh - a time when multiple festivals descend on the city, creating a giant jumble of crazy. There's venues all over town - some in university buildings, some in the meadows, some made to look like a giant up-side-down purple cow right outside the student union. There are street performers everywhere, either performing or handing out flyer after flyer begging people to come to their show that night. There's a thousand and one shows to go see. In truth, it's all a bit overwhelming.

Everyone keeps asking those of us who are in Edinburgh for the Fringe for the first time, "What are you going to see? Have you seen any gigs yet? You just *have* to see such-and-such! Aren't you loving it?!"

I can tell you this: I am not loving it. As someone who is trying to finish up a dissertation that is getting more stressful by the day, having to wade through crowds and listen to shouting and singing and drums and chaos day in and day out is not fun. Nor do I have the time to go see any of the actual shows (or the money for that matter) so it's not even a silver-lining. Now, that may sound a bit harsh, but I do have two other reasons to be grumpy about this festival: I am a barista at a tourist-laden Starbucks and I give tours on the Royal Mile. The Royal Mile. Home of 70% of those performers, buskers, and flyer-hander-outers. Try getting a group of tourists who have paid to come on your tour down a street packed cheek-to-jowl with people whose only current goal in life is to hand out as many small pieces of paper possible. Including while you're telling a story. Now see if you like the festival....... Told you.

There was, however, one awesome, amazing bright spot: the Military Tattoo. Possibly one of the greatest things I've ever seen. In my entire life. It's done on the Castle Esplanade (pronounced by the Brits to rhyme with gatorade) and involves Scottish and international bands, bagpipes, and performers. The thrill of watching an entire fleet of pipers all dressed to the nines is something I cannot do justice to with words. Nor can I adequately describe the awesome sight of a castle lit behind them. Or the fireworks. Maybe this set of pictures I stole from one of my best friends will help:

Is that not amazing?! The best part, I think, is that it's different every year. Each year has a new theme, and thus new international elements. This year Brazil (whose navy was created by a Scot, just like the US one), the Netherlands (always closely connected to Scotland over the waterways), and Bavaria (apparently Scottish soldiers are sent there to train in the mountains?) featured prominently. It was spectacular.

One loves because one loves.

I love love. There's no better way to say it. Even when it's ripping me apart, I can't help but draw my little moth self to that flame. This is sometimes a major flaw, you can imagine, as I end up getting my heart trampled on. Inevitably, though, I just pick myself up and start all over again. Happily. Ah well....

The other day I watched a wonderfully-done docu/drama about Vincent Van Gogh on BBC's iplayer. It's no wonder this thing won awards. Beautifully shot, fantastically edited and laid out, it uses only the words of Vincent himself and those around him (people who wrote letters to him, doctors' reports, etc) to tell the story, with just minimal biographical information supplied by a host. The fact that Benedict Cumberbatch (of Sherlock fame) plays the title role makes it positively genius. I haven't watched anything of this caliber in quite a while. Two thumbs up.

At one point in the film, Van Gogh is smitten with a cousin of his who had come to stay at his parents' house while he, too, was living there. He falls deeply for her, becoming slightly obsessive and causing outrage and scandal for all the adults involved. He writes to his brother, though, that not loving fiercely was simply not an option. Now, while I don't endorse stalking or pestering or harassment—not in the least—I can completely understand his sentiment. What's the point if you're not going to throw yourself right in there and get messy, take chances, and make mistakes? (Thank you, Miss Frizzle!) I love fiercely and, though it's definitely not always good for me, I will probably always do so. Thanks to the Google machine I was able to find the full text of Vincent's original letter. Below's the passage quoted in the movie. Delivered flawlessly and trembling with emotion by Cumberbatch.

From the very beginning of this love I have felt that unless I threw myself into it sans arrière pensée [unreservedly], committing myself totally and with all my heart, utterly and for ever, I had absolutely no chance, and that even if I do throw myself into it in this way the chance is very slight. But what do I care if my chance is great or small? I mean, should I, can I, take that into account when I am in love? No, no reckoning up, one loves because one loves.
Perfection.

Pray Me to Death

I spend my mornings watching the Rachel Maddow Show on itunes. Given the time difference, I have to wait till the morning after it airs to see her show. It's a nice way to wake up, drink some tea, find out what's going on in the world and especially American politics. Today's episode brings up some ridiculousness. I mean ri-di-cu-lous: Rick Perry.

Rachel loves election politics. The more out-there a candidate is, the more she eats it up because she just finds it so entertaining and so hilarious. So Rick Perry and his wooing of a possible presidential run is one thing she keeps her eye on, and then reports to the rest of us. His latest thing? A prayer meeting. He's invited all the governors of the other states to a day of prayer in Texas and his website has all kinds of videos inviting the "American people" to join him, either physically (and then - boy-oh-boy! - financially with a donation) or spiritually from wherever they happen to live. One of the conservative sponsors of the event has a list of all the pastors attending this thing online. They've also conveniently compiled a bunch of these pastors' videos. Oh. My. God.

I refuse to watch these people's videos myself - I won't give them the satisfaction. Also, I'm not a fan of vomiting. But having seen the clips Rachel highlighted (so as to make a point about the company Perry keeps), these people are insane. Not the usual "you're-on-the-right-I'm-on-the-left-so-we-disagree" kind of crazy. One of them thinks Oprah is the harbinger of the Apocalypse. Another thinks God sent Hitler to Earth to move the Jews back to the Middle East. Another thinks there's a harlot who comes around to the nations of the world, sleeping with their leaders and causing chaos. Apparently, her sleeping with the sun god caused Japan's economy to tank. This is serious wack-o territory.

No large portion of the population will take those kinds of things seriously. But what annoys (or worries?) me is that Rick Perry is translating these ideas into the background of his more mainstream packaging. A prayer meeting to fix the economy?! In his video, Perry literally asks people to pray for the economy to get better because, after all, government never actually gets anything done. Politicians just sit around like fat cats. It's prayer that will turn this recession around for good.

Seriously?! I'm all for people praying (in private or with their own community). If you feel better afterwards, if it makes you calmer or more confident, go for it. I'm not going to judge. But praying without then doing anything for yourself? This is when I get too annoyed to look these people in the face. When someone walks up to you and says something along the lines of, "I got a parking space today because I prayed for one," it makes me want to punch them. No. You got a parking space because you drove around until you found one. "If I pray hard enough, I'll get funding to go to college." Not if you don't fill out some applications, you won't. By all means, pray as you fill out the funding. Pray after you send in the application. But you have to do some work yourself, too. This idea that we can all just passively go through life, always counting on someone else to do the legwork just makes me so annoyed. That's the real crux of this issue for me: you're not faithfully expressing some all-mighty maxim of Christianity, you're being lazy. You're waiting for me to go out and vote, or pay into your retirement fund, or call my Congressman/woman to get a jobs bill on the floor. Stop praying and start working on something.

Historicize Me

So this past Monday was the Fourth of July. I am living in Edinburgh, Scotland, and so it was a different celebration from the one I normally engage in. When I'm in the States, the Fourth is always a day of gorging myself on hot dogs, baked beans (the Boston kind, not the crazy tomato-based kind they eat here), chips (crisps), potato salad, and then a vast array of desserts, most of which would be red, white, and blue, the white always being some kind of cream product, making it the best of the layers. The evening is then spent watching some kind of fireworks with friends and family, probably drinking. Although, let's be serious, the drinking happens all day long. When I'm in the South, these all tend to take place at a state or national park - last year involved my parents' canoe. In Buffalo the evening always happens at Niawanda Park on the Niagara River (known to locals as just "the river") because the fireworks are set off from a barge in the middle of the river, paid for jointly by 3 communities so they're usually pretty spectacular. In fact, that is my favorite way to spend the Fourth. And not just because a local staple and phenomenal ice cream shop Mississippi Mudds is right across the street from the park...


But so yes, I missed Buffalo and fireworks and such this year, but things weren't bad because there's quite a few Americans in this town and we got together on the Meadows (Edinburgh's biggest public park, conveniently located right next to the main university buildings) and had a mini barbeque. Now, when I say mini, I mean positively miniscule by American standards. But one makes due. We played a little touch football (yes, the American kind - it *was* the Fourth of July) and had some drinks and all in all it was a fun time. Even with British friends trying to throw the ball like a rugby ball - psshh, lame-os. Overall, a good day though nothing spectacular. Perhaps when I have a backyard and a grill here I'll put on a proper celebration. Until then it'll be make-due central for American holidays.


There was one aspect of the day, however, which gave my Intellectual History muscles reason to flex. The day before Independence Day I had an English girl ask my why we celebrated it (then quickly add that she knew it was Independence Day - she had studied abroad in the States). As in, what were we celebrating independence from exactly? It was hard not to make a very snarky comment that it was her own culture we had thrown off so many years ago. I went with a cheeky grin and a simple, "You. And the British monarchy." 


But it is funny in some ways to be in Britain on the day Americans celebrate specifically not being British. Well, that and having created a new nation on our own. As a historian, it's an interesting thing to think about from various angles. Especially given today's political climate in les États, people are often asking "What would the Founding Fathers think?!" Sometimes in wonder, sometimes in exasperation, always with reverence. Here's the thing though: those men are dead. They would not recognize our world in myriad ways. So much about what we do and have today would be so totally alien to them, the same way that much about their world would be incredibly alien to us. People like to romanticize history a lot and pretend that the chord between past and present is really a telephone line that they can tap into at any moment and suddenly be completely immersed in the past (though with all modern amenities and probably without having left their couches). This is not only slightly absurd, it is sometimes dangerous. Enshrining anyone as demigods is never a fantastic idea - it's how Egyptian slaves ended up being killed when the Pharaoh died so he could take them with him, being a demigod and all. When NASA creates a spaceship, they don't wonder what Newton would think. Similarly, asking what the Founding Fathers (and first you'd have to define who exactly you mean... I like to include Melancton Smith of NY even though he didn't vote for ratification of the Constitution) would think of being in Britain on Independence Day is pointless unless taken in a spirit of fun and tongue-in-cheek speculation. Jefferson spent quite a bit of time in Paris and the John Adamses spent time in London, as did Franklin and lots of the other big names, so assuming they'd be appalled at the idea is probably a bit arrogant if not just completely false.


All I can say is, I'm looking forward to Bastille Day and questions of what the sans-culottes would do to today's CEO and banker fat cats. Now *that* is a scenario I would love to see play out.

Daddy's Girl

It's Father's Day here in the UK and in the ole US of A and that means Hallmark once again sees its sales spike for a hot minute. There's always a couple people who grumble about the "greeting-card-holidays" - those days that seem to exist mostly for capitalist reasons based on flowers, candies, or cards. Say what you will, though, I like the idea of taking time out to celebrate specific people who deserve some kind of nod from the rest of us, as long as it's done in a spirit that understands that, in fact, these people should be celebrated everyday. That, I think is from where some of the grumbling may stem: the fact that mothers, fathers, secretaries, sweethearts, etc, are always around. Why take a single day to celebrate them, creating a guilty day when people feel obligated to buy some kind of trinket so as not to appear callous? But essentially, isn't that at the base of every holiday? Every year around December the 25th a certain story by a certain English author is put on display. It has, at its core, a specific message: this holiday should be celebrated, or kept alive in people's hearts, every day of the year. Its spirit of joy, love, and forgiveness should infuse everything we do. Précisément. And so, say I, should it be with these other days. However, the recognition, the global nod that these people deserve our affection, is an important aspect as well. Getting up in front of a group of people and declaring your admiration or love or appreciation for something or someone somehow gives it a new layer of importance, a reinforcement, if you will.

With that in mind, I am going to - surprise, surprise - reflect on my dad. Anyone who has ever met me will be able to attest to the fact that I hold my dad in quite high esteem. I think he's fantastic. That's in part because we've always had a wonderful relationship. From the days I was an infant and would coo and gurgle when he bathed me - as opposed to the screaming fits I threw when my mother tried - to the annual father-daughter dances he flew or drove 700 miles to attend while I was in high school, my dad and I have always been close. This is in part because we are so similar. We're both mostly type-A personalities, we both like the finer things in life, we both love hockey and football, we both freak a little when it comes to finances, we both enjoy a good laugh and a good drink, and we both love school more than is probably normal. We get each other. My dad and I can look at each other across a dinner table filled with 20 other people and immediately know what the other is thinking. We compare notes on having to write papers and the fact that we're both master procrastinators.

Now, some of all of that is genetic. I am, without doubt, my father's daughter. But lots of it has been nurtured over our 25- (almost 26 - yikes!) year-long relationship. From day one, my dad has been there, caring and loving, encouraging, guiding, and coaching both me and my brother. While my mom worked Monday-Friday, Dad was the one that got us up in the morning, braided my hair, and took us to school. He taught us to ride our bikes. He read to us all the time, sang songs with us, told us stories and jokes, and instilled values and morals we both have come to see as fundamental to who we are as people. (None of this is to downplay the role my mom played. But this is the Father's Day post.) Dad's the one that planted the seeds for my love of classical music but also good beers and liquors. More than anything else, my dad spent time with us and respected us and our opinions.

There's always differing opinions on dads. Sociology classes talk about the role dads have to play in our lives. Are people less well-off if they don't have a father-figure? John Mayer's song "Daughters" asks dads to be good to their daughters because it's their love that moulds their worlds and future relationships. I certainly don't have any definitive answers to society's big questions, but I do know that my life has been as fantastic as it has, and I have been given so many things to be grateful for, because of my dad. He is amazing and I do not know who I would be or what I would have become without him. Nor do I want to know. I think of my dad almost every day and we talk quite often, even being an ocean apart. But today I just want to say, in front of an audience, that I will never admire any guy as much as my dad and I don't think I will ever be able to completely express how much I love him.

Thanks, Dad.

Saturday, what a day..

So, I started this blog and then promptly got so busy in such mundane ways that no second post seemed worth it. But that's no way to run an internet communication! Lack of time? Bah! Lack of titillating events? Pish! Just write something, eh?! That sentiment is my motivation today. It's a gloomy, cloudy Saturday morning here in Edinburgh, something I have become used to, even in the month of June.

Ya know, everywhere complains about their weather. No population ever truly admits their weather rocks, or at least not for very long. Buffalo, NY, has fantastic summers but everyone always complains about the snow in March. The Carolinas have the most gorgeous springs, but their summers evoke rants and raves about the humidity, the temperature, and the horrific UV index. Even still, both those places are willing to take their nice seasons as times to forget the bad ones and just enjoy yourself. Scotland can have sunny days and Fall's not so awful here, but it pretty much takes the cake when it comes to miserable weather. What's even better is that people have just come to accept this and, moreover, have turned winging about it into a national past-time. An entire popular psyche has been formed around the fact that the weather will, inevitably, let one down. On a sunny day: "It won't last." "I'm in the office today and damnit, on my day off it will no doubt be raining." "Ugh, the sun is too hot!" On a rainy day: "It's just not worth getting out of bed sometimes." "Ach, it's no different from any other day." (For the record, all direct quotes from Starbucks customers.) On a gloomy day: "At least it's dry." That's as optimistic as it gets. "At least it's dry." To be fair, that's usually my response to a Scottish customer's characteristically gloomy statement. Oh my.

On a more uplifting note, I have nothing official to do today! No ghost tours, no barista-ing, no meetings. I do, however, always have research. Academia is the kind of job that follows you around. People in offices talk about constant projects and such, but those are usually short-term bursts that end in a couple weeks and then a new one comes along. Turnover is pretty good. People who work shift jobs generally take nothing home with them and just enjoy their lives guilt-free until the next shift comes along. Not so in academia. There is always something massive looming over your horizon. (Wait, is this a Scottish weather discussion or what?) A dissertation doesn't write itself and even in a week where I've been to the library five times, I feel as though I should use part of my Saturday to get that little bit more read. After all, it's past mid-June (eek!) and writing must commence in July. MUST. You may be detecting a hint of resentment in this explanation, but the truth is that I love this. True, it can weigh you down and you have to learn to actively let go in order to truly enjoy a nice time, but in the end it is so much fun. Research is a bit of a drug for me. Writing is a bit of a drug for me. Getting a degree is a bit of a drug for me and I enjoy every enslaved moment in the library, sifting through sources for great quotes, fascinating ideas, or simply the satisfaction of saying that particular historian had his head on backwards when he thought that theory was a good one. More immediately and less ephemerally important, perhaps, is the fact that I have a meeting with my advisor this coming week. So goals must be met, progress must be made, and Saturdays cannot be devoted to snuggling with my giant stuffed hippopotamus in my Little Mermaid sheets. To the library!

P.S. In case you thought the hippo was a joke:

That's my cue...

Starting a new blog is never easy. The first entry holds power and mystique like no other. What tone will one set? How does one grab a reader with a blank slate? What, pray tell, should the overall theme be? None of these questions can easily be answered. Hopefully this first entry doesn't die a horrific, flaming death. Always start with a positive, eh?


The reason for this blog is actually fairly unspecific. I used to have an LJ account where I pretty much just rambled on about various things that popped into my head. Sometimes simple updates on my life, sometimes massive universe-altering questions, sometimes politics, sometimes silly things. That is probably what this sucker is going to end up being. In fact, it's that old LJ that inspired me to begin anew. A friend I hadn't heard from in ages randomly messaged me saying they'd found the link while bored on Facebook and had thoroughly connected to some of the entries. So I went back and checked them out and, lo and behold, I'm not a total moron! Some of my entries were kind of witty, in fact! I'd been thinking about blogging for a couple months, anyway, and here was precisely the impetus I needed. And so, dear readers, Pseudobelge was born.


The name may be a bit strange to those of you who don't reside in the dark corridors of my brain. Some explanation, then: I am American, born to parents from the Buffalo, NY, region while they were in Belgium as my dad did his Ph.D. I was ripped from small-town continental life when I was 9, moving to Jacksonville, NC. Then I went to high school in Buffalo, NY, while my family moved to Rock Hill, SC. My first year of undergrad was spent there, going to Winthrop University and living at home. Undergrad was then finished at Canisius College in beloved Buffalo. Then a year in Lille, France, teaching English. Academia continued to seduce me, though, and I moved on to Middlebury College, VT, doing a Master's in French over 6 weeks in VT and an academic year in Paris. Then, broke, spent a year living with my parents, working for Starbucks and trying not to lose my mind. Now I'm finishing up my second Master's in Intellectual History from the University of Edinburgh in Scotland and my Ph.D. begins in September - glutton for punishment, holla!


That's the bullet-point biography, but it's useful as background for the fact that I feel strong connections to Belgium without actually being Belgian. It is the place I have spent more of my life than any other. And, as you can see, I have actively sought out living in Europe as often as possible. And one of my life goals is to revive (or begin?) interest in the Belgian Revolutions of the 1780s/90s. So, Pseudobelge.


I suppose some house rules are in order to finish off this introductory entry. Feel free to get in touch with any questions or comments. Feel free to comment directly to posts. I'll do my best to answer in a timely fashion, unless the comment/question is inappropriate, which I will point out and then use as the reason for ignoring you. Suggestions for topics are always welcome, too.


Alrighty, that about does it for me this Saturday morning. See you next time - same blog channel, same blog time!