June 23

Last night, after spending the day in the warm sun and cool, salty breezes of Cobh, we decided to celebrate the eve of our first day off from class. In short, a large group of us took the liberty of making this the fourth night of celebrating (and toasting to) Ireland, and didn’t fail to deliver obnoxiously American bouts of behavior. The juxtaposition is a first for me. I can still hear the hum of the green and yellow train cars pulling us into the Cobh shore. The glaring sunlight as we climbed the hills covered with purple, blue, green, yellow houses is still making my eyes squint. I can see the splotchy and weathered gravestones of the Lusitania victims. And I can taste the heel of my tuna and corn baguette soaked in potato leek soup that we—quite proudly—found for a mere 4 euro. As the train left and Cobh went sliding back to where it came from, I couldn’t help but feel like I was riding on a metaphorical hyphen: constantly in between, slipping from place to place physically and mentally.

In a slightly more compromised state of mind later that evening, I found myself accidentally engaged in one of the most interesting conversations I’ve had thus far. Occasionally glancing over at my classmates dancing to Michael Jackson and Cascada in a sea of equally uninhibited Europeans, I felt myself sliding on that hyphen again. The young Irish man was genuinely interested in how young Americans can be so disinterested in the rest of the world. He didn’t understand why it seemed that most Americans have no interest in travelling. I wasn’t sure I agreed with that, but maybe on a deeper level he had a point. Maybe Americans don’t seem to be interested in travelling emotionally or mentally past their comfort zone. The American-centric culture is so pervasive in the states I’m almost surprised anyone is able to break free of those self-preserving clutches. Now, I’m really not American-bashing as much as I am just mourning the loss (or was it ever really there?) of open-mindedness and compassion. Ireland was one of the first countries (if not the first) to have a woman president, according to my new friend. While Ireland’s president serves mainly as a figurehead, he was adamant that women are capable of more empathy and that influenced their governing. He was shocked to hear that American children grow up learning how heroic European explorers were, and how our country was based on freedom, democracy and individual liberties, but never hear about how barbaric and exclusive (respectively) their means were to achieve such greatness. However, this Irish friend was quick to admit that Irish are quite xenophobic themselves and that its human to hear and believe stories as they are taught to us, regardless of the merit.

It occurred to me that this is true of almost anyone. We value things based on how we have learned to value it—not necessarily because they deserve it. Whether we are overly proud of our country, or regrettably not proud enough, I believe the things that resonate most deeply within us are those things that inspire the best in us. I was re-reading an old journal entry I wrote from April about my thoughts on “heroes” and “people as concepts.” But my concluding line fits this train of thought quite nicely, I think. It reads, “Half the time we aren’t in love with people, we are in love with the concept they inspire in us.” And maybe that can be true about more than just people. Maybe it can be true about Cork, or Cobh, or Ireland, or America. These things aren’t supposed to mean one singular thing to everyone, or even to one person. My time in Cork is almost exclusively based on what I decide Cork means to me right now, the kind of person I am when I’m here. And for that, I am grateful for this hyphen sliding me back and forth, in and out of cities, sobriety, empathy and curiosity for that beyond my experience. (685 words)