#7

Deearrrr frrieendddsss (that one was for Paul),

Although I save almost the entirety of my personal bile for the dreadful state of American journalism—that, in its most dangerous new trick, it has learned all the noble attributes that characterize the American citizen and now threatens to destroy it utterly by pandering every single story, however, miniscule, so as to tug at the American heart, thus destroying both the heart’s instincts and the newspaper’s value—I must admit that perhaps the newspapers in these British Isles are even worse. Not as soul-destroying, since they don’t take them nearly as seriously—that is, they don’t have the Woodward and Bernstein myth to ceaselessly pervert with every wretched breath they take—the articles are beyond the Lohan line for ridicularity. As evidence, I give you only the front page headlines from a nameless magazine which calls itself the “smart, sophisticated on-the-go magazine.” #1 “A shark tried to bite off my face.” #2 “I drink my own wee! (cheers).” I kiddeth you not (that was for Mark. Although not really, since this is a family-minded dispatch). Smart and sophisticated indeed.

Deborah, my sister, stopped by here on her way to France last week. We went to the museum and saw the BOG PEOPLE…which are people who somehow managed to get themselves thrown into bogs some thousand or three years ago and are now quite creepily preserved, with fantastic tans. It’s like a Hollywood over-70 convention, except with missing limbs. Bogggg people….Frankly, I just like the term. We also went to Glendalough, where St. Kevin once had a monastic community before becoming the inspiration for the hit television series “The Wonder Years.”

The only other real news is that, while out one night with certain of my Anglo-Irish literature coursemates it was brought up that I was the only male in the class without some kind of facial hair (although I could never hope to imitate Eric’s glorious, Joycean moustache) so I resolved to show them why, a decision Guinness had absolutely not influence on. So I had a beard for about a week. I shaved yesterday, as it was my last day of classes. I know, I was disappointed to see my face again too.

I’m enjoying my program-although I must say I was surprised at how, in terms of academic rigor, it really compares in no way to my undergraduate program, where I feel it should be the other way around-and I’m enjoying my time, but once a week, for one hour, I’m pretty unhappy. We have what’s called “a research seminar,” which can be loosely translated from the Irish to “sometimes people take masters programs that don’t know how to use computers. ” The first class was by far the most useful, as it was on the library, but it still could have been condensed to 15 minutes and a handout. Since then, it's like there are bunch of people wandering around Ireland with pre-fab speeches on subjects that are neither interesting or useful and Trinity's performing a charity by bringing them in to talk to me.

Last week, for example, it was on "editing", and not like proofreading, but composing finished volumes of other people's works. You know, just in case somebody shows up and says "hey, we need someone to put together a modern edition of John Milton, and you, with your masters degree, are our man." And then we got our assignment, which was to “edit” a poem of Samuel Coleridge’s. Because yes, for Samuel Coleridge is pretty good, but you know what he needs? My expertise.

We all failed. Seriously. I got an 18 out of 50, and the kids I was sitting next to got a 21 and 23 respectively. And one of them has a line from Coleridge tattooed on his neck, and I am not at all kidding about that. To be fair, he did get the 23.

(I can hear my mother freaking out from here. It’s okay mom, we don’t really get a grade for that course anyhow. And I passed the other assignment creditably. AND, basically, we don’t even actually get a gpa. Just a masters degree.)

I just can’t help but wonder what was actually expected of me.

Classes finished up for the semester yesterday, finished an essay this morning, so I have officially completed my first semester of Anglo-Irish literature. I haven’t gotten any kind of essay grades back yet so whether or not I have PASSED my first semester of Anglo-Irish literature is another question entirely. But at least I have: made the Trinity JV basketball team (more or less), visited Glendalough, Howth, Tara, Newgrange, Dun Laoghaire, and Istanbul, come to love the taste of Guinness, worn a fake beard and hat to advertise a klezmer concert, grown a real beard and shaved it (THANK GOD IT’S GONE IT WAS SO ITCHY GOOD LORD), read thousands of pages, written 50, locked myself out of my room several times, fought a bear, and performed “Take me Home, Country Roads,” to a room of drunken Irish people.

It’s still hard, sometimes, to be an Anglo-Irish lit masters student when so many of my other friends are i-bankers, consultants, or engineers, but of course it has its perks. Someday I’ll be able to answer “and what do you do with that degree” with something other than “use it as a placemat.” I’m young yet. And the other day I was at a Chanukah party when someone approached me for help with an essay on Yeats they were writing. I was shocked: something I was actually qualified for. It does happen people. It does happen. And I never came here for the in class education so much as to become, by degrees, myself. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: my thesis on studying abroad is that if you remove yourself from the company of people who expect you to say certain things, you can finally hear yourself talking. After a certain amount of years of the same scene, it’s nice to check in and see where you are.

It’s 1 am, I’m waking up at 7:15 to get up to the airport to get on home. I’ll be back just after New Years. Don’t cry for me, Dun Laoghaire,

A

This’ll be the last you’ll hear from me for a little while as Saturday I’m coming home for Christmas break (there is no sense, in Ireland with its 2000 Jews, of even pretending to call it Holiday Break). For those of you who are in Dallas and haven’t been told yet, hey, guess what, I’m coming home. Free your calendars accordingly.