Mother: Isabelle did you see those wee buns? Would you like a wee bun?
Child: [drops umbrella and runs to the kitchen]
Mother: [shouting into the kitchen] Put the lid on when you’re done please.
The same mother and her daughters
Mother: You know what, we’ll leave that here. We won’t need the umbrella, just pop it in there. I don’t think it’s going to rain. Come on girls.
“Get your hands out o’ your pockets.”
“My hands aren’t in my pockets!”
“Right, well, we have to cross the street.”
My first impression of Ireland was seated next to me in the form of a young Dublin native. During the seven-hour flight she gave me a brief history about the conflicts in Belfast. A dark humor pulsed through the reality of violence and oppression as she told the tale that plagued the city. I was enchanted by her effortless storytelling and the ability to made this difficult story digestible. I decided that this skill could only belong to a worldly woman such as her self, but since my arrival I have found that the dichotomy between darkness and light exists simultaneously in most aspects of Irish culture. In the few conversations I’ve had with other natives, loaded subjects have also been explained with an air of humor and banter, accepting the good with the bad. This dynamic can even be witnessed in the weather. The brilliance of the sun can be swallowed by an unexpected rain cloud just to return again in the matter of minutes. Today we learned about Irish folklore in Navan Fort, and at the root of all of the tales was the balance between evil and good. Back home in the States we have thick lines drawn between these two elements of humanity and place emphasis on standing on either side of the divide. It has been fascinating to see these elements coexisting within the fiber of a culture and the influence it has had on the people of this country, even during times when we believe we know what is right and wrong.
We’ve been in Ireland for about 36 hours now. Initial impression: King Conchobar (pron. “Connor”) was a dipwad. Apparently he got offended when one of his subjects bragged that his wife was faster than Conchobar’s horses and forced said wife to race against said horses, even though she was at the point of giving birth. She won, but also understandably laid a curse on his house before taking off into the sky. Conchobar later went on to raise a child bride and weather a cattle raid conducted by warrior queen Medb (pron. “Maeve”), which he survived by a hair.
I hope all Irish tales are like this. Conchobar was a jerk, but his stories are pretty awesome. 😀
“He bought me a drink, but it was so desperate.”
“What did he say?”
“That’s what it was; he didn’t say anything after. Men are so pathetic.”
“Give me a name and I’ll tell you if their Irish or not.” He was drunk, but not too drunk to explain to me that Sean Combs (P.Diddy), Ella Fitzgerald, and Shaquille O’Neal were all Irish. He said it with an assurance that smelled of rehearsal and Guinness. Sipping my cider I laughed and nodded with him. Like the descendants of enslaved Africans, the Irish know a thing or two about survival. America intertwined the children of Ireland and Africa in interesting ways (read:slavery). However, just like enslaved Africans, the Irish have an identity well before the American shore. I am drawn to all evidence of cultural past lives, so naturally a large part of me wants to see all the pieces they have gathered and clung to. Clearly, the Irish have not forgotten their identity before the conquers came. Accepting and open as they are to me, I am sure they were to the first missionaries to bring word of Jesus. As they, like we all, opened the package of Christianity our relationship with the land, ourselves and each other shifted.
When I stepped off the plane, Ireland looked just like home. I saw highways, cars, and people bustling about. But, once we entered the small town of Armagh, I started to notice all of the differences. The buildings are older. The lines on the road are crooked. The pavement is bumpier. Waiters don’t care as much and bartenders don’t have menus. Most people on the street have quick wits and are ready to yank your chain at a moment’s notice.
The more differences I see, the more I feel as though I have stepped into another world and that I must discover all of the differences that I can. Ireland is full of doors to be opened, places to explore and people to meet. The adventure has only just begun.
I don’t really know what anyone else thought, but the film at the Navan Fort museum depicted the epic hero, Cuchulainn, very poorly. Now, I get it, it was a film made for an exhibition, but the lightning-hair was the least of what happened to him (according to the Tain) when he entered into his “battle fury”; I shall elaborate.
As the myth goes, his hair would, indeed, stand up on end as if electricity was zipping through it, but it gets crazier than that. For example, one of his eyes would get sucked back into his skull while the other bulged to the size of a heron’s egg; his whole body would convulse as if he was being electrocuted and his muscles and sinews would twist up into grotesque knots of flesh and skin. His lips would curl back away from his mouth, leaving nothing but his bared teeth and jaw. He would then scream so loudly that sparks of fire would not only fly from out of his mouth (as is common for most people, I’m sure), but also shower down from the thundering clouds above him. His enemies would be nothing but lumps of gore after he was done with them…
Welcome to Armagh, everyone.
When first arriving in Dublin, the overwhelming feeling of panic quickly took over my entire body. I was extremely anxious as we made our way to the shuttle bus, my stomach was in knots and my heart was racing so fast, I didn’t know whether I was going to pass out or throw up. I knew this was not the first impression I wanted to make, so I collected myself and off to Armagh we went! The two-hour long ride that I was dreading after spending basically an entire day in an airport, turned out to be exactly what I needed to shake these nerves. Looking out the window I couldn’t believe my eyes, I Thought I was in Emerald City and a talking lion was about to emerge from behind the trees. I wasn’t in New York anymore, that’s for sure. Everything was just as beautiful and green as I imagined it to be. As I walked through the town of Armagh I found it to be quite charming and surprisingly serene. So far I Haven’t spotted a four leaf clover or a pot of gold. Wish me luck.
This is my second time staying in Armagh. If you are a diehard Armagh Project blog veteran, you may remember me from my bombastic blog run from Armagh Project 2013. And now I’m here again, as promised at the close of my last post in that glorious canon, though not in quite the way I expected. I come to you now as a teacher assistant, assisting the program in whatever ways I am needed.
After arriving in Armagh, jet lagged and struggling to cover up my travel funk, I took our new members on a tour to that down-the-hill produce bastion, Sainsbury’s. Something struck me about Armagh from that walk: things were not the same.
Carolyn
Bryonna
caitlinjcurley
chrisarmagh
dominiquefrangiamone
Terri Ciofalo
Charles Hess (greymalkn)
Kimberley Lynne
Christopher Warman
Nessa O'Mahony
Jauffe
Malachi
Robert Shillieto
Allie Vugrincic
Sharea H.