Wo-man: Being a Female In Today's World

I was watching the classic movie All About Eve the other night when one of the characters, Karen Richards, told her husband, "The cynicism you refer to I acquired the day I discovered I was different from little boys." Her comment struck me, subtly slid in as it was in a 1950s movie that was structured around typical feminine roles of the period.

This week I’ve had a lot of quality girl time between talking with friends from Oxford and Georgetown, meeting up with my friends from high school, and spending time with my sister and other female relatives. I thought about the impact the important women in my life have had on me: I know I could go to at least ten different women in my life for support and advice, that I can count on them, that they would provide me with their unique kinds of strength.

I have struggled with what is probably a unique problem for the past few years. Labeling myself a “woman” does not come naturally (and watch it—I am not suggesting I suffer from any gender confusion). I feel stuck in this weird time warp where I feel simultaneously ageless, ancient, and younger than my age suggests. I suppose this could stem from several things: time feels like it is going so fast that I could not possibly already be out of my teens; I have always felt way older than my age; and at times I look around and see high schoolers that seem like kids, as well as more and more peers getting married and having children. So while calling myself a “woman” seems a bit odd, so too does calling myself a “girl”; I feel like neither and both.

It does feel strange to be a woman in today’s world. Have we actually triumphed over sexism as a society? Not really. But we have made enough progress that when I experience any sexism it riles me up. I feel as though even women being able to feel indignant at sexism is in itself a strong sign of the progress we have made. I’ve discussed in a previous post the trouble facing female sexuality today. I would add to that in saying that our hyper-sexual culture seems to have a correlation with the increasing number of eating disorders and self-esteem problems females face today. Women feeling worthwhile based on their physical attractiveness seems as rampant as ever: our culture nurtures that trend.

Have you heard those common ideas that women oftentimes look for men that are less attractive than themselves and men look for women that are more attractive than themselves? Isn’t the statistic concerning female and male happiness in relationships also interesting? Married men, followed by single women, single men, and finally married women are supposed to be the happiest. It’s weird to be growing older and feeling increasingly disillusioned concerning love relationships between men and women. I feel equal parts romantic and cynic. I love romantic comedies but I am hesitant to believe in the idea of a soul mate. I want to meet a man someday that loves me for all the right reasons but I’m tired (already at such a young age) of creeps and superficial guys.

I’ve always believed that a good relationship needs two healthy halves to be functional and healthy. It breaks my heart to see women with insecurities that need a man to feel worthy, men that are insecure and prey on women they can order around so that they may feel like a man, couples that are together because it is easier to stay together than split up, and couples that split up because they are not committed to one another.

I suppose I could go on and on. Relationships between men and women fascinate me. At the heart of this all, I’ve been thinking about what it means to be a woman. I can look at the women in my life and find many role-models, many characteristics to emulate. I also see weaknesses in them that exist in me. It strikes me that one of the strongest resources a woman has are other women. If we all had successful women in our lives, how much easier would it be to realize our own worth and work through common female problems?

God has profoundly blessed me with a secure network of women to teach me lessons about myself and about understanding women in general. I love the kindness, perseverance, responsibility, integrity, intelligence, sense of humor, confidence, generosity, faith, and ambition I see in the different women in my life. May God grant me the strength to be a support to those who have supported me, to be a role model for what a good woman should be, and to live my life now in such a way that I can raise good daughters one day down the road.

Home Sweet Home Again

I’ve been hungering to write a blog entry for a few days now; about what, I do not know. Hopefully by the end of this entry I will have figured it out.

I had this hope that arriving back in the US would help me to finally realize that I had been in Europe for the past few months—it did not. Landing in O’Hare and waiting for my connecting flight, however, was delightfully warming with the American newspapers being sold, American weather forecasts being played on TVs around the airport, prices being displayed in dollars, and the sweet sound of American accents surrounding me.

Arriving home at last, the only emotion I felt was sheer exhaustion. Jet lag hit me hard this time around. I figured that I had traveled around 18 hours altogether (between the 2 hour bus to the airport, 2 hours before my flight, 8 hour flight, 3 hour layover, 2 hour flight, and half an hour trip home—whew) and experienced a 6 hour time change.

Now that I’ve been home for a week, I feel as though I am beginning to understand what it means to be a grown-up. I seem to be spending longer and longer away from home and on returning, feeling more and more nostalgic with the realization that I won’t be returning as often for very much longer. In just a few years I’ll be making a home of my own in some undetermined location—presumably permanent rather than for school, which has a clear end date.

I have been enjoying family time immensely already this break. I feel as though I have taken having my immediate and a good deal of extended family within 15 minutes to an hour of my home for granted. The way that I have been raised has emphasized the importance of spending time with family, and it has been wonderful to have huge holidays and a number of people to count on. What can be more comforting in this world than slipping back into one’s familiar place in a family, with all the trappings of compatible humor, mannerisms, and personalities accompanied by a thorough understanding of one another?

It’s funny too that I arrived home with no laptop, a phone that doesn’t work in this country, and uninsured to drive to since I have been abroad. I feel as though God has been prodding me to understand what it means to feel utterly disconnected and alone from the greater world, to appreciate the people immediately around me and my one unwavering support—Him. Now I’m using my brother’s old phone, can drive while home, and just purchased my brand new laptop. Hopefully I can hold onto the lessons He has patiently tried to teach me from the lack of computer.

Perhaps this blog entry can convey the hodge-podge of emotions that I have been experiencing since I’ve been home. This has been one of the best breaks I can remember, especially in terms of the quality of family time I have shared. At the same time, it feels more surreal than ever. And also, while I was really beginning to feel a few pangs of homesickness right before coming home, now my other two “home”sicknesses are kicking in—for Georgetown and for Oxford.

I don’t like that I feel so distant from my home university; in many ways, I am jealous of my friends that have experienced their semester abroad, all neatly wrapped up, and are heading back to Georgetown in a few weeks. I can so easily picture myself slipping back into my hectic routine there, with my job, friends, classes, professors, dorm, my city. At the same time, it feels a little fuzzy, a little distant, a little too far away from me now, in this moment. I can’t stop thinking about how fast my college career has flown by and how soon I’ll be heading home from Europe at the end of the year. I am so hungry for all the experiences I have ahead of me this year, for travels, time with friends, all that I will learn as an Oxford student. That first term seems to have fluttered away, like a fleeting dream, and it scares me to think of how intangible this whole year really is. I want to hold onto it and refuse to let go.

Perhaps I’m just reverting to my melodramatic tendencies. I’m trying to live in the moment this year and experience it all to the utmost. A wonderful blessing has been given to me, so I’ll just soak it up with a smile. I’ll avoid thinking about the future for awhile—I have two and a half weeks of break, six months left in Europe, and one year at Georgetown securely defined in my future to enjoy. And tomorrow is Christmas Eve. How did that happen? Thanks be to God for my innumerable blessings.

A Few Stops Before Home

I watched It’s a Wonderful Life last night with one of my good friends here at Oxford. We glanced at each other knowingly when George Bailey spoke of his dream to travel the world and again and again had that dream go nobly unfulfilled—we had just returned from a ten-day trip around Europe. It doesn’t feel right somehow that I have had all these wonderful opportunities at so young an age.

At the end of my European adventure to Milan, Verona, Venice, Vienna, and Prague, I realize more than ever that travel is less glamorous and more expensive and exhausting than it is made out to be—especially for a student on a budget. Nonetheless, I had a wonderful, fabulous trip; I still can’t believe it happened.

Milan was surprisingly disappointing. I suppose it makes sense that the city is known for fashion but that main attraction is hard for visitors to experience really. Yes, I visited some designer stores but they were the same as they are in any other city. I suppose I anticipated something remarkably fashionable about the city or some way of observing the design industry. I will say that Milan had beautiful Christmas lights, especially in the center of town near the Duomo—the big, beautiful church at the heart of Milan. Overall, I ate lots of gelato, enjoyed an Italian mass at the Duomo, and experienced a few sight-seeing let-downs in Milan (the most noteworthy of which is that we were unable to see Da Vinci’s Last Supper because it was booked weeks in advance).

We headed to the train station early to travel to Verona for a day trip en route to Venice. At the information desk we were told that the next train did not leave for two hours, and then we checked the departures board to confirm. After seeing a train for Venice, stopping in Verona on the way, left in two minutes, we sprinted over to the platform and leaped aboard. Unfortunately we had to pay an 18 Euro fee for being on a EuroStar train without a reservation, as it was not completely covered by our EuroRail passes. We arrived in Verona despite the set backs and enjoyed walking around the rainy city, with quaint, multi-colored streets. Juliet’s balcony was a bit anticlimactic and after grabbing the statue of Juliet's breast for good luck, we wandered around aimlessly for a few hours before boarding a train to Venice.

Venice itself was by far my favorite city. What can be said about it? The city exudes romance and mystery and is utterly picturesque. Utterly. Every single little winding waterway beckons to be captured on film. The buildings are genuinely crumbled with age and are beautifully weather-beaten with character. Faux vintage buildings elsewhere can’t begin to compare. We took the vaporetto (water bus) to our hostel and the fog hung over the water, shrouding the city. The next morning we set out to sight-see with the foggy mist hanging over the water and kissing the gondalas. The water was a striking green color and flooded the main walkways in the mornings before receding as the day progressed.

My time in Venice will be with me forever, I think. I visited the Doge Palace (which has amazing artwork), went to the Academia Galleries, explored San Marco’s Church, followed Steve Ricks’ advice in getting lost among the maze of tiny alleys, and took the vaporetto across the lagoon to visit some of the islands. My most adventurous meal of the trip was on one of the islands, where I ate spaghetti with a squid ink sauce, which was surprisingly delicious with a mellow flavor. During our last afternoon in Venice, the sun broke through the afternoon gloom and shone on the Grand Canal; following the glorious afternoon, Venice provided us with a stunning sunset for a fitting farewell.

We then boarded a night train to Vienna, which is about nine hours from Venice I think. My two friends and I shared a little compartment with three beds, one on top of the other. Sleeping to the motion of the train was incredibly soothing: I’ve dreamt of sleeping on a night train for quite some time. It’s funny to think of how many miles I traversed across Italy, Austria, and the Czech Republic, and yet I saw so little of the countries simultaneously. I saw poor housing on the outskirts of Milan, barren fields near Verona, warehouses on my way into Venice; I spent hours and days in their bigger cities; and yet, I saw so little of the country itself. At times it feels like I have a checklist of destinations, and as soon as I enter the city and take a few pictures, I can tick it off. That’s not how I want to travel or think traveling should be—I just kept realizing on this trip that it’s difficult to tap into the rich culture of these cities and countries with such a short visit.

We were provided a small breakfast and then ventured out into the snowy streets of Vienna. Like each of the cities we visited, Vienna was garbed in Christmas décor and had at least one bustling Christmas market. After dropping our belongings off at our hostel, we took a tram around the Ringstrasse, soaking up the energy of the city. Vienna has beautiful architecture, and I loved exploring the Hofburg Palace and the Kunst Museum. We attended a ballet, Marie Antoinette, in Vienna, which was beautiful. I had never seen a ballet before, and I loved watching the music flow through the graceful, powerful dancers.

The next morning we headed to our final stop of the trip, Prague. It did feel rather counterintuitive to continually head north in the dead of winter but it was worth it. Prague was a close second to Venice, with a wonderful upbeat energy, diverse architectural styles, loads of history and sight-seeing, and affordable prices. With our two days of exploring, I feel as though I saw a good deal of the sights. We also attended an advent concert in the Old Town Square area, which was beautiful.

Overall, I would say my trip was incredibly fun and successful. I realized a few things throughout. The first is that traveling for more than two weeks would be too much; I now plan to break my final six-week break at Oxford into 2 two-week trips around Europe. The second thing I noticed surprised me a bit: I never expected that while I traveled around Europe I would hunger for home quite so fiercely. I kept wanting to return to my cozy room at Oxford and to finally return to Kansas. God blessed me twice over, then, in this trip: He gave me a trip that many people would dream of and many will never experience, and secondly, He brought home to me in a new way how wonderful it is to have a loving family.

Tomorrow I return to the States for the first and last time during my year abroad. I absolutely cannot wait.

One Term Down, Two to Go

Today I finished my first term at Oxford University. I never imagined I would be writing that. I feel like my blogs have these repetitive themes of time evaporating at a painfully fast rate, everything in my life being super surreal, being blessed beyond anything I could have imagined. All of those same themes will come up today too.

I feel like just yesterday I was writing about how nervous I was to be on the brink of some unknown; I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to take a tutorial and live abroad; I was freaking out during Freshers’ Week that I wouldn’t be able to handle the stress; I dreamt of going to amazing, beautiful places I had only read of. And now I’m here—done with one term, only two more to go. I leave tomorrow for a ten day adventure across Europe before heading home for the last month of my break.

Have I grown, have I learnt anything huge, have I changed, have I begun to take Oxford for granted? I really don’t know the answer to any of those questions. I feel like it would be insane to put all my essays together, one after the other (all twelve of them) and have a physical representation of all the hard work I’ve done this term. When I think of that image, that pile of words, I also think of it being tripled seven months from now as I walk away from Oxford for good; it’s an hourglass of words.

I have absolutely loved my time at Oxford thus far. I enjoy the tutorial setting, with one-on-one discussion; reading and writing are what I love; the city of Oxford is beautiful; I’ve met amazing people. The list could go on and on. Hopefully you’ve picked up on that growing love throughout my posts this term. I’d always dreamt of going abroad but never of being this blessed. Sure, I have had some rough moments this term, but they were so incredibly worth it. Who gets the opportunities I’ve had? Far too few people.

I can’t fully comprehend the fact that I won’t have to write anything for the next six weeks. With the super concentrated intensity of study at Oxford, I’m definitely ready for a break. Admittedly, we have assigned readings to do over the break but still—bring on the relaxation. I feel like I’ll go home tonight and start grabbing for books that aren’t there, to read and highlight and take notes and think about an essay that I don’t have to write. Hopefully when I board a plane tomorrow it will hit me that break has officially commenced.

One thing I will miss, even though I am ridiculously excited to go home to Kansas, is celebrating Christmas in England. It’s been snowing in Oxford, upping the already dreamy atmosphere another few notches. We had a Christmas formal hall dinner last night in the chapel with: butternut squash soup, salmon, venison, potatoes, steamed vegetables, and a Christmas pudding (like a fruit cake soaked in brandy, sort of). Then we had mulled wine and mice pies in the JCR and mingled. After finishing my last two essays, it was the perfect celebration to the end of my first term.

Today I went to tea with my friends and we looked around the table with a smile: it was hard to not jump up and exclaim “we did it!” Instead we looked knowingly at one another and revelled in this heady feeling of being done. Yes, there’s a good deal of work ahead—but so much more to experience and enjoy. Now I know I can do it. I have a wonderful trip, return home, and another term to look forward to in the next two months.

I’m going to go enjoy the less glamorous parts of travel: doing laundry and packing. But I’ll be back in a week and a half to fill you in on the adventures that I anticipate having.

An English Thanksgiving

This was my third year in a row away from home for Thanksgiving. The past two years it seemed impractical to fly all the way home for just three days, so I visited friends and celebrated Thanksgiving with them (which was delightful! They were both so hospitable and kind). This year, of course, it would have been even more impractical to fly all the way home across the Atlantic—especially since I don’t have a Thanksgiving break in England.

Mansfield held a Thanksgiving Formal Hall dinner; admittedly I was a bit skeptical as to what they would serve. The menu consisted of: New England clam chowder (which I assume they served because of the “New England” in the title), turkey, pig-in-the-blankets (again: random), green beans, carrots, mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie with whipped cream. The potatoes were dry, the stuffing unique, the cranberry sauce was weird—like dried cranberries in a bowl with some cranberry juice at the bottom—and the pumpkin pie was actually a little pumpkin tart that was heavy on the crust and cinnamon with very little pumpkin.

Perhaps that seems overly-critical, but I just wanted to give you a picture of how it compares to typical American Thanksgiving dinner. The food was very good by anyone’s standards; I’ve just been quite spoiled by my home-cooked, huge Thanksgiving dinners at home. Really, I loved that they had a Thanksgiving dinner for us. It made me feel welcomed here at Oxford by the English in a way I haven’t felt since I’ve been here. Dinner was festive and fun and joyful. Everyone else cleared their plates completely, and in typical Ellie-fashion I left half the food unfinished (but I had had multiple servings of potatoes!), so everyone laughed and told me I wasn’t really American. I think I somewhat redeemed myself with my voracious pie eating, including a mountain of whipped cream on top. Excessive? I think not.

At the chapel service preceding dinner, we were asked what we were thankful for (pretty standard I think) and what traditions we missed from home. After telling myself I’ve been getting to used to being away for Thanksgiving, that it’s no big deal, everything came rushing back to me: making pumpkin pie with my mom, mashing the potatoes to perfection, driving over to my grandma’s with various dishes precariously perched on laps, between seats, on the dash board. I remembered vividly every year, for the majority of my life, that I have anticipated dinner and then finally, all fifteen to twenty of us crowd around the huge table, awkwardly crawling over chairs, elbows knocking together, trying to wedge oneself closer to the table. Then with a deep breath, we’re a cohesive family unit, arm to arm, knee to knee, diverse but clearly related, warmly ensconced around the table.

I remembered asking at least twelve times to be passed something or other and smiling at the sight of the butter melting in golden rivers down the potatoes, my grandma carving the succulent turkey, the warm rolls, the cranberry and spinach salad, the Waldorf salad, the corn—on and on and on the dishes circled the table. My grandma always brings out her beautiful china and fine glasses for Thanksgiving. After stuffing ourselves mercilessly, I usually drink a cup of coffee—which I only really do on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Then we sweep around the table to share what we’re thankful for and dig into the pie and various desserts.

Somehow, too, I remember our cousin tradition of sprawling in food comas around the living room. A few years ago, my sister laid on my Grandma’s red velvet couch that is a centrepiece in her home and classic in our family, and I jokingly laid down on top of her. Then came one of my brothers, and five or six of my cousins for a massive dog pile on the couch—after we had just eaten copious, ridiculous amounts of food. I remember struggling to breathe, my face turning red, squealing, laughing, and we all fell down.

I don’t know what it is, exactly, that took me from being totally blasé about being away from home and then suddenly immersed me in a poignant homesickness. Dinner brought me back out of it to some extent. Following dinner, we had drinks and watched American football in the JCR (Junior Common Room—where everyone hangs out at college). Then we walked home and my friends and I made puppy chow. I know, I know—we couldn’t eat anything else or risk exploding and then make puppy chow? But it was the perfect end to the night. My mom brought me Chex and the ingredients to make puppy chow when she visited last week, and my friends and I usually make puppy chow at Georgetown. So while we crowded around the little table in my kitchen and indulged in the peanut-buttery-chocolately deliciousness, I remembered my family and home with joy; I thought of Georgetown with a smile; and I looked around the table to appreciate all the new friends I’ve been blessed with this year.

An Addiction to Evensong

I am addicted to Evensong at Magdalen College (pronounced Maudlin here in Oxford). I had been to Evening Vespers once in the U.S., which was absolutely beautiful and so peaceful I almost fell asleep. Evensong is very similar but distinctly different as well (beyond one being Catholic and the other Anglican).

At Magdalen, the chapel is a long rectangular shape, with a wall of statues of the saints and a beautiful portrait of Christ’s crucifixion at the far end and an organ towering over the entrance way. Dark wooden benches line the two long sides of the chapel, about four levels going up, with shelfs in front that hold the Book of Common Prayer, hymnal, and guide to the service. Candles light each person’s place, and there are little cushions for kneeling at one’s feet. In front of the entrance, there is an Eagle podium where the readings take place (it looks like the eagle podium that Dumbledore uses in the dining hall in Harry Potter—because the podium he uses is at the dining hall at Christ Church College in Oxford, and the eagle podiums are at most colleges in Oxford, from what I’ve seen).

So I hope you are picturing a long, dark room with a majestic atmosphere, a sense of calm and quiet hanging in the air, with the ornate architecture and fixtures creating history and richness in the room. The choir walks in at the beginning of Evensong, consisting of something like twenty Magdalen college male students and 20 young boys that attend the Magdalen prep school. On different nights of the week, just the older students sing, just the young boys sing, and when I went this weekend, Magdalen College female students joined the Magdalen College male students to sing. So overall, the Magdalen College male choir is the standard, with different additions on different nights of the week. They wear red and white robes and walk slowly into the room, bowing before climbing to their seats. The choir splits in two and faces each other on opposite sides of the chapel, with the director standing between conducting.

The service itself includes prayer, two readings, one or a few psalms sung by the choir, several hymns and prayers sung by the choir, and intercessions by the priest. I usually walk in and peace immediately washes over me. The organ creates a base for the voices that build upon it. The choir brings new joy to the same psalms I’ve read before; their nuanced singing of scripture enriches the verses to how they should sound as opposed to how I sometimes take them for granted or rush over them. Each “Amen” sung by the choir is unique, some low and still, some rising to a crescendo, some layered with rounds. I’ve thought many a time that if I could just listen to them sing Amen to me all day long, I’d be in heaven. Each time they finish singing a hymn or prayer or psalm, the air sort of vibrates with the lack of sound, in seeming appreciation for the heavenly voices that had filled it a second before.

Altogether the service takes about half an hour to forty-five minutes. It takes me away from books, libraries, essays, traffic, worries, grocery shopping, the dreaded dollar-to-pound conversion rate, stress—everything. I typically go once a week, sometimes two or three times. I know Evensong will be one of my most missed Oxford activities when I return home. But I still have a long time to enjoy it for now. Which is wonderful, because I’m addicted, remember?

A Kitchen for Six

I complained about eating at my school cafeteria regularly for the past two years. At Oxford, however, I am without a meal plan: I can eat at the Mansfield Dining Hall, but I have to pay for each meal, so I’ve been cooking for myself most of the time to save money. As soon as I found out that I wouldn’t have a meal plan, I suddenly gained a new appreciation for the convenience of eating prepared food—so now I’ve been complaining about the lack of cafeteria. Perhaps you will conclude (fairly) that I am whiny. But I’ve gradually stopped complaining (as much), because I’ve found another unexpected blessing at Oxford due to the lack of meal plan.

My floor at my dorm has six girls, each with a single room, sharing one kitchen and one shower. I was admittedly skeptical when I thought about sharing the tiny shower and kitchen amongst the six of us. Now each day one of my favourite things about Oxford is my kitchen. It’s pretty much the only warm room in my dorm, a little bigger than the other kitchens, and we each have our own little cabinet to store our food. There’s a tea kettle that makes it feel British. A window overlooks the courtyard. The oven is tiny and the fridge just isn’t big enough for all of our groceries. Everyone on my floor cooks pretty regularly, and the fridge reflects the diversity of our food tastes and our love of cheap, but good quality, groceries at Tesco’s.

At least once a day I walk into the cozy little kitchen and see a minimum of one of my floormates, with an average of at least 4 of us cooking at once I’d say. We share the oven space, squeeze around one another to grab something from the fridge, take turns slipping in front of the sink to do dishes. We laugh and talk about our days, try one another’s food, and drink tea together. I absolutely love the hustle and bustle of our kitchen, the warmth and friendship that transforms the drab little space into a cozy, happy break from schoolwork and the coldness outside.

Food brings people together. There are countless examples of this including Jesus' ministry in the bible using food to bring people together in addition to feeding them spiritually, free pizza at any college event upping the attendance by ten-fold, and the popularity of the Food Network in our world today. One of my favorite parts of my childhood has been our Sunday family dinners at home, where all my extended family drew together one guaranteed time per week to relax and enjoy food together before the start of another busy week. At school last year, one of my friends invited me over to her house on Sunday mornings to prepare brunch with a big group of her friends; we'd cook and laugh and eat huge quantities of delicious food instead of doing schoolwork. Food brings people together. I'm glad that principle holds true here as well.

By the time this year is over (which already makes me sad to think about—especially with how fast this term has been going) I think that I will have dozens of memories in that little kitchen alone. I think one the biggest parts of growing up is realizing that one makes a family as one passes through life; when I’m thousands of miles away from home, and can’t see my family, it is so warming to think that my floormates are starting to turn into a new kind of family for me. They offer to let me use their computers, they ask if I’ve gotten over that cold, they comfort me, they give me advice, they fix me dinner, they laugh at my stupid jokes, they will travel with me, they make fun of me.

So although my meal ideas are starting to run out—I’ve completely stretched my culinary knowledge already—my lack of meal plan can only be seen as a blessing. On my list of favourite things about Oxford, that little kitchen will be at the top.

Let's Meet in Paris

I never would have pictured myself saying, “I’m going to Paris this weekend” in a completely blasé manner. It happened. Repeatedly.

Somehow it didn’t seem like a big deal, precisely because of a problem I’ve consistently had since I’ve come to Europe: I cannot seem to realize that I am in Europe. Even while I was looking out over Paris from the Eiffel Tower, I could not comprehend the fact that I was in Paris.

I took the Eurostar over from London, which was delightful. It only took 2.5 hours to cross the English Channel underground and arrive in Paris. As soon as I arrived at the Paris station, I had the rather formidable task of finding my way to the hostel, as I was to meet my friends there. I looked everywhere for an ATM and tried to make sense of the 15 metro/train lines in Paris on the map. Finally I went to the ticket booth and bought the ticket with my card, but the employee explained how to get there in French (I should tell you that I have taken a few years of French in high school, but that’s it—so my French is rather poor). So I had to puzzle over the map a bit more before tentatively setting off.

I arrived at my hostel safe and sound and waited for my friends to arrive as well. It felt so wonderful to have a reunion with both of my friends from Georgetown, one of whom I had not seen for over six months. We headed up to our room, which ended up being a seven person room they gave to the three of us, because they had run out of three person rooms. Needless to say, we had plenty of space.

On Friday, we went to the Eiffel Tower first, which was so much bigger than I had anticipated. I’m sure you can imagine how surreal that was. Since it was a beautiful, clear day (warmer than England, too), the view of Paris was stunning. Then we headed to the Champs Elysees and walked around and had lunch at a cafe. After that we climbed the 284 steps of the Arc de Triomphe. There is a billowing French flag under the Arc that waves proudly in the wind and proclaims the whole impressive city as French through and through. I enjoyed seeing the Arc from the Eiffel Tower and the Eiffel Tower from the top of the Arc; it made me feel like I was gathering a thorough view of the city.

Next we ventured over to Sacre Couer, which lies on a hilltop; so once again, we had a beautiful view of all of Paris. The theme of Friday seemed to be “Bird’s Eye View of Paris.” We stopped by Moulin Rouge to take a picture. I hadn’t realized that Moulin Rouge is basically the sexual area of Paris, with sex shop after sex shop. Good thing we went in the afternoon. I thought the train stop for Moulin Rouge was rather ironically named: “Blanche.”

We ate dinner in the Latin Quarter, which consisted of a three course meal including: Onion soup, chicken breast, and ice cream. All cafes and restaurants serve slices of baguette with the meal as well. Delicious. Then we went to the Louvre Friday night which was so breathtaking; the architecture alone made me feel a bit faint. Whoever disagrees that art is therapeutic must be soulless. The Mona Lisa was, of course, anticlimactic. But the breadth of the collection overall was astounding. We stopped into Napoleon’s apartments too, which were quite opulent. We ditched our grand plans of heading to a discotecque due to sheer exhaustion. Plus, my body decided to succumb to a terrible cold right before I headed to Paris. Of course. So I immediately fell asleep after our lovely Parisian day.

Saturday we stopped by a bakery to load up on ridiculously delicious pastries and then headed to the Musee d’Orsay which had, I thought, a better collection than the Louvre although the architecture of the Louvre itself is far superior. Room after room of Degas, Manet, Monet, Renoir dazed me; I was in heaven. We then ventured over to Notre Dame, which was simply different than I had expected. Not as dark and not as impressive in a way. But simultaneously, the architecture and spirit of the building itself was awesome. It stuns you and silences you, demands reverence. Well, technically, most people talk obnoxiously loud in a somewhat disrespectful manner, but it had that effect on me at least. I was pleasantly surprised that entering churches in Paris was free; in London, you have to pay to step into the more famous churches, like Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s.

Next we headed to a place called Angelina’s near the Tuillery Gardens that my friend had recommended, for their hot chocolate. It was DELICIOUS. I clearly have not had real hot chocolate before. I think they mix melted chocolate with milk: it tasted like a brownie and chocolate bar in a cup, smoothed and warmed to decadent perfection. Then we ate dinner at a cafe and admired the Eiffel Tower in all its nightly glory before heading to bed.

Sunday we went to the Gregorian mass at Notre Dame. Europe has spoiled me in terms of beautiful choirs and architecture with churches. Heavenly. Then I headed to the train station and came back to Oxford. I must say that spending time with my best friends from Georgetown felt wonderful, and seeing Paris was amazing, but it had two effects on me: first, I felt like we would all be headed back to Georgetown together, which we clearly did not. Secondly, I missed England while I was in France. Don’t get me wrong, I did enjoy Paris incredibly much. It just felt lovely to miss my little cozy room, Tesco’s, my Oxford friends, Oxford itself. It felt good to come “home.” My third home at this point, following Kansas and DC. I’m quite content, and ridiculously blessed as usual. A weekend in the city of romance made me super excited for all the travels that await me this year.

Utterly Disconnected

My computer has died. Capoot. Done Working. The screen has been malfunctioning, including: the bottom of the screen appearing at the top of the screen, turning fuzzy, rainbow colors with black gridlines all over, and black dots appearing on the screen. I took it to computing services here at Oxford, and they told me the video chip is broken/corrupted/not working. I took it to the repair center to be examined and given a formal estimate on how much it will cost to fix, but I was told it could be around £300. Yippee. My best friend sent me an email, however, about defective Nvidia video chips in computers that have caused a lawsuit. I may be able to file a claim and be reimbursed for the repairs to my computer—thanks to my best friend! We’ll see what happens.

I thought it might be interesting to share what exactly it feels like to be abroad without a working computer. To sum it up, it sucks. I have been going to the computer lab at school or at various libraries daily to check my email, facebook, my bank account, etc. When I have to write my weekly/bi-weekly essays, I have been planting myself in the computer lab all day to write them.

It’s funny, though, to consider why God is presenting me with this difficulty in my life; I think He must be trying to teach me something. When I had the internet difficulties right after arriving, I told myself maybe it was a blessing in disguise, hiding behind my increased feelings of homesickness and aloneness, that would prompt me to try harder to meet other people. Now that I cannot even take my laptop somewhere to get wireless, the trial has become a little more difficult, but perhaps that means it shall be more fruitful.

Using the internet to look up information, to contact friends and family, to shop, to make travel plans, share pictures, write a blog, manage finances, learn about the world, look up directions, listen to music, and watch television shows can create a bit of an addiction. Quiting cold turkey can be difficult (although I am blessed to have the computer lab about 20 minutes away). I’m trying to learn to write lists of anything I want to look up, so I can do it the next time I’m in front of a computer; to learn to appreciate communication via the web much, much more; to be more focused on school work where I would normally go on-line as a distraction.

I’ve never been a person to use the computer super often anyway; one would think this would be a piece of cake. But like so many things in life, once the freedom is gone, we crave it profoundly. How can one realize the power of having the worldwide web literally at one’s fingertips...until it is gone? Maybe I did go on facebook a bit too much, maybe I took having my very own computer for granted.

I’ll make it through this though; God would never present me with a challenge to face alone. My best efforts will be put forth to continue to update my blog pretty regularly—so never fear on that front. With modern technology briding distances of thousands of miles and transforming them into mere seconds of separation via the internet, being abroad is irrefutably easier. But when that connection, that bridge, requires a great deal more work and can be crossed only sparingly, I think God is showing me what it means to be alone. Yes, I have new friends here that are wonderful, but by depriving me of easy access to those I know and care the most about in the whole world, I think He’s teaching me to rely on Him, to seek solace in Him, to not take Him for granted. I’ll do my best to learn this lesson.

An Eventful Week at Oxford

I have had a rather eventful week, to say the least. I turned in my first essay, which went better than expected (and I’ve written my next one, which is due tomorrow in my other tutorial). I’ve attended several lectures, including one over Victorian Gothic literature and another over Jane Austen today. Lectures at Oxford are essentially a tutor reading something they have prepared ahead of time over their research interests, as opposed to the more casual, going off of notes style in the US. All lectures are optional as well, and students just go to whatever they are interested in learning about or what they feel would supplement their tutorials well.

I went ahead and bought a bike which was a bit pricey with all the necessary accessories: a helmet, lights, mud guards, lock, and basket. My bike is gold (perhaps one may even call her a bit masculine) with a cute wicker basket on front. Admittedly, the first ride back to my dorm was terrifying…the whole 1/8 of a mile. I’ve ridden three or four times since then into the city centre and am starting to feel more comfortable. Riding across town goes so much faster, especially since Oxford is very much designed in a bicycle-friendly way. And with the cold weather (it feels very much like winter already, in October!!!), the quick trip makes my life a lot easier. Today while I was riding several buses passed me, I made several right turns (which is quite tricky for a new biker in England, because one must stick out the arm, merge in front of cars, and then wait for an opening to turn), and made it home alive. One car decided to pass me by swerving into the bike lane (which is quite narrow, a bike barely fits in it) while I was waiting to turn right. Overall, though, I’m beginning to get the hang of this bike thing.

Surprisingly it has rained only four or five times since I’ve been here. I was shocked. After asking some of the Brits about it, I heard that it has been a dry summer for them, so perhaps that explains it. Or maybe God is just providing me with an easier transition to life at Oxford and decided to throw just the cold at me first before exposing me to the wet cold. Yikes.

Sunday I went to mass at Christ Church, which was beautiful and very similar to Evensong at Magdalen College. Between the choir and the architecture I was in heaven. That was also my first Anglican mass, which was incredibly similar to the Catholic mass structurally. I intend to go to the Catholic chaplaincy for my next mass this weekend.

On Monday morning I went to C.S. Lewis’ house for a tour, which my tutor was just happening to give. His house is small, cute, English looking. When Lewis bought the property, it was secluded and beautiful, but since then lots of modern houses have popped up around his property. There is a little C.S. Lewis Nature Reserve with his pond that he used to swim in that I visited too. I feel a bit like his stalker between taking a tutorial about him, going to the pub he frequented, meeting his friend, going to his house, visiting the college he taught at. I read that he first lived in a house on the street where my college is as well. All of it has made for good inspiration when I have to write essays over him, I suppose.

I’ve been trying to get involved at Oxford too. Monday night I went to Bridge Club (and received several “hahahaha, are you 75?” jokes). It was awesome though; there were about 40 people there and we paired up and rotated around to different tables. Everyone was very friendly and patient with me, since I’ve only played a few times before. I think I’ll go play pretty regularly. Yesterday I went to the Oxford Cricket training for the girls’ team, which was interesting. I am completely not athletic, uncoordinated, and am a huge klutz. Half the team were seasoned players and the other half were complete beginners like myself. I still don’t quite understand the rules, but we did different field drills (pick up the ball and throw it to the pitcher—if that’s what it’s called?) and I learned how to bat…sort of. The swinging motion is so unnatural, I missed probably 90% of the balls. Batting in cricket feels like a combination of golf, tennis, and softball to me. We practiced with tennis balls (I was hit several times), but I suspect they use a hard ball in the actual game—which terrifies me. I’m trying to decide if I shall go back next week; I’m a big chicken. A big uncoordinated chicken. Training is once a week until third term, when there are twice weekly practices and matches. From what I have gathered there are not try-outs…We’ll see, I suppose, if I decide to stick with it.

Finally, tonight I went to my first formal dinner at the dining hall at Mansfield. Everyone dresses up a bit, no jeans allowed, and we sit at the regular tables and are served three courses. At Oxford, students are supposed to wear their formal gowns to dinner, which sort of look like academic gowns in the States. No one really wore them tonight, so I suppose they don’t wear them too often at Mansfield. Tonight was a Mexican charity dinner, and I’m thinking you will laugh when I describe the menu for you. I had heard the English version of Mexican food is atrocious. That was somewhat true, but mostly their efforts are half-hearted and misguided. I was praying for some salsa and guacamole to be involved. First, we had half a baked potato with a spoonful of chili and sour cream on top, with some homemade fried tortilla strips. Next, we had chicken breasts, rice, and potato wedges. For dessert, we had a small tortilla with apple pie filling and cream. I think most of the Mexican in the Mexican charity dinner consisted of sombreros hanging from the chandeliers.

Overall, I love the people I have met, the beauty of Oxford, the tutorial system, the activities I’ve tried, and my new life here overall. Admittedly I would love some American food and American weather (and of course to see my friends and family!), but I can’t complain. I really can’t. God has provided me with an awesome opportunity, and I am going to do my best to enjoy it to the fullest.

Okay, It's Really Happening

It’s really quite amazing, this life is. Sometimes I feel stressed, exhausted, apathetic, but then God throws a few more blessings my way so that I can’t help but realize His work in my life, His grace and glory.

Today I had my first tutorial, which perhaps is a momentous occurrence. Really my tutor talked the majority of the time about basic information concerning taking a tutorial and writing the papers and so forth. That she is brilliant, sharp, and engaged was immediately apparent. When she got around to briefly discussing Far From the Madding Crowd, my first assignment, I had a minor epiphany: all my literary life I had longed for one thing which I could not even realize I was longing for until it had been fulfilled—to have English literature discussed by an expert with an English accent. I was in heaven. By this time next week, when I am in the middle of writing two papers for my tutorials, the joy may have ebbed a bit. Or a lot.

As nervous and excited as I am for my tutorials, my biggest hope is that even among all the many mistakes and crummy essays I write, I develop as a student and writer and soak up even a fraction of what my tutors have to offer me.

Following my first tutorial I went to buy the next few books I’ll have to read; it’s quite expensive to buy books, but I love to mark them up as it helps me when I write papers. Also, I’ve convinced myself it is a worthwhile investment, as I’ll have these wonderful books that I bought in Oxford in my personal library for many years to come. I’m learning my way around Oxford though I have experienced only a tiny bit of all its wonders thus far. I love to walk, and despite what I wrote in my last entry, I’m contemplating getting a bike again. It would be a bit expensive but worth it, I’m thinking. I was so excited to do so before coming to Oxford, intimidated once I got here, and now I am sort of jealous of everyone riding their bikes. Ah, my indecisive nature can be a hassle.

This evening I went to the C.S. Lewis Society meeting, where an excellent speaker discussed Lewis and evangelicalism. All of a sudden the speaker referred to a member of the audience, sitting casually against the wall—Walter Hooper. I have just finished reading his quite famous Companion and Guide to C.S. Lewis, and to have the honor of hearing him chatting about a conversation he had with C.S. Lewis about aliens on Cornmarket Street wanting to know the Good News was unreal (that’s another story). After the meeting, I walked up and told him how much I had enjoyed his book while having a minor freak-out internally. My tutor this term for my C.S. Lewis tutorial is probably the foremost scholar on C.S. Lewis, so to actually be able to meet one of the other foremost scholars on Lewis is just insane.

Every time I try to convince myself that I am in Oxford cannot begin to compare to these surreal moments that force me to ask “How could you be anywhere else but Oxford?”

Life at Oxford

Every day I wake up and try to convince myself I’m at Oxford.

Perhaps that seems silly: how long can it take for one to realize where one lives? I’m going to be here for a year and still….I feel separate and apart from time and place. It isn’t that I feel like I’m in Kansas or DC or America or Europe or England or Oxford. I feel like I’m nowhere—somewhere worthwhile but somewhere that does not exist for anyone besides me and my fellow international students who I am getting to know more and more.

It hasn’t sunk in that I’m here to stay or that I’m on the verge of starting my Oxford education. This first week of orientation, labeled “0 Week” here at Oxford, has been weird. I’ve been jumping around from activity to activity, meeting Freshers and third-years and other JYAs (Junior Year Abroad students). I don’t have much time, my room is a mess, and I’m being thrown more and more reading lists. I have pretty successfully cut myself off from pop and have been drinking loads of tea. During orientation, we all eat in the dining hall together, so I have had several English meals (all involving potatoes, which is a food group for me anyway).

Originally I had thought that I would buy a bike and ride it around, as is the Oxford student way of life. Soon after arriving, however, I noticed the proximity of the bike lane and the bus lane; let’s just say they’re intimate neighbors. And by bike lane I mean two lines painted inches apart and thrown next to the curb. The bicyclists flap out their arm and weave into traffic to get around round-abouts. They inch along, kicking off the curb in stand-still traffic. They sometimes wear intense yellow vests, dorky helmets, and legit rain jackets. I have been enjoying walking everywhere, probably an hour per day minimum. It helps further that silly feeling I’ve always had that I am secretly Elizabeth Bennet, roaming around the English countryside.

So far I visited Port Meadow in the outskirts of Oxford—it was stunningly beautiful, a natural, peaceful escape from the hustle and bustle of city centre. We stopped by the delicious little Trout Inn that is in the Meadow, where I had the best fish and chips of my life. I ate dinner at the Eagle and Child (where the Inklings held their meetings) and had drinks at the Lamb and Flag. The neighborhood Tesco’s has become my very own. I check my pigeon hole for mail at the Porter’s Lodge. My ears are caressed with “leisure,” “inquiry,” “cheers,” and “schedule” on a daily basis; while the accents are becoming less noticeable for me, they are nonetheless still beautiful.

I attended Freshers’ Fair at the Exam Schools, where hundreds of little stalls artfully beckon the overwhelmed newcomers to the Oxford community to sign-up and join the C.S. Lewis Society, Assassins’ Guild, Oxford Law Society, the Rugby team, Catholic Students, or the Drama Society. I signed up for probably twenty clubs I’m sure I’ll never participate in. It was like our SAC Fair at Georgetown but intensified.

Last night I attended our first formal dinner at Mansfield, held in the college chapel. There was a pre-dinner drinks reception with champagne, and dinner consisted of meat pâté, stuffed chicken, potatoes, steamed vegetables, toffee pudding, white and red wine, coffee, and chocolates. The chapel was beautiful, the tables lit by candlelight, the tablecloths snowy white, and the Freshers and JYAs neatly tucked in behind numerous forks, knives, and glasses. There are two formal dinners per week at Mansfield so I think that I shall try to go once a week. When else will I experience this? I am so blessed.

Currently I am very overwhelmed by my upcoming tutorials. The reading lists for each paper compare to what I would read for a final paper at Georgetown—plus a few more books. The Oxford University library system is a bit confusing and overwhelming, but I bought my first book from the UK version of Amazon, visited and made several purchases at the enormous Blackwells bookstore, and ordered my first book from the stacks at the Bodleian. I trust myself to get it all the done, but nonetheless, this is quite intimidating. Of all the adjustments I’ve made, I think the move to the tutorial system will be one of the most challenging.

Overall, I am enjoying myself tremendously and feel quite settled in. I’m very excited for the next few weeks to unfold and to finally know what it feels like to study at Oxford. Soon and very soon I shall be what feels like a college drop-out no longer.

Welcome to Europe

I’ve missed blogging so much. It seems like I’ve thought a hundred times “It would be so great to blog about this…” After traveling around Europe for two weeks with my mom, I am here at Oxford, moved into my dorm. It has been quite a hassle to figure out how to get internet access, but hopefully I will have internet in my dorm room next week. It’s surprising what a luxury getting on Facebook and checking my email is after traveling. Sometimes I think God provides us with breaks from what we take for granted precisely so that we stop taking it for granted.

I don’t really know where to start to bridge the gap between the last time I wrote and now. International flights suck. Heathrow airport immediately made me feel like I was in Europe with its clean, minimal, modern lines (reminiscent of IKEA, I think). Instead of bathroom or restroom, the Brits refer to the loo as the “toilet,” which seems a bit crass. It made me laugh when I saw the sign for “baggage reclaim”; the English are nothing if not proper with the use of their language. After all, one already possesses one’s luggage—there is no need to claim it (as we silly Americans have shortened it to), simply to reclaim it. Nonetheless, I don’t feel like I’m in Europe yet. I don’t know when it will finally hit me—maybe never? Maybe when I’m no longer studying in Europe?

Mom and I took a bus to Oxford to drop off my luggage in my dorm room, and my first brief glimpses of Oxford were breath-taking. I still haven’t explored too much, and I can’t wait to look around all the different colleges. We then took a train up to Glasgow for four days, where I enjoyed my first fish and chips (delicious), my first Guinness (gross), took my first taxi ride in one of those roomy, fancy British cabs, went on a tour of the Highlands, visited Edinburgh, and enjoyed our “local” pub.

It was weird how everyone driving from the right side of the car on the left side of the road didn’t faze me too much, nor did being legally able to drink or even using a different currency. Even the beautiful accents aren’t standing out as much anymore. The weather has been colder than home but with several sunny days thrown in, so that transition hasn’t been too difficult. In all the hotels I’ve been to in the UK thus far, the Brits typically provide a tea kettle, trouser press, and heated towel rack in the room, which I found amusing. When traveling, trash cans (aka “rubbish” or “litter” bins) were very difficult to find, and in each of our hotel rooms, they had the same miniature trash can in the bathrooms. Surprisingly, however, with the few trash cans, I have seen zero litter. It seems to be taken very seriously here that people keep their roads and public buildings clean, and I think some public employees have the task of cleaning up the streets.

One other thing I have noticed is an extreme awareness of fire safety. The numerous fire extinguishers and fire blankets in buildings are paired with thorough fire exits and pathways in most buildings I’ve been in. Several times I have been scared that I would set off some alarm when I opened a door. There are signs posted everywhere that says “CCTV is monitoring this building/the speed” in public areas and on highways with a picture of a video camera; it feels like Big Brother is watching my every move sometimes.

Throughout our travel, my homesickness seemed to manifest itself in an intense craving for McDonald’s. That seems especially odd since I don’t eat McDonald’s too often at home, but I guess it makes sense. I wish I could have a homesick craving for something healthier. Oh, well. I really do enjoy shopping at the Tescos here though; they’re good quality and comparatively have pretty good prices. I’m excited to cook for myself, although I don’t think I’ll get too adventurous.

The trains in the UK really are super convenient and pretty comfortable overall. Also, they provide a beautiful opportunity to soak in the countryside. Between the fields covered in fluffy sheep and the clouds which seem to touch the earth, I love the English and Scottish countryside. The Highlands, Loch Ness, and Loch Lomond were….awe-inspiring. Stunning. I don’t know how it is possible to look at them and not know that God is our heavenly Father. I will say the Highlands were taller than I thought they would be, which sounds stupid. But it’s true. They towered majestically on either side of the road we were on, making me feel small, human, insignificant.

Looking back, I do think my time in Scotland was my favorite portion of our trip. After Glasgow, we returned to just outside of London to fly to Munich for Oktober Fest. To be perfectly honest, I was disappointed. Munich felt bleak and cold, and the language barrier proved to be a barrier. I shouldn’t have been so surprised.

Despite several attempts, we couldn’t get seats in a beer tent. The lederhosen were awesome, the food was delicious, the atmosphere was fun. There were several amusement park rides similar to those in America—but on crack. For example, there was a circle of dangling swings people sat in (like we have back home), but it rose up hundreds of feet in the air. Yikes. I spoke with several other Americans who had a fabulous time, but my mom and I were not too impressed. Our trundle beds in our authentic German hotel may have had something to do with that too.

Next we flew back to London and took a train to Liverpool. Mom and I went shopping there, which seems a bit odd I suppose. We had a great time though, and walked down to the dock as well. We stayed in an apartment that felt very luxurious and roomy, like a little slice of home away from home. When we went to the pubs Friday night, I was surprised to find that there were so many senior citizens out and that karaoke was so popular. Everywhere.

The next day we flew to our final destination: Dublin. I reunited with one of my best friends for the weekend, which was delightful!!! We went to Malahide to see the coast (and got a bit lost, walking around for hours), took a tour around the city, walked around Trinity and Grafton street, and went on a musical pub crawl. My mom had been on one previously and loved it, so the three of us got tickets to go. Usually, a few musicians take a group of people to a few different pubs, to discuss Irish musical culture and play traditional music in a warm, acoustic setting. One of our musicians seemed trashed, and the other dominated most of the time with his stories, jokes, and ego. When they actually performed a few songs, they were very talented. It irked me a bit that the more talkative musician kept bashing touristy Dublin and Americans; I know tourists can be quite annoying, but they also generate a great deal of revenue for Dublin. Many of us come with respect, wanting to learn of a different culture, meet people, enjoy ourselves. Nonetheless, we had an excellent time.

Mom dropped me back off in Oxford and left a few days ago. I think it’s finally starting to hit me that I’m staying, but even then it hasn’t truly sunk in. I’ve organized my room and decorated a bit, bought groceries, done laundry, and have been reading for school. Orientation starts tomorrow, and I can’t wait to meet other students. I’m feeling nervous again with all this anticipation and a slight bit of homesickness for both Kansas and Georgetown already.

This is a SUPER long post; I apologize for the length. I’ll write again soon with more about Oxford itself.

Oh, Kansas Weather

Of course a Kansas hail storm causes my flight to be canceled. As soon as I am actually ready to go to Europe, I cannot leave for another day.

My mom and I headed to the airport tonight, running a bit late as usual. We made a mad dash to Quik Trip for one last delicious “Henry Special,” then booked it to the airport. Upon arriving, I find that after scrupulous packing, one of my suitcases is 4.5 pounds overweight. So I opened it up and pulled out a pair of boots to stick in my mom’s carry-on and my pair of cowboy boots that I put on and wore. What a great way to start our trip and enter England, I thought: on good footing.

Then we go through security, with some dubious “personal items.” In addition to our rolling carry-on suitcases, my mom had a small duffel for her personal item and I had a backpack that was rather hefty for mine (personal items include a purse, laptop, or briefcase). For once in my life, I received a low-key inspection of my insulin pump (which is usually swabbed and tested for explosives) and no pat-down. I was shocked when the security lady asked me to pull it out of my pocket and merely thanked me for doing so.

It started pouring outside as we boarded our plane. We had to climb down two flights of stairs to get outside, go into the rain to load up our carry-ons onto a luggage cart, climb another flight of stairs into the plane itself, and get settled. We then sat on the plane for two hours while it rained, then hailed. Next we had to wait for a maintenance worker to examine the plane for hail damage; while he was finally doing so, it began to hail again. Then he inspected it, found four dents, and we were informed that pictures of the dents must be sent to Utah for engineers to assess before the plane could be flown. We deboarded the plane and waited in huge lines to speak with an attendant to reschedule our flight. For the cherry on top, we received our carry-ons back soaking wet. Fabulous.

Unfortunately, there were no attendants. We waited in a line for at least half an hour before an attendant appeared. Then we finally find out that there are no flights that arrive in England earlier than Friday afternoon (originally we were to arrive Thursday afternoon and already have our hotel booked for Thursday night). My mom pushed and prodded until they found the absolute earliest flight leaving tomorrow morning, where we will need to take three planes and arrive in England Friday morning. Whew.

After four plus hours at the airport, no food since noon, and all the stress of boarding a plane, I’m sitting here in my room at home. When I am FINALLY READY and no longer in denial, here I am pointlessly sleeping at home when I could be flying over the Atlantic right now. Oh, the irony.

Hopefully, our flights tomorrow will run smoothly, without mishap. I mean, there are only so many delays that one can have in a first international flight, right? Let’s hope so. At least this trip is guaranteed to be memorable, right out of the gate.

Farewell, So Long, To You My Friend. Until We Meet Again.

Every sensation I described in a previous post has been heightened. I feel very tense and unsure and expectant here on the verge of going to Europe. I also feel incredibly blessed.

It makes it so much harder to leave a place when you know that people will miss you—or in other words, when it has been lovingly confirmed that you belonged in that place. For me, this has been true of both home in Kansas and home at Georgetown. I miss them both already with every fiber of my being (dramatic, I know) and am a bit sad at the wear and tear distance will bring to my friendships and relationships here in the States. I am very confident, however, that God has blessed me with two homes, many friendships and loving relationships, and this awesome opportunity for a reason which He alone knows; the distance will bring new strength to the relationships that really matter in my life. God will mold my relationships to be strong and to endure by testing them. That is what I have concluded with a mere sixteen or so hours between me and the jump, the leap.

It’s odd to be here in this moment, in this time which I anticipated so clearly for the past year. While I applied to Oxford, I thought that either I would pack to return to Georgetown, pack to go to my second-choice university, or pack to go to the university of my dreams. I imagined so clearly the hustle and bustle of my family helping me narrow down what I would bring, the last-minute errands I would scurry around to complete, the lasts I would poignantly “enjoy.” I blurred through the goodbyes I didn’t want to picture, sort of as though the tears had already formed in my eyes. Though to be honest, I probably won’t cry tomorrow. I’m not a crier. Nonetheless, my feelings run deep, and I am dreading the final goodbyes with people I love and don’t want to leave.

Thinking about how I feel now as compared to how I feel when I normally leave for Georgetown is odd too. The three months between now and Christmas break when I return home is actually a shorter time away from home than my first semester of the year at Georgetown. I usually pack the same two suitcases. Typically I feel similar emotions as now, particularly when compared to leaving for my freshmen year at Georgetown. There is just some nameless difference that makes this departure feel of more import somehow. I think it is the psychological distance between Kansas and England as compared with Kansas and Washington, DC. Though my family would probably not visit me either way first semester, the distance to England is so much more utterly impossible. Maybe too it is the student visa I had to apply for. I'm an immigrant really, though only temporarily. It makes me think of how immigrants could leave home a hundred years ago, and even today, knowing that they will not have the means or opportunity to visit their homeland or loved ones again. While that is not remotely true for me, it sets the mood somehow. This big distance I shall traverse demands acknowledgment. And the similarities between this journey and my normal trip to Georgetown are a bit unsettling. I have been in denial that I am going to Europe anyway, but with the similarities between the trips, I am semi-convinced despite myself that I am headed back to the Hilltop.

Isn’t it funny that it seems like an either/or scenario? Either I want to go to Georgetown or I’d rather be at another university. Either I would like to be at home with my family or completely alone in a place I’ve never even seen (or been remotely close to). Either I want to spend time with my friends or make new friends. Either my life here is enough or I need to experience this year abroad. I hope every person I care about knows that it could never be either for me. It has to be a painful, emotional combination of both that in this moment feels like all that I want is tugging at my heartstrings until they want to snap.

Maybe that’s the drama in me. As I said, I’ll keep in contact, I won’t be gone for too long before I’m home again and return to Georgetown again, and I have an amazing opportunity opening up before me. I’m excited. Of course, I’ve had a dizzying week of oscillating between nerves and excitement, but I do think the excitement wins out (though I am wary enough of the nerves to expect a sneaky comeback).

I’ve been blessed with an easy packing situation, after my sister helped me narrow down my wardrobe—like really, surprisingly easy; my suitcases are both underweight, even after I threw in some maybe items I could do without. My family and friends have been excited for me and tell me they believe in my ability to do this when I get the most nervous. I will miss BBMing my best friend absurdly often. I will go through withdrawal from Diet Dr. Pepper and Quik Trip drinks. I will miss my dog and my entire family impossibly much. I will hunger for these lazy summer days when I’m super stressed. But….that does not negate what awaits me. It just sharpens the impact of the whole experience, I think. We have to lose things to gain them, right?

I just want to thank everyone in my life for being a part of my beautiful summer. I want to revel in the fact that tomorrow my next adventure commences. I want to stand up and shout, “I’M GOING TO EUROPE, BABY!”

And that feeling I have written about before? The whole dreading when the experience begins because soon it will be over? Well now that it is on the verge of beginning I am ready to slow down and savor this beautiful year ahead as it unfolds.

I’m ready.

Beloved Kansas

I think that I must reflect upon not only Georgetown before I leave but also upon missing my beloved Kansas. I get many Dorothy and farm jokes when people figure out where I hail from, but I wish so much that I could share my love of Kansas with all my friends at school. She has a beauty that isn’t flashy but is genuine. That beauty which endures calls to me somehow, as though Kansas is in my blood.

I love the people of Kansas, good at heart, diverse in their own way. But I really enjoy the idea that everyone aspires to live elsewhere but somehow got rooted down, stuck here. Really it seems like everyone just got caught up in Kansas’ spell. And her lovely low cost of living. And crime rates. And good schools.

Overall Kansas is very conservative, but it seems to come from a hard work ethic and belief that we should rely upon ourselves and help one another rather than increasing the size and scope of our government. People pass opinions and religion down through their family like other places in the world. I’ve found that Kansans love to debate politics and religion heatedly even when everyone at the table agrees on the issues being discussed. I could pretty safely guarantee that if someone drove across a highway in Kansas, even for just one or two hours, he/she would see signs promoting pro-life ideals and being saved by Jesus. This isn’t a place that is scared of strong beliefs—and sharing them.

I take walks in my neighborhood in the evening sometimes, and this summer I saw a series of things that made me love Kansas. First I saw an inter-racial family playing basketball with their dad; then I saw an aged lemonade stand sign perched on a fence. Next I came across a huge wheelchair ramp into a modest home with a sign posted on the door that read “Choose Life.” Finally, there was a group of friends playing ping pong in their garage together. Maybe I’m oversimplifying what it means to live in Kansas. I just so loved what I observed on this walk through my neighborhood, where I felt completely safe and at peace.

The scenery in Kansas is part of why I love it so, and perhaps it took being away for awhile to appreciate it more or realize what is right in front of me. Where I live I can drive fifteen minutes into a city, and fifteen minutes in the opposite direction will take me into the countryside. Kansas enthralls me with her wide open spaces that make me feel so utterly free. The flatness of Kansas enables one to see forever it feels like, with the sky opening up and demanding attention. During the day, Kansas land ranges from every shade of green to gold and varying shades of brown. Crops dance in the wind and golden fields of wheat and sunflowers seem to reflect all the sun they have soaked up. While the hills may be mild, the land itself seems so alive, ever changing, reflecting the beauty of the sky. When sunset comes, it feels as though the sky has saved up all the extra colors not used in the green and golden landscape to spill down vividly with the sun’s descent. Pinks, reds, oranges, yellows, blues, purples blend together seamlessly, differently every night. A good friend told me that sunsets seem to be God’s love letters to us. How true it seems. It almost feels like God made Kansas flat to better showcase His sky. I haven’t been anywhere else in the world where the sky has reached out and touched me as it has in Kansas.

I’ve been wondering more and more lately if parts of Ireland will look like the gentle, rolling hills in Kansas in the summertime. Probably not. But I do know that I will miss this place sorely. Its beauty is unique and captivates me in its deceptive simplicity. Of course, I will miss the people even more, between my loving family and friends. The only comfort I can find is that sometimes absence really does make us appreciate one another more. And hopefully I will meet amazing people abroad. I know I will see awesome beauty while abroad as well, but I mustn't take Kansas for granted. After all, I only have one more week to appreciate her before I leave....

My Midnight Vigil

Today it became official. I cannot live in denial for much longer about this whole Oxford thing. I received my first email from one of my tutors, a premier scholar of C.S. Lewis. He gave me a rather vague assignment to read as much of Lewis as possible before term, which made me cringe slightly—there’s not much time before term commences and yet oh so much Lewis to read.

Nonetheless, I was ecstatic. How can I deny my future when I’m given practical responsibilities to make my future possible? That’s what it comes down to, really, for me in this journey to Oxford. The dream becomes much more tangible, attainable when I have to do something to get myself there.

There are obvious signs in my life that the time draws near, like flipping through my planner and seeing so few pages between now and then. But it is the real things, the boring, mundane, responsible things that truly make me realize it’s happening. Like when I called my bank to tell them I would use my debit card while abroad. After I filled prescriptions, checked airline baggage guidelines, made doctor appointments, investigated ordering Euros/Pounds, etc., etc., I have become gradually more acclimated to the idea that I am going. It’s happening. It. Is. Happening.

This waiting period is wearing on me, when acknowledging how little time I have left creates a weird tension between enjoying that time and using that time wisely to prepare for the unknown. As I was telling a friend, it makes me think of Gandalf telling Frodo he will leave for the adventure of a lifetime soon, so he should rest and relax until that time while simultaneously he should somehow make himself ready.

Isn’t it somehow forced, staged, to enjoy my last meal there or visit with so and so before I leave? Doesn’t it inject that which I love with this heightened awareness and nostalgia so that that which I love is overshadowed, dimmed?

It also reminds me of Good Will Hunting when Robin Williams puts Matt Damon in his place, telling him he can quote every book known to mankind but what has he actually experienced himself? In one of my earlier posts, I described how I have tried to piece together an understanding of Oxford through reading literature written at or about Oxford. I have asked people who have studied there to tell me what they love about their Oxford. I have looked up pictures and read articles….but this all amounts to brain knowledge, not experience knowledge. It’s a thousand thoughts, emotions, facts that remain two-dimensional when I want so badly to feel the three-dimensional, faceted, heady experience itself. Only that can really unlock these riddles of advice and thoughts and pictures for the brilliance that they really are.

I mean, thinking of how quickly college itself has evaporated, I am sad to think of how close I am to leaving, for then the experience has started and will soon be over. That’s a stupid philosophy, I know. Studying at Oxford won’t be the pinnacle of my life and once it’s over, there will be a million other noteworthy experiences to anticipate. And yet I also know, completely and without a doubt, that this will be a year unlike any other, full of firsts and onlys.

In life, there are those breathtaking moments that live only in our memory, which seems to smooth away each imperfection and make the moment perhaps more beautiful than it ever actually was. I have this strange feeling that I’ve jumped ahead and a frustrating cycle awaits me. I’m sitting here envisioning a perfect version of what I will experience, expecting that the reality cannot possibly live up to that dream, and knowing that afterward I will perfect that imperfect experience and miss it sorely as I dream of it.

Perhaps that makes sense only to me. Maybe that is as it should be. I thought about what this would feel like, this period of waiting before the birth of one beautiful year. I want the vigil to be over and yet I dread it because the vigil is so unique, so fascinating and frustrating in and of itself.

I’ll look back at this time and wish I could return to it. Not just my time at Oxford, but this exhilarating, painfully intense moment on the brink of that time. I picture myself wondering, “If only I could go back to that time before I knew, before I had any idea of what I will experience. Before I could miss what is to come for I had no idea what would come.”

Maybe I won’t feel any of these of things. Maybe it’s useless and silly to think ahead as though I can possibly know my future self. I just like to think that I can. I feel helpless here on the brink, knowing the subsequent fall is coming. Therefore I daydream and wonder aimlessly in a muddled fashion. Bear with me.

Oh, That Beautiful Hilltop

Wow, I miss Georgetown. I knew it would happen now, a few days before school starts. The facebook statuses have been updated for hundreds of friends, saying "Back to the Hilltop!!!!". I would have been moved in by now. I would have experienced that weird solo flight to DC that makes me question if I am leaving home or going home or both. After arriving at the airport, that beautiful drive across Key Bridge would offer me a view of my beloved Potomac. I would have arrived and had that first glimpse of Healy that makes me know without a doubt that I am a Hoya.

With class in a few days, I would have made that stupid climb uphill to the bookstore by now and made painfully expensive purchases there and on Amazon. I would have had a series of beautiful, joyful reunions with friends, getting nervous, checking the clock, looking at my phone, craning my neck around the corner, questioning “Is she here YET????”.

As stingy as I am, I still would have used the handy excuse that I had just arrived in DC and therefore absolutely needed to pick up a Georgetown Cupcake, a salad at SweetGreen, froyo at Saxby’s, a quesadilla at the Epicurean. Then I would have finally given in and have gingerly made that first trip to Leo’s, immediately recalling the hundreds of meals I had already eaten there with distaste. After resisting for 24 hours or so, I would have made the trek to CVS for Diet Dr. Pepper.

I would have decorated my room with pleasure, creating that little place that is all my own on campus. Lists of all the sight-seeing I still, after two years, have yet to do would be on my desk. Books I had to sneak into my suitcase would be around my room, pictures of home everywhere to make me miss it less.

How can I forget Dahlgren? I would have run my fingers through the fountain as I passed, sensing the thousands of Hoyas from years past in the atmosphere of Dahlgren Square, and slipped into mass feeling completely at peace. The Village A and LXR rooftops would have beckoned me up to confront me with how blessed I am with the beauty of my surroundings.

I’d be wishing school and work didn’t start so soon and thinking about how wonderful life would be if I could live the college life without grades or finals. I would be avoiding Lau like the plague. I’d be contemplating the semester ahead. I’d feel like my life was surreal and wonder where my summer had gone.

Instead, I’m here at home. I feel like a compulsive liar when I tell people I’m studying abroad and say school doesn’t start for me for another month. Really, I feel like a college drop-out and also like Georgetown kicked me out and said, “Don’t come back.” I’m excited for this year, of course, but that doesn’t matter right now. I have to mourn what I’m losing before I can enjoy what I'm gaining.

Perhaps I Am Ready After All....

Self-confidence is an interesting concept to me. It never seems to be based on strictly the singular self, but rather is determined as a self in relation to other selves: am I as good as he/she is? Am I as attractive as they are? As smart, witty, charismatic, entertaining, interesting….. Okay, I am, so I deserve to have some self-confidence. I don’t think that is how self-confidence should be, obviously. I just feel like self-confidence has commonly become competitive in that manner and lost much of its worth in the process. I think, however, that I am finally beginning to understand and feel self-confidence as it is meant to be—independent, untouchable, valuable.

I was contemplating self-confidence today while I was thinking about going to Oxford. If I had asked myself four years ago, even one year ago, if I thought I would ever study at Oxford, I would have definitively said no. Now it makes me think of an adrenaline rush, performing at your peak capacity as the occasion demands it—perhaps I stepped up my game in order to get into Oxford but once I arrive, I will flounder. Sink. Disappoint myself.

Once I would have thought that. Still I sometimes am plagued by those sorts of thoughts. But since going to college, I feel like some cliché flower that has suddenly bloomed into self-confidence. Or rather, a flower that realized I had already bloomed and merely needed to appreciate myself for who I am.

I’m still intimidated, yes. I also, however, feel at peace. I am scared to make new friends, to be a lone American girl in Europe, to meet my own expectations academically, to have the courage to actually live the adventure that is waiting for me, if I grasp it and own it. Simultaneously, if I were to be honest, I can say that I have no doubt that I will return to the States happy with the way I lived my study abroad experience. I don’t question that I could possibly look back and think, “Wow. That was boring. Totally not worth it.”

I anticipate thousands of beautiful moments that await me. It’s almost as though I’m at the end of my life, in the last few moments before death, playing that momentous slideshow in my mind of every significant, beautiful experience in my life. But instead of looking back, right now I’m looking forward. How splendid (yes, splendid) is that? I am so blessed. Right now, in this moment, I feel overwhelmingly excited, thrilled, thankful for what awaits me. In the next three weeks (that’s ALL that stands between me and Europe), I know I will panic. I know I will feel like I’m stepping off a lovely precipice—home—to fall into some mysterious abyss—Europe. I realize that I will never feel ready.

Still I await my Visa. I haven’t truly embarked on that painful journey through my wardrobe that concludes with two tiny suitcases. I do not know a single person at Mansfield College, Oxford. I haven’t faced my first tutorial. I haven’t made that first bitter withdrawal from a European ATM where my dollar loses its value to become a pound or a Euro.

But the excellent thing is that I have travelled. I’ve packed up my little life to fly off to DC; I can do the same for England. I know I’ll do fine in my tutorials; I have taken difficult classes before. I'll face some challenges, some hard times. But I will weather them and learn from my trials. How many people possess the opportunities I now have? I get to study British history and read British literature in England. I will travel to places I have read about and dreamt of.

And…I feel like I deserve to go. Perhaps that’s not what I mean to say….I feel like I have worked hard to get to this point and possess the skills, maturity, and attitude to enjoy this experience to the fullest. Even a year or two ago, I'm not sure I would have been ready to go, to do this. But now I am. So the question becomes not am I ready to go to Europe but rather is Europe ready for me?

An English Major's Research: Books About Oxford

Why do I love books so? There are those cheesey, well-known, oft-expressed explanations that hold some truth: with a book one can adventure around the world without leaving one’s home; with a book one can better oneself infinitely, stretching both the mind and the imagination; and with a book one can learn what it means to live fully, love truly, give freely.

I’ve always loved the deserted areas in used bookstores and dusty libraries that seem neglected and therefore ready for an adventure. The bindings of books have captivated me many a time, as though merely through reading the titles of books I am soaking up a fraction of their information. I associate books with people who are ambitious, not only in wanting to look beyond themselves, but also in taking initiative in self-education. Additionally, I enjoy people who are bored and watch a great deal of TV; alternatively, I feel like I live in a box, as one of teachers once told me—most of my free time is spent exploring fiction rather than learning of pop culture.

While I may be out of the loop on the latest music and reality TV shows, my addiction to reading has undoubtedly helped me to further my understanding of humanity, diversity, tragedy, great joy, love that isn’t broken in its reality. This summer in particular I have dedicated in part to learning of a foreign place I was almost entirely ignorant of. Truthfully, I remain unsure of what to expect when I arrive at Oxford, but through reading a bit of literature written by authors from Oxford and fiction set in Oxford, I have pieced a preliminary understanding of Oxford together.

This past year I read The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis and was blown away. I’ll always associate him with Oxford after watching a video in high school youth group that was about C.S. Lewis and showed me my first clips of the stunning Oxford, where Lewis both studied and taught. For the past few years, I have vaguely dreamt of that far-off place that seems so….allusive, mysterious, grand. The long, trying application process brought a little more reality to that dream.

But back to Lewis. If someone had told me that an author would create a lion who I could envision as Christ, I would have laughed at him. If someone had told me that a fantasy world could be created by another, earlier British author that I would love equally (though in a very different way) as much as Harry Potter, I would have scoffed at the very idea. C.S. Lewis defied my expectations and captivated me in his first pages. I loved his characters for their humanness, their imperfections that made them feel like true heroes/heroines, with depth and weaknesses I could relate to. He painted such rich, breathtaking portrayals of another world and of the beginning of heaven that I now imagine them in my vision of the afterlife.

After watching that video years ago, I have also dreamt of visiting the pub which Lewis and Tolkien held meetings for their literary club, “The Inklings.” I had greater reserve in reading Tolkien’s works than Lewis’, for who could resist The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe? Both The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings are intimidating in their lack of brevity; the length of the movies alone made me hesitate to begin his books. Nonetheless, I am proud to say I persevered and discovered some remarkable similarities between Lewis and Tolkien’s fantastical creations.

I have long felt that a good deal of British literature of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries has a captivating quality of creating a little magnetic familial sphere of rich gossip, drama, and intrigues that one can barely pry oneself away from. Lewis and Tolkien’s works are a bit different; they create enchanting and addictive characters, missions, and settings that ask the reader to venture to entirely new worlds. Both describe food in a way that makes me hungry for a merry feast that could even begin to compare to the repasts of elves or fauns. Their merrymaking seems warm, inviting, innocently joyful, and inherently friendly (particularly as contrasted with the scanty food during harrowing missions, where the characters long for those lovely feasts). Do not fear, however: I remain ever wary of the food in England.

Lewis and Tolkien both molded characters who seem reserved, mostly content, and yet hungering for something indefinable—they do not pretend to be brave or lovable, and then the characters and the reader alike are surprised at the courage the characters dig up from within and the love the reader finds has been inspired for them. Lewis and Tolkien allowed me to form a simple, important theory about Oxford: while the fiction I read that takes place in Oxford ridicules Oxford’s snobbery and lack of true worth, these men prove that Oxford can be credited with being a part of both these noble books of profound imagination, kindness, courage, and meaning, as well as their authors. After all, Lewis became a Christian at Oxford:

"You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England" (Surprised by Joy).

And where would we be if C.S. Lewis had never become a Christian? Additionally, both Lewis and Tolkien wrote their stories while teaching at Oxford. If I could happen to become friends with a literary genius like either Lewis or Tolkien while studying abroad at Oxford, I would be quite content.

In terms of fiction set in Oxford, I first read Brideshead Revisited, followed by Zuleika Dobson and Jude the Obscure. Brideshead doubled as being written from a man who studied at Oxford and a piece of fiction that partially takes place in Oxford (as does Zuleika Dobson). I must admit that I have rarely, if ever, read a work of fiction that made me feel as alone as when I read Brideshead. It’s difficult to describe, but I suppose it was due to both being completely incapable of relating to really any of the characters and the dialogue; everything that was said was said beautifully but it didn’t seem to reach the person being spoken to (and it didn’t matter: no one seemed to notice or care about the disconnect in the book itself). In a sense, I felt like the beautifully written dialogue was a series of self-involved monologues.

All mentions of Oxford seemed superficial, not flattering, perhaps because the main purpose of Oxford was partying, making social connections, and impressing one another with one’s troubled soul and originality as expressed through biting comments. To me, it seemed like I knew Charles Ryder little more at the conclusion of the book as I had prior to opening it; likewise, Oxford itself seemed a mere jumping spot to other happenings, a mere in-between place vaguely mentioned. Nonetheless, I am glad to have read a book so beautifully written and unique from anything else I have read. I picked up on qualities of snobbery, pretension, discontent, insecurity, frivolity, and romance in Waugh’s depiction of Oxford.

Zuleika Dobson portrayed a beautiful, surreal Oxford. The characters were ludicrous and extraordinary and utterly absurd. Oxford had a quality of being a place that was worth noting and had the potential for anything to happen. When every single male student committed suicide for love of the (quite literally) femme fatale Zuleika Dobson, the students of Oxford obviously looked to be a bit pompous, recklessly daring, and to crave recognition, fame, and nobility. Overall, Zuleika left me craving to see the boat races that make suicide worth postponing: “It [the Duke's suicide] shall be just after the Eights have been rowed. An earlier death would mark in me a lack of courtesy to that contest." And I simply must include this rather lengthy description of Oxford that I adore:

Oxford, that lotus-land, saps the will-power, the power of action. But, in doing so, it clarifies the mind, makes larger the vision, gives, above all, that playful and caressing suavity of manner which comes of a conviction that nothing matters, except ideas, and that not even ideas are worth dying for, inasmuch as the ghosts of them slain seem worthy of yet more piously elaborate homage than can be given to them in their hey-day…For there is nothing in England to be matched with what lurks in the vapours of these meadows, and in the shadows of these spires—that mysterious, inenubilable spirit, spirit of Oxford. Oxford! The very sight of the word printed, or sound of it spoken, is fraught for me with most actual magic. (Zuleika Dobson)

Finally, I have just finished reading Jude the Obscure this very day. I can honestly say I have never read a more depressing book. What can it be like to lose one’s dreams, children, wife, social respectability, and religious conviction? That sounds trite (how many other books include those occurrences?), but truly, Hardy succeeds in creating an oppressive, hopeless, heartbreaking tragedy. Jude’s Oxford is one which rejects the poor who crave scholarship, creating a crumbling series of buildings which merely signify a snobby community out of touch with humanity. Jude’s beloved, Sue, says that he is “one of the very men Christminster [fictional equivalent of Oxford] was intended for when the colleges were founded; a man with a passion for learning, but no money, or opportunities, or friends…You were elbowed off the pavement by the millionaires’ sons.” Hardy frequented Oxford’s Lamb and Flag, a pub where he supposedly thought up his tragic story Jude the Obscure. Luckily, the Oxford which denied entrance to those of low social status does not exist today. People who crave knowledge and learning like Jude definitely study at Oxford—like I shall. Nonetheless, I cannot wait to visit Hardy’s old haunt.

At the end of this rather long reflection on what I have pieced together about Oxford, I find myself having produced little in the way of an antidote to my ignorance of the place. I simply know that some absolutely BRILLIANT men and women have studied at Oxford. I know that Oxford has maintained a magnetic mystique for hundreds of years that has captured one more student, frightened of her possibilities and respectful of her accomplishments.

The Rights of Unborn Women

I saw this bumper sticker the other day on an old beat-up van that read, “Fight to Protect the Rights of Unborn Women.” It hit me so powerfully. I’m pretty involved with the pro-life movement, and while the idea of the bumper sticker seems so basic and fundamental, I’ve never connected the idea of women’s rights and the rights of the unborn in that way before. The way the pro-life vs. pro-choice debate is generally structured is with territorial, exclusive claims on the rights of the unborn and the rights of women, respectively. In actuality, the pro-choice movement seeks to eliminate the rights of the unborn entirely while the pro-life movement fights to support women along with the unborn.

It’s always been a sticky issue with the pro-life movement to combat the foundational slogan of the pro-choice movement: women deserve the right to control their own bodies. Feminists for Life have a wonderful motto that best defeats the principles of the pro-choice movement, I think: women deserve better than abortion.

The idea that women have the right to control their own bodies is extremely superficial, in my opinion. The pro-choice movement offers a convenient, instant-gratification solution to a woman who cannot afford her child or does not want the responsibility of caring for her child. It fails to support women who make the choice to not have an abortion, and it fails to support women with post-abortive healing. Having an abortion has lasting, profound consequences. It is one of the biggest decisions that absolutely cannot be taken back, undone, reversed. Women who choose to have an abortion risk higher chances of depression, abusing their other children, infertility, and life-long regret.

It seems so wrong to me to try to base an ethical decision on convenience. Since it would be really difficult to have a child, let’s just get rid of the child. It’s not really a human being yet anyway (see any similarity with “A Jew isn’t human, it should be exterminated”?). Ethics should be based on principles that hold true even in the most trying of circumstances. The pro-life movement sets out to fight for the children that are being lost in a holocaust of convenience. A country based on liberty and the rights of each human being should not legalize the sacrifice of its most vulnerable citizens.

I love the pro-life movement for its ethical integrity in supporting the unborn, its support of women who have chosen to have an abortion and need post-abortive healing, and its support of women who choose to keep their children alive. The pro-life movement doesn’t say, “Keep the baby. I know you’re poor, struggling, desperate, just make it happen.” I worked with a shelter in DC that counsels women who are pregnant, helps them find jobs, and provides them with diapers and baby formula and also shelter if they are abused or homeless. At school, we worked to meet the needs of student mothers, including free babysitting so they could remain in school, counseling, and the support of health, housing, financial, administration, and spiritual departments. Feminists for Life also asserts that abortion is a clear result of the needs of women not being met. America should increase its aid to pregnant, struggling women. We should not support a system that claims to ameliorate the problem of unwanted pregnancy while really it augments the problem by compromising the identity of America herself, who sacrifices caring for the helpless for the sake of convenience.

I love this movement which doesn’t lure women in with a quick fix and dooms them to life-long negative consequences. The pro-life movement doesn’t promote men not bearing the responsibilities of their choices and does not deprive them of being involved in the choice to kill their own children. Additionally, the pro-life movement does not inconsistently promote the rights of women by first victimizing women who choose to be sexually active (“that’s a shame that happened to you.”...as though the woman caught an illness rather than chose to have sex), then saying women suddenly have the power to control their own bodies when it comes to purging their wombs of the life they have created. So, essentially, the pro-choice philosophy takes away the cause (women choosing to have sex) and then must get rid of the result (the child isn't actually a life).

Women are made to be empowered if they liken their bodies to those of men: unable to bear children. Where is the feminism in that? It is a difficult, wonderful, complex power that women alone possess in being able to bear and nurture children in the womb. Feminism should support the whole woman, rather than reducing women to a body; it should recognize the implications in making a responsible choice with regards to sexual partners and spouses, the deep emotion that comes with finding out one is a mother, and the responsibility in providing for a child that one has created (even if it means giving up the child to a family that can better provide for him/her). I am proud to fight to protect the rights of women—the unborn, the struggling, and the lost.