Why I Love the NCAA

I wish I was in the States right now. There are very few times that wish is true, but right now I would rather be in the cold of Chicago, watching VCU and Butler than 3000 miles away watching by myself in the middle of the night.

There has been a lot of talk about VCU and Butler's run through the tournament to end all tournaments: about how these teams shouldn't have been there, or that the other teams flopped. This is really offensive to both teams. If I were Georgetown, Purdue, Florida State (a ten seed, mind you) or Kansas, I would be offended if someone suggested that VCU didn't just beat us. That we lost to an inferior team. Who wants to lose to someone who sucks? I would rather lose to someone who is just better than I am. Kansas put up a hell of a fight, and clawed their way back into that game. Kansas had been dominant throughout the tournament, destroying what some considered to be a decent Illinois team, and making short work of the upstart Richmond Spiders. VCU was just better than Kansas, full stop; and there is no dishonor to losing to a better team.

The same can be said of Butler, the mid-major darlings of the Tournament. Every year, Butler wins a few games and everyone is surprised. Like Boise State and TCU's football program, Butler continually shows that clever coaching, strong fundamentals and a no-fear attitude will win you games experts predict you will lose.

It's sad that Butler is going to play second fiddle to VCU. The Rams just have a better story this year: a team no one thought should be there, a team scorned by pundits, played in a play-in game for the chance to compete, went on to win more games than anyone else left in the tournament and stands poised to do what George Mason failed to do not too long ago: advance to the finals as the lowest seed in history.

Everyone loves to root for underdogs; the only problem here is that both Butler and VCU are underdogs. Unfortunately for the Bulldogs, VCU is just slightly more underdogish.

The narrative of the NCAA Tournament is what makes it so great. It has the right amount of David-and-Goliath appeal, mixed with the surety of history and the excitement of every sports movie in history. The people in charge of seeding the bracket have a job that would rivals weathermen for the most unpopular clairvoyant. No bracket is ever going to make everyone happy, and this year there were particularly loud moans from Colorado (who beat Kansas State, a #5, three times), Virginia Tech and Alabama. USC, who lost to six suspicious teams and really didn't win against anyone exciting, raised some eyebrows. Harvard, who lost to Princeton in the Ivy League tournament, had a better overall record than Florida St. (#10), Clemson (#12), Louisville (#4), St. John's (#6), West Virginia (#5), Georgetown (#5), Villanova (#9), Marquette (#11), Illinois (#9), Michigan (#8), Michigan State (#10), Kansas State (#5), Missouri (#11), USC (who lost to VCU for a #11), and UAB (who Clemson beat for a #12). Harvard might have been able to do as well as any of those teams (most of which were out after the first two rounds).

I know the argument about schedules and opponent strength, but wins are wins. Princeton was a missed three away from beating Kentucky, who is in the Final Four. I also understand that the NCAA is there to make money, and the four or five guys who live for Harvard basketball aren't going to bring in the same revenue that the legions of Big East fans will. Couple that with the number of games each Big East school plays against other big name, heavy hitting schools, and one can understand why eleven of the sixteen teams made it while only one of the Ivy League teams got the nod. Still, knowing how much America loves a surprise victory, and knowing how well the underdog score card gets people in their seats, you think the NCAA seeders might float a chance on Harvard instead of one of the half-decent major conference schools.

But if they did, what would we, the arm chair pundits, have to complain about?

What I think should be taken from this, though, is the necessity for a college football playoff system. Right now, the Bowl games are an atrocity. There are countless Bowl games (last year, 35 total; who knows how many next year will have), half of which are uninteresting at best and down right esoteric at worst (The R+L Carriers New Orleans bowl where Troy faced University of Ohio [the wrong school in Ohio]). There is no purpose to the game: two teams play each other and then it's over; trophies are awarded to the winner while no one watches or cares. Here's a fun game: name the winners of the last three Beef 'O' Brady Tropicana Bowl? If I played in that game, I don't think I'd want a t-shirt to remind me of the horrible shame of being relegated to the Beef 'O' Brady Bowl.

But, make that Bowl a game needed to make it one step closer to a shot at the Championship Game, and suddenly I'm interested.

Of course, uprooting an entrenched system like the BCS is not easy. Some Bowls have tradition (like the Rose Bowl features representatives from the Big Ten and the Pac-10 conferences, unless they are occupied in the Championship Game), and that tradition is not impressed by a nation's desire to see a Championship earned, not named. Others, though, are just Bowls so certain divisions get a bowl game (like the Fiesta Bowl, which was created so that WAC teams got a bowl game). The point is: for most games (Rose Bowl and the Championship game aside), win or lose, no one but those fans of teams involved care. In the end, the winner of the Advocare V100 Independence Bowl wins only that game, which has little bearing to that team's championship status.

Now, if we took those same Bowls, and attached a one-and-done style playoff system to them, suddenly people would be interested. To make sure that the BCS still gets their money, the games could be played in a variety of locations across the country, just like the NCAA tournament. Because football needs an entire week between games to rest and prepare, the tourament might have to feature less teams, but that's fine. There is plenty of time between the last of the regular season games in late November/early December and the Championship game in January. Stretched out over five weeks with four divisions, the BCS could slot in 32 teams. The championship could rotate between the BCS Championship Bowl Stadiums (Rose, Fiesta, Orange and Sugar).

This way, little schools like Boise State and TCU, teams with impressive records and spunky spirit, could make an attempt at the Championship game. More often then not, the higher seeded teams win. According to Wikipedia, in the opening round of the basketball tournament, the higher seed is between 60 and 100% more likely to win the game (save the #8 v #9 game, in which the #8 wins only 47% of the time; but those teams are often very close in ability). More often than not at least one of the four #1 seeds make it to the Final Four. In 2009 all of the #1 seeds made it. But that's fine; it shows the world what the NCAA seeders knew all along: which teams were the best. No one is surprised or upset when a #1 seed wins, but everyone secretly prays to see that amazing game where a deep seeded underdog plays their hearts out and wins in the end.

Plus, with a football tournament, everyone would get to draw up brackets twice a year, predicting which David is going to best which over-hyped, overrated Goliath this winter. That's what picking the correct combination of underdogs can show: that we can more accurately judge the talents of these faceless college athletes better than our friends, family, and the experts that are paid to watch the games.

Sisyphus

Sisyphus was an interesting character. As Wikipedia tells it, he was often considered a really crafty man, willing to break common laws of decency to get what he needs. For a time, he considered himself a God, claiming his own cleverness on par with that of Zeus.

What most people know about Sisyphus, though, is what happens after he died. Sisyphus was punished in the afterlife by being forced to push a boulder up a hill; once at the top, the boulder would roll to the bottom, causing him to start the whole process over again. For all eternity. It's not clear why, but this punishment is for his trickery (Wikipedia suggests that he demanded his wife defile his body by throwing it naked into the public square; he demanded this to test how much his wife loved him). If even half that tales attributed to his name are true, then he deserves this punishment. The guy was really a pretty big dick.

Thus, a sisyphean task is one that requires the person to repeat a mind numbing, arduous task for eternity. It's implied that not a lot of inherent good that comes with the eternal toil of the sisyphean task. What happiness can a man really find in pushing a boulder around for the rest of time? Who wants to be known as the guy wearing a rut into the mountain side as he unsuccessfully pushes a boulder to the top.

I wonder, though, about the nature of this punishment. I get why someone would see it unpleasant: Sisyphus has to do the same banal task every day, all day, for all of time. He'll never know the joy of success. He'll only know the disappointment of failure. Each day, everything that he's accomplished is moot, washed away like so many sandcastles on the beach.

I am in the middle of writing my thesis, which I have earlier compared to building a house on sand. This is going to be the most massive project I will ever work on: 100,000 words focused on a single idea. There is really no way to sit and write this in any linear fashion. In fact, there is really no way to write this in any sort of singular fashion. There is no way my mind could comprehend and synthesize all the ideas I have been reading across the time span it would take to research a piece of 100,000 words.

Instead, I have found that I can write a bunch of 10,000 word chunks, building chapters piece-meal. Right now, I have a good start on an introduction for a project I am no longer writing; 10,000 words on time and comics that I only sort of believe anymore; and 10,000 words on textual and pictorial narration that I just finished and thing is the bee's knees. Currently, I am reworking the time chapter, expanding what was missing, and refocusing some of the looser sections. I remember, when I finished writing it, thinking I would never need to return to that chunk again, save to fix some comma errors and to flesh out one or two weaker sections.

Little did I know that, while pushing a different boulder up the hill, the other boulders I had written settled at the bottom of the hill. Writing this is like sysiphean juggling. Just as one boulder gets near the top, the others have settled again at the bottom.

But here's the thing: as long as I am writing this, I know what I am going to be doing. I am going to be working on this. Every day I wake up, there is a goal on which I can focus my attention. It's a cumbersome, shifty goal, and one that sometimes gives me headaches to think about, but nonetheless, a goal. It helps add structure to my life, which, as a student, lacks structure.

Once I get all the boulders to the top, then what? That's a scary question, and one I have been actively avoiding for the better part of my life. Obviously, I'll need to get a job. But where? Do I want to stay here? Do I want to go somewhere new? Do I want to return to America? These are no small questions; what I am essentially deciding is what new set of boulders I want.

Getting a job in academia has it's advantages. Namely, I am not hemmed in to any certain location. I've thought about Australia and New Zealand recently. Helsinki has a really neat vibe, and a new English-language program that will need good lecturers. Canada, despite being Canada, has some really excellent universities, progressive enough to find an expert in comics pretty sexy. Of course, all of this depends on the availability of jobs, but more than likely, something will be available in any English-speaking country.

But, finding a job is not that simple. Even if I get a part-time job, am I going to continue looking in that general vicinity? Am I going to keep bouncing around the globe taking part-time, adjunct positions for a while? I'm not getting any younger, and I would like to eventually settle down with someone. Is there anyone who wants to globe trot like I do? Making the wrong decision at the end of this could put me at the bottom of a terrible mountain, with boulders that are particularly awful.

The thing is: the darkness that lay ahead of me, beyond the goal I am working on, makes this sysiphean task seem pretty good by comparison. I like what I do. I like reading books and comics. I like thinking hard about complicated narrative processes. I like meeting with other intellectuals to discuss my writing, and to have my ideas challenged. Granted, I'll never own a car, a house, or even rent a space much bigger than this closet the school give me now. Maybe, though, ownership is overrated when compared to knowing what the future holds.

I guess the point of this is that I envy Sisyphus. He seems to have shown again that he is the most clever man: for the rest of his life, he knows what he has to do.

On the Forthcoming Bluebells

The Penglais forest that borders the housing developments on the north side of the A487 (Penglais Rd.) is a more scenic way to campus. It is out of the way, but on days like we've been having, a few minutes out of the way to be surrounded by newly budding foliage is worth it. Especially in the spring when the forest floor becomes covered in bluebells. This is in no way a hyperbole: the things will spread and cover the forest floor, and, as the website linked above indicates, dominate the ground foliage.

That said, the bluebell is difficult to keep alive. As Conservation Volunteers of Northern Ireland note, "Humidity is a key requirement. It is intolerant of trampling, heavy grazing, water logging, deep shade and does not compete well with vigorous grasses". Essentially, these plants need the perfect amount of sunlight, but not so much that grass can grow. It needs to grow in a place where people and animals don't go. And there needs to be a fair amount of moisture in the air. Like the giant panda or the ficus tree, this is yet another species on the planet that seems to want to die.

Sadly, I was early. The bluebell shoots were fully bloomed, and it seems like a matter of days or so until the first blossoms start to materialize. The forest was still quiet pleasant: quiet, removed from the traffic of the street, and just starting to show signs of life. Some of the more prickly bushes had already blossomed, but these dense, angry plants tend not to shed their leaves and thus can blossom earlier.

The walk through Penglais Forest took me through PJM, my old stomping grounds from last year, and this was a sort of melancholy happenstance. As it was, my mind was in a retrospective mood, remembering how much I liked walking through that forest last year. When I lived in PJM, I tended to use the forest path to get down to the town, saving myself the hassle of clouding my lungs with the car exhaust of the A487. There is a lot about that forest that I had forgotten about: the neat clusters of gnarled trees, the gently rolling path, and the quietness of my surroundings.

Then, as I was walking through the parking lots around PJM, I thought of how I would relay this to Erika. And I was washed over with sadness. That forest held some importance in my relationship with Erika. I arrived her in January, and used the changing of the seasons to demarcate the time I had spent away from her. She came to visit me around this time last year, and the arrival of spring signaled the arrival of the woman I would later ask to marry me. One of the first things Erika and I did once in Aberystwyth was to walk through that forest.

There are some days I don't think about Erika at all. And then, like today, there are days I am constantly reminded of her; days where everything I see reminds me of her, or I see things I want to tell her. But, like with the bluebells, I was left disappointed in this regard as well. More than likely, I won't ever tell Erika anything ever again.

But there is another way to read this metaphor (which is the nice things about metaphors): every year, for several hundred years now, the bluebells have blossomed, lived, and then died. Every year, though, they come back, carpeting the forest floor. It would seem, then, that all good things return eventually. This loneliness (separate from my life with Erika, and a life filled with bluebells) is only temporary. It's not something that can be rushed, but with patience and persistence, I will then be rewarded with an amazing experience.

Political Statements

This is a more politically oriented entry than I tend to make, but I am really surprised by the things are shaking out in Libya.

First, things that should be taken as a given, but act as disclaimers: Qaddafi is a horrible person. What he's done to the Libyans is flat terrible. They have every right to want revolt. Like most dictators, I am not surprised that the people are rising up against him, and he deserves whatever happens.

Now, on to the heart of the matter: I find the European reaction to the Libyans quite hypocritical, particularly in light of the outrage when the American's stormed into Iraq. Granted, there are differences. America lied about the intelligence regarding nuclear weapons facilities, and there was no raging civil conflict. Also, France had the support of most of the international community as evidenced by the UN. Besides that, the differences are negligible. There was certainly civil unrest, as Hussein was violently favoring his particular sect of Muslims. He was also despotically controlling the country.

There is oil involved.

Of course, once the misleading intelligence was set aside, the American rhetoric turned towards freedom: Iraq deserved to be it's own country. It was the right thing to do: allowing the people to vote democratically for their leaders. It was the moral things to do: freedom from despots is always the right thing to do. This same rhetoric proliferates around discussion of the Libyan attacks. This article discusses the reaction of the British Prime Minister, David Cameron, and his position in the war. It's quick to note the similarities between Cameron and his predecessor, Tony Blair, who was heavily involved in the Iraq war, particularly in the rhetoric that was used by both. Labour leader Ed Milliband was quoted by the BBC, saying, "We know in our hearts and in our heads when we see Colonel Gaddafi murdering his own people, it is right to take this action". There seems to be a focus on the horrible atrocities to the people of Libya. This is certainly true, and no one can argue with that.

France has been particularly vocal about Libya, and was one of the first of the Allied nations to suggest action (drawing the UK with them). Friday morning, French President Nicolas Sarkozy called Cameron to solidify his alliance, and then sought to assemble a "coalition of the willing," which, as of today, was France, Britain, US, Spain, Portugal, Norway, Belgium, Sweden, Italy and Qatar. When Germany and some other heavy UN powerhouses did not immediately join in, Sarkozy was outraged, and The Telegraph reports that David Cameron had to restrain him as he shouted at EU Foreign Minister Lady Ashton.

But weren't the same things true in Iraq? Did not Hussein also kill his own people? Was not he also a horrible dictator? Why then was Cameron critical of the Iraq war? What makes this dictator so much worse than other dictators, like in North Korea, Yemen or Bahrain?

My brother Kiernan raised a good argument, noting that the Libyans are vocal, crying for freedom. This most recent war is to help those that want helping, rather than what it seemed like America was doing: helping itself by thinly veiled attempts to help others. Also, the Libyans have petitioned the UN for help with Qaddafi, so the European reaction is more a response to this than one country pushing another around. Granted. All of this is true.

What I find odd is how France was ready for this; almost as if they were waiting for something in Libya to give them the right to depose Qaddafi. If Libya did not have so much oil at stake, it might seem like France was just waiting for the approval to do what is right. But knowing that Libya is sitting on so much oil raises a lot of questions regarding their motives.

Really, though, what I find most troubling is a point raised by Rashad Chamberlin in his video-blog: what about the the coalition's own countries? America is still suffering economically, and this recent foreign mission has raised gas prices again. Strikes are happening across the UK, and student protests have cropped up all over the country. Gas here is likewise astronomical, and this on the heels of the most recent VAT increase. Unemployment in both countries is higher than it should be. Why are more concerted efforts being made to fix these imbalances at home, rather than doing what is right in other countries?

A friend of mine used to make her bed every day, and couldn't start the day without making her bed. I find this ridiculous, and don't know that I've made my bed in some time. When I was asking her why, she said, "I don't feel I can get anything done until I know my bed is made." This might be a nice metaphor for the US, UK and other European nations invested in helping others so expensively: make sure your bed is made right before you start fixing the beds of other people.

Binary Oppositions

I'll admit it: I like to wash my hands. I find warm water is the best for this; warm enough to feel hygienic, but not so hot as to scald. Cold water just freezes my hands, and my knuckles ache when they get too cold. I also like to wash my dishes in similar circumstances. Although, I will admit that when I wash dishes, I tend to let the water get a little warmer. But, again, I tend not to let the water scald me, because really, who wants scalded hands in the name of clean dishes?

I don't feel these are strange things to want: warm water. The more I travel in Europe though, the more I find that I am given an option: hot water or cold water. Warm water is not available, unless one is willing to do some strange maneuvers.

The bathroom in Aberglasney is probably the worst. The two nozzles in the sink and on opposite sides. Within moments of turning on the hot water tap, it heats to a temperature that instantly burns my skin clean off the bone (which makes typing this blog difficult with my stubby, bony fingers). The cold water feels like it was drawn from a cooler in which the ice has partially frozen through a tube of liquid nitrogen. So to wash my hand I have to freeze them, then quickly splash the hot water on while my numb.

Shaving is a little more tricky. See, I was told that the best shave comes if you wash your face with warm water to loosen everything up, then rinse the razor in cold water. The rinse is fine; the cold water tap probably hones the blade even sharper when I rinse. To wash my face, though, I have to fill my hands with cold water and incrementally fill the pool with bursts of hot water until some sort of medium is reached. Then splash that on my face. It takes a certain feel, and a quick reaction, which is never something I thought would be necessary for as rudimentary a chore as washing one's face.

I have always been puzzled by the water taps, but recently, I have noticed that there are a lot of binary oppositions in my daily life. For instance, when I ordered something that comes with bread, the choice is between white or brown bread. Of course, this could be seen as the difference between white and wheat bread, but as a fan of Panera Bread (formerly St. Louis Bread Company), I like to think that I can ask for a cracked honey-wheat nine-grain roll and someone might produce that from the back.

The first time this happened was when I ordered what is known as the "full-English breakfast." Truthfully, I ordered this because I had heard so much about it, but really I am not much of a fan. The thing comes with baked beans. For breakfast. That's weird. When I ordered the breakfast, I thought I would be buried under a barage of questions, like when you order anything at Denny's: questions about eggs, the choice of meat options, jelly selections, choices between toast, bagels and English muffins, and so on. You almost need to fill out a psychological profile just to order some stuffed French toast. But here, the question is simple: white or brown toast. Initially, this sounded ridiculous: all toast is brown. Or blackened, if made wrong. But, after a moment - a short moment - I realized she was asking which bread I wanted toasted. I wasn't entirely sure what "brown bread" was, but I knew it couldn't be as processed as white bread (which I am more familiar with, and try to avoid if possible). It could have been a whole grain, a wheat bread (like honey wheat), a rye, or some sort of marbled bread. Not exactly sure what the bread turned out to be because it was buried under beans and a fried egg (which I am not a fan of, as I am not a fan of runny yokes).

The breakfast itself is a binary opposition, of sorts: either a full English breakfast, or no breakfast. Some places will serve a continental breakfast, which, if I had come from the continent it was named after, I would be ashamed. Continental breakfasts might be a croissant and coffee. Or just coffee, which is not breakfast, as much as it is a beverage. Go into any restaurant anywhere and order and English breakfast, and you will get the same thing: bacon (not what America considers bacon), sausage, beans, fried egg, toast, a grilled tomato and fried mushrooms. Things like black pudding, fried bread, oatcakes or either mashed or hashed potatoes are sometimes added. Generally, though, just the first list. Some smaller tea joints will serve quiche or some sort of pastry selection, but these are not usually reserved for breakfasts. If you see a sign that suggests breakfast is served, what they mean is the full English.

This is not the only meal that is preset and ubiquitous. On Sundays, people will often make a Sunday Roast. Some restaurants will serve this during the mid-day Sunday meal. Generally included in the Sunday Roast: a meat (often chicken, beef or lamb, but others have been used), roasted potatoes (in the meat dripping), roasted seasonal vegetables, and Yorkshire pudding (which, for my American friends, is not a pudding as Bill Cosby used to sponsor, but more of a fried bread). Walk into any restaurant, particularly hotel restaurants, and you can get a meal like the one described above with few subtle variations. There is a roast, and then the is the Sunday Roast.

The more time I spend here, the more I find these little binary options. Coming from America, I am used to choices - ranges of options that have sub-options and so on. I like not only having choices in what I have with my meals (eggs scrabbled, fried, over-easy, under-easy, etc.), but choices of meals. If I want breakfast, I should be able to choose between pancakes, crepes, French toast, cereal, bagel options, eggs (see above), bacon (thick cut, honey cured, crispy, etc.), sausage (links or patties; pork or turkey; apple or spicy), waffles (Belgian, whole wheat, etc.; with or without ice-cream) and so on. Maybe it's just the nature of Americans to want choices, but I don't feel I get to choose my meals here. Of course, I could always make my own multifaceted, complicated breakfasts, but I would rather pay someone else to. Because that, my readers, is the American way.

Reflections on Casimir Pulaski Day

For some strange reason, Chicago (and a few other places, supposedly) has a day off school to commemorate Casimir Pulaski. It's not unusual to have regional holidays; some places in the South still don't celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr.'s Day of Remembrance. Considering the large population of Polish immigrants in Chicago, particularly on the Northwest side of the city, it's not surprising that there would be a vocal grassroots movement to get a national holiday to remember a hero from your heritage.

What has never been clear is why Pulaski? I get naming a street after him. Nothing could be worse than Lunt, anyways. But what was so great about Pulaski that he deserves a day off school? Of course, while in school, I never cared. A day off is a day off is a day off. But, as an adult, I have found myself wondering what he must have done. Rumor was that he was a great Revolutionary War hero, helping the weak and feeble American army get ready to fight off the militarily sophisticated British. According to Wikipedia (I know...but where else can one get free information easily these day), its stated that, "He is known for his contributions to the U.S. military in the American Revolution by training its soldiers and cavalry." So, essentially, he helped train the new US soldiers. There is no mention of any bravery in combat, or having helped in a decisive victory. In fact, it's not even clear if he did fight. I'm sure there were some Polish immigrants that did fight, maybe even a whole regiment that marched into battle together. The idiosyncratic nature of the holiday has led both folk-rock darling Sufjan Stevens and Chicago's own post-punk hardcore band Big Black to immortalize the day off in song. [Edit: apparently, Casimir Pulaski, as someone rudely pointed out earlier, died in the Siege of Savannah in 1779, fighting the British on the side of the Americans; I'm sure, as anyone who fights for a military can attest, it took some bravery, especially to fight for a foreign country; that said, hundreds of men and women, several Polish I would assume, also fought and died - wouldn't a Polish-American War Remembrance Day make more sense than just singling out one guy? That was all I was saying; I'm glad I got the day off school...]

Which brings me to the heart of the matter: America's strange sense of identity. See, I am pretty sure that there must have been an entire Polish regiment because Gettysburg is littered with memorials to all the Irish regiments that fought together. America, as a country born from immigrants, tends to have large regional sections that were populated by exclusive immigrant communities. Beverly, on the South Side of Chicago, is just such an example of an Irish community; short ginger men and women as far as the eye can see, and tons of "authentic" pubs.

When I was marching through Gettysburg in the blazing heat, sweating out the will to resist such a vacation that lacked beaches, amusement parks, or relaxing, I felt a swell of pride for all the Irish monuments I would see. In fact, for most of my life, I called myself Irish. I associated myself with the Irish, I found myself gravitating towards other Irish people, took St. Patrick's Day absurdly seriously, and listened to a lot of Irish music. Similarly, other Americans I know always try to associate themselves with their heritage, regardless of how separated they might be. In fact, I think I might have some second cousins in Ireland, but my Grandma was raised in Chicago. That city, with its tough working class ethics and small-man syndrome, has had a bigger effect on who I am as a person than Ireland has. Yet, until recently, I would never associate myself with Chicago; I was Irish through and through.

Recently, a friend of mine whose blog you can read here, posted a link to the song "Dreams" by the Cranberries. For two days snippets of that song plagued my every moment of waking. In an attempt to congeal the snippets into something more cohesive, I listened to The Cranberries first album Everyone Else is Doing it, So Why Can't We? I haven't listened to that album all the way through since high school, and I was flushed with memories (like driving around in Claire Liptrot's Geo blasting that and Alanis Morisette).

What hit me the hardest was the soft spot I have for the accent. Dolores O'Riordan is a sort of severe looking woman, particularly when during the early years of The Cranberries. She softened her appearances during her late solo career, but which age has returned some of her angular look. Regardless, I could listen to her read the phone book and fall madly in love. The same feeling was true when Dublin sent a Fulbright to Southern Illinois University every year. It didn't hurt that these incredibly attractive blonde women would have these endearing accents. The same is true for the English and Scottish accents. The most recent companion in the Dr. Who series, Karen Gillian, is Scottish, and the moment she opened her mouth, I was hooked. Luckily, she was also a very good actor, so I didn't need to suffer through a horrible TV show just to watch a pretty actress with an attractive accent.

The more time I spent here, the most I really start to develop certain soft spots for regional accents. For example, I particularly like the way that Midlands accent leans into vowel sounds, particularly "u" and "o". Like each one has several stacked umlauts. I like the rhythm of the Northern Welsh accent, and how it traipses along like when the Elves speak the common tongue in Lord of the Rings. I've even warmed to certain regional jargon phrases, like "Go on, then." It might not read that endearing, but with the right accent, it's just the cutest thing.

It was at that point, thinking about endearing regional characteristics of both Chicago and the UK, that I realized I have arrived at a threshold here in Wales; where I am crossing the line from travelling student to expatriated American. I no longer see this whole island (and by extension, it's ginger cousin to the West) with the eyes of an immigrant living abroad, associating myself with bastardized characteristics that are more connected to my hometown than to my homeland. Now I am seeing the soft undersides of this neat place, and I am finding it that much more endearing.

How Did I Get Here?

To quote a great poet, David Byrne: "You may find yourself living in a shot gun shack. / You may find yourself in another part of the world. / You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile. / You may find yourself in a beautiful house with a beautiful wife. / You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?" The song questions the nature of life and time, using the metaphor of a river to talk about how the course of someone's life is really left up to so many variables, it might as well be called chance. Really, the joy in life comes from enjoying the ride.

Maybe it's because I am have been in sort of a glum mood due to the amount of work I am putting into certain endeavors in my life with little immediate response (do people still say glum), but I was overwhelmed with retrospection this evening. It turned me into a pretty shoddy pool player, so to turn lemons into some sort of lemon-flavor beverage, I hope to exorcise this retrospection in blog form.

In short, like Byrne, I wonder how did I get here. But more than that, my mind keeps focusing on everything that I have lost to get here.

I don't want to make it seem like my sacrifices in persuit of an education are the stuff of Hollywood movies. I come from a well-education parentage, I coasted through an elite college prep high school, went to a private liberal arts college and got a job I was not qualified for immediately out of college. I've faced no discrimination, I've had few societal hurdles in my way as I have gone from youth to adulthood. In actuality, I have been presented with more opportunities than the average person gets. I won't go into the patronizing argument about the burden too many choices presents in a persons life; suffice it to say, my journey here (and here is pretty good) was not, in a grand sense, difficult.

However, I have had to make really tough decisions, keeping focused on the end goal: getting a job in college academics. Honestly, this has been the only thing I have been good at, and which I really liked. I was a decent caterer, but I hated that job. I was a good delivery driver, but found that job numbing at best. I've built bleachers, sold things from the trunk of my car to passers-by, schlepped books and DJed karaoke parties. Other than playing bass in a band, none of the jobs or hobbies I have had fulfilled me the way that academia does. It's not just the fact that I get summers off, I get to read and talk about books, and that the work is not all that hard (at least that's what people on the outside think; academics know that the job is not physically demanding, but there is a certain strain on the mind that can be equally as troubling - I know: it's so hard to think, right? But it is; not everyone could do this job). These perks certainly are welcomed, but what I like, what I genuinely enjoy, is teaching. Even the hard classes, the ones that burn out other teachers, provide a sense of gratification. If even one person says, "Huh...that's interesting," or I can guide one student to a better understanding of communication, it makes all the slack-jawed, glass-eyed students immaterial. Call me old-fashioned, or overly Romantic, but I really like being an academic.

This has been important to me for a while: finding a job that I liked to do. There are a lot of stats that talk about how much of your life you spend working at your job, and all of these suggest that a good chunk of your life is spent working. I was determined to make sure that I spent that part of my life doing something that I like doing.

I get this from my Mom, who left a decent administrative assistant job to be a museum educator. At the time, my family needed some extra money to help float us through two college and two high school tuitions. My Mom worked hard as an administrative assistant, and that is certainly no easy job. But, ultimately, that is not what my Mom wanted to do with her life, so instead she looked around. Had my Dad not talked her out of it, she might be a medical billings specialist, but instead she went for another interest of hers: historical education. She guided tours, mostly school groups, through Naper Settlement discussing the interesting historical facts about the random buildings collected there. She did so dressed in authentic attire, most of which she made herself. It was a grueling job, requiring a lot of time on her feet in all sorts of weather, working with outdated tools and equipment, and constant struggles with an administration that did not fully understand of value the educational staff. But talking about history, teaching young people something new, even if only one or two people all day would walk away with anything, made her happy. She gladly spent hours thinking up new activities, planning overnight parties and so on.

This was a polar opposite of my Dad, who hated his job. This dissatisfaction with his job, I feel, poisoned his family life, particularly towards the end of his career when, after 35 years with ComEd, they were passing menial, entry level tasks on him, hoping to push him out. When Arthur Anderson merged with ComEd, there was the constant threat of lay-offs, and my Dad lived nearly 10 years of the end of his life waiting for the eventual pink slip to show up on his desk. Nearly everyone that worked around him was either laid off, or left for other positions. My Dad, though, put his nose to the grind stone and worked harder and harder. He got passed up for several promotions, was not given raises some years (which is like a pay cut), and was forced to work through some nights. At one point, I think my Dad was working six days a week for 10 hours a day, too scared to resist because he needed that job to support his family. I don't know what else my Dad would have done with his life, but I don't think managing systems for a power company was his dream job.

When your career is that toxic, there is no way the rest of your life is going to be enjoyable. I think a lot of my Dad's prickliness stemmed from how much he hated his job. After he finally retired (because he was physically unable to work, not because he wanted to), he became much easier to be around. In fact, towards the end of his life, we got along great, and I wish, as everyone does, that I would have spent more time with him in those declining years.

When I was driving trucks to make ends meet, rapidly advancing up the delivery driver ladder, I realized I was genuinely unhappy and saw that I might end up in the same position my Dad took. I didn't want to hate my job so much that it affected my personal life. In fact, I wanted to love my job to the point that I was happy to come home to my family, proud of my work. That was when I decided that I was going to teach. I wasn't qualified for it, and was sort of jaded from my time in the Monmouth Education Department, but I put my sights to it.

Initially, I got a job with St. Dominic as a para-professional, teaching computer classes to K-8. I liked it, but was much happier when they took some computer classes from me so that I could teach the new writing curriculum. And then, once I was given reigns over the entire junior high language arts program, I was extremely happy. I loved talking about literature with the kids. I found that I was really good at engaging disinterested classes. The greatest compliment I received while I was teaching came from a parent: I was told their daughter, "came home and did more reading since I had taken over because she wanted to have something to say in class." Had it not been for the cumbersome involvement of parents, I would have stayed at St. Dominic, in a different place in my life. I'll say this about the parent/teacher relationship: before you decide that a teacher's curriculum is either problematic or inconsequential, you should at least provide them the courtesy of a discussion. I toiled over my lesson plans, often staying much later than the students, thinking of interesting questions, trying to find interesting ways to teach inherently uninteresting subject matter (like sentence diagramming). I weighed the amount of work each student should have to do, and tried to balance out the week, and the work loads of other classes. Still, several parents made my life quiet difficult. I knew when I was approached at Target one Sunday afternoon for an impromptu parent/teacher conference, that I wanted to teach in an environment with fewer people watching over my shoulder.

So I enrolled at Southern Illinois University. At the time, I was seriously dating a woman I knew from high school, and we were quite comfortable with each other. At the same time, she decided she was unhappy at her job and enrolled at the much more prestigious Northwestern University. The distance, about five hours by car, was quite a strain, as were our competing work loads and academic pressures. Her coursework was far more competitive than mine, but I carried a teaching load. An MA in English is far less subjective, and requires a lot less navigation through people's personalities, so I had that going for me; but her degree was creative, so she spent a lot of time writing where I spent hours with my face in dense theory or in course work I was less interested in (like eighteenth century literature). Though we seemed to be in a similar boat, there was a lot of tension between the two of us. I think we both tended to view the other's life through our own circumstances, and found that the other had it easier.

Eventually, the strain of the distance and the incongruous life styles lead to our breakup. I was genuinely sad to see Jenni go, and sometimes I wish things had worked out differently. Though, if I am honest with myself, I don't think this move would have sat well with her. If SIU didn't kill us, Aberystwyth certainly would have.

At the end of my tenure at SIU, I started dating another woman, and we hit it off well. This relationship, though, was doomed from the beginning: I had already been accepted to Aberystwyth and the move was almost a reality. I was also accepted to the University of Washington, but for one reason or another, I came here. Again, if I am honest with myself, this decision hung over my relationship: I could choose Aberystwyth (the selfish choice), or Washington (the selfless choice). It might have been easier on us had I gone to Washington, since she could have packed up and left to Washington without needing a visa or anything. Washington, though, was not as good a fit for me. I could have done what I needed to at Washington, but Aberystwyth, on paper, looked to make me a better academic, and gave me more opportunities down the road. In the end, I choose Aberystwyth; Maggie and I didn't even make it to my departure date. The enormity of it all crushed our relationship, and in the end it was probably for the better. I don't think we gelled as well as we thought we did.

Before I left, I met Erika. Well, re-initiated a relationship with her. See: I had met and grown quite close to her while at St. Dominic. Due to unfortunate circumstances, we were not able to see each other; then we both went our separate ways. Then, literally two weeks before I was about to leave, we found that our deeply buried emotions still existed. Again, at that point I could have pulled out of Aberystwyth, and we both knew that. Things were not immediately awesome here, and there was good reason to rethink my decision to expatriate. Again, after a lot of sleepless nights, I went with Aberystwyth; even as a less awesome option, it was still better than the alternatives. Even though I really felt strongly for Erika, I knew that I would not be happy unless I did this in the way that made sense to me. I really tried to make our relationship work, but in the end, the enormity of the commitment was too much for Erika, and she pulled the plug (as everyone who reads this knows).

So, now I am here, in a foreign country, and feeling a little lonely. I worry that this might not have been the right choice. I worry that I zigged when I should have zagged. Could I have been happy working the community college circuit in Chicago while I tried to get accepted to a local University for PhD work? Could I have struggled through the parent/teacher relationship to keep my job at St. Dominic? Would it have been better to focus on who I spent my life with rather than what I did with it? These are the questions that will keep one up at night.