I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

What did I do THIS time?

I left you with a kind of cliffhanger in my last entry.

You may be wondering what is going on with my patched up feet. Well, I'll get to that. It's part of my story of the first ten days of living in Oxford. I'm writing this in part to remember it and tell a good yarn, but also as a comfort to anyone who has just started out abroad and is having a tough time.

My first few days were exactly as you would expect. I moved into my apartment, bought items at the local Walmart, collected a package of tea and goodies I had sent myself, and attended several orientations. And I do mean several.

The first was a day-long international student orientation, in which I met students from many countries including Canada, China, Ethiopia and Mexico. The orientation leaders went through the alphabet and had people shout out their countries as we got to each letter. There was some confusion about how to represent us. United Kingdom, Britain, Great Britain, England? I grew up thinking of myself as English and being from England, but American vernacular has seeped in and now I refer to myself as British and from the UK. Whatever. We talked about classes, culture, healthcare, food, politics and, rather importantly, immigration matters. This is why I don't get the movie Like Crazy. Did her school not provide her with an orientation? Why would she just overstay her visa like that?! Everybody knows you don't overstay your visa!

I expected better from you, Ethel Hallow.

The next day we had a very long Graduate School orientation, which unfortunately covered a lot of the same matters... On the one hand, I applaud US universities for making such an effort to inform students right away. On the other hand, I kind of like the British approach which is to mumble awkwardly for 30 minutes then hand you a bunch of paperwork that you will inevitably stash away and forget about. Anyway, we were let out of the auditorium for the glorious sunshine, plus free lunch and a T-shirt. Here I met a few people from my program, who I would see again the next day at the Southern Studies orientation. We sat in the conference room of Barnard Observatory, where I would have many classes, and shared our interests and where we were from. We were introduced to members of the department, including a few second years. Then we had a picture of the 13 of us outside on the steps of Barnard to mark the occasion. "Dear God," I thought, getting in to the spirit of Mississippi life, "Please let me graduate." Then one last orientation for those of us with assistantships.

I'll talk more about my assistantship and classes in another entry, but for now I'll give you the basic details. In the Fall semester, my assistantship consisted of a Teaching Assistant position for a Southern Studies 101 class, and a Research Assistant position for a professor in the department. In the Spring semester, I continued to be a TA while assisting with research for the Mississippi Encyclopedia. As for classes, in the Fall I took a compulsory Southern Studies graduate seminar, a Southern Foodways class affiliated with the Southern Foodways Alliance, and Documentary Studies. In the Spring, I continued with the graduate seminar, plus a class on Faulkner and an internship with Living Blues magazine. I spent most of my undergraduate years attempting to give all my projects a southern leaning, and now I don't even have to try! It's such a great program and I feel very lucky to be part of it.

My new home, Barnard Observatory.

On top of the orientations, there were several social events organized by the department. As you can imagine, the summer evenings in Mississippi are very nice; once the sun goes down it is less unforgivably stifling and a much more pleasant temperature. So many events are held in the garden/yard. Now, given my disaster with mosquito bites during my first week at Chapel Hill, I came to Oxford with many insect repellant supplies: cream, spray, and even a special type of sunscreen with some mixed in. I say that it my own defense, because every time I am bitten someone scolds me for not putting any bug spray on. I DO use it, it just isn't 100% effective and those damn things seem to just LOVE my blood. Actually, I believe they love pasty white English skin, as other internationals have been bitten badly too. Anyway, can you guess what I'm leading up to? I was bitten all over my feet and legs.

It was worse than the time in Chapel Hill. I repeat, IT WAS WORSE THAN THE TIME IN CHAPEL HILL.

Always the overachiever, when I visited the doctor he pronounced my hivey feet as, "the worst case of insect bites he had ever seen." I was then prescribed antibiotics, a large dose of steroids, and rest. So I sat in my new apartment with my boyfriend, who had now missed his planned departure date in order to wait on me, change my dressings, and carry me from the couch to the bed. Here's another important detail to this story: I was already considering moving out. I can't go into the full details, but suffice to say, there was a safety issue with the apartment that I considered to be a dealbreaker. As I was trying to get my head around moving somewhere else already and thinking of all the legal/logistical things I had to do before the semester got underway, I got much sicker.

There is some debate as to what actually happened, as different doctors suggested the following: a) They were not actually mosquito bites, b) They were mosquito bites, and were also carrying West Nile disease, c) I had an allergic reaction to the antibiotics, steroids, or both, d) I was prescribed too high a dosage of steroids. Personally, I think I am just more allergic to bites than anyone most doctors come across (I get hives and dizziness), and the enormous amount of steroids didn't help. Anyway, I ended up in the emergency room, crying about my new ridiculous life in Mississippi and the fact that no one understood my accent, requesting to see my parents, and having to email my department at 4am to say I would be missing the first day. Not a good omen for the rest of the semester.

In the end, it all turned out okay. I moved out of my apartment and into a house with two North Carolinians (plus a cat and a dog), gathered furniture for my new room, said goodbye to my boyfriend, and hung my ER bracelet up on my bulletin board. I kept it as a reminder that, no matter what happens here, it could not be worse than the first week.

But that was before I had experienced finals week.

I'm kidding. I know how much it sucks to have your very first week in a new place be filled with uncertainty, sadness and sickness. In Chapel Hill, I missed a few of the early social events and felt like I was late to the game with making friends. Being sick for my first weekend brought on an unexpected wave of homesickness. I let that homesickness define me. I let it pull me right down into a depression that took months to get out of. In Oxford, I am proud to say that I did not repeat those mistakes. I did experience homesickness again, and I did have some stressful days that made me cry and wish I'd stayed home. But for the most part, I got on with my life. I reached out to people, made new friends, worked hard for my classes and job, and before I knew it the end of the semester was near and Oxford was my new home.

It's hard to have stability in a new place, especially if you've only got a few months or a year to experience it. I remember that before I left the UK, I was told about the stages of culture shock. Theoretically, I was supposed to looove the new place in the beginning and feel some culture shock a few months in. Maybe this is dependent on personality, as some people don't seem to experience culture shock at all. For me, every time I have moved, whether to Norwich, Chapel Hill, Oxford or home at any time, the first month was the hardest. I guess what I want to say is, no matter where you fall on the spectrum of reactions to moving abroad, remember to reach out to other people. Reach out if you need help, but also if you're doing great and could cheer someone else up. (This applies to those at home as well as abroad.) I'm also happy to help anyone who wants some TLC via email or Skype. Really, no one needs to go through what I did the first time around. This is what I realized in Oxford, and I'm much happier for it.

For anyone who's struggling, remember that those of us with the scary experiences have the best stories to tell! Not convinced? When I got back to UEA, I mostly had classes with others who had returned from a year abroad. Sometimes I would start telling a story to the person next to me, and it was often so outrageous it would make everyone turn around to listen. I can promise you that was not the case before.

So how about y'all? If you've lived abroad before, how was the first week? If you're going abroad soon, what are you excited and/or nervous about?

My, my. A body does get around.

Hello neglected blog! I was planning to write an entry following the completion of my dissertation, but that rolled into my trip to San Francisco, and that rolled into my interview for a BAAS Graduate Assistantship position... And now, you see, I have several exciting things to talk about. Firstly, I wanted to talk about my dissertation. A lot of people have asked me what it's about, and when I say, "William Faulkner and empathy" the follow up is a blank look. Despite the length of time that I've spent on it, it's actually difficult for me to condense it into a soundbite. I therefore thought it would be more interesting if, rather than attempting to demonstrate my whole argument, I mixed it in with why Faulkner appeals to me and how my ideas developed over the last year. This fits in nicely to everything else I have to say, too.

My dissertation is closely linked to my time at UNC. When I first began researching back in January, I was a mess. I hadn't made many friends, didn't feel like I was fitting in, and was struggling to be positive about my experiences. Despite this, I was excited to get started with my dissertation. Faulkner was already one of my favourite authors, and since I was in the South I thought it was best to stick with a Southern author. Now, a lot of people don't like Faulkner at all. I have to admit that I can't understand this. His work is challenging for sure, but I've never found it to be boring or incomprehensible. Usually I discount the first reading as a time to enjoy his use of language and "hear" the dialogue of his characters, and worry about making sense of it later. I really cannot be effusive enough about how much I love his work, it's a reading experience unlike any other. My first time reading Faulkner was my first year at UEA. I remember reading As I Lay Dying in the launderette, sitting there far beyond the time that it took my laundry to finish because I was so engrossed. I fell in love quickly, and pursued my interest in the South all through my second year. I wrote about Rockabilly, Sarah Dessen, and back to Faulkner again with The Sound and the Fury. I prepared to move to North Carolina.

I probably shouldn't admit this, but my lightning bolt moment came when I was supposed to be listening to my professor. It was the last 5 minutes of class, she was assigning us homework, and I was mulling over my increasing frustration with feeling misunderstood by those around me. I asked myself what was missing, and the word "empathy" jumped out at me. It was a relief to put a word to my struggles, and a moment later I found myself realising that that was a big part of why Faulkner was so special to me. Class ended, I sped out of Greenlaw and over to Davis Library. Tommy Nixon, a research librarian at Davis, was kind enough to talk to me for a whole hour about what he thought of Faulkner. We didn't go into great detail about empathy exactly, as I had a lot of specific research ahead of me, but my conversation with him made me sure that I was on to something great. After finishing my studies at UNC I travelled to Oxford, Mississippi, where Faulkner lived and wrote. I walked around the University of Mississippi, the town square, and Rowan Oak, Faulkner's house. It was an incredible experience for me to see firsthand where he sat and wrote on his typewriter, where he scribbled story notes all along the wall of his study (I'm not alone!), the trees he walked beneath to get to his front door. It was more than pure fascination: I felt like I had seen a piece of Faulkner the man, and it gave me confidence that I understood him, and his writing, well enough to attempt my dissertation.

Frolicking in front of Rowan Oak, June 2011

As I have already written, coming home was a difficult step for me too. I was getting my life back together after so many problems, but I had to make peace with the mistakes and hardships of my year abroad. My dissertation was the perfect project to get me through. I read John T. Matthews's Seeing Through The South (I recommend!), and came to understand the extent to which Faulkner was haunted by the past and nervous about the future. He had a vivid imagination, valued his privacy, and wanted to understand others without giving too much away about himself. He could be hilariously obstinate towards reporters, and I was constantly finding the most biting, witty interview remarks. My dissertation traced the evolution of "empathy" from a concept related to aesthetics ("feeling into" works of art), to psychology (understanding others' mental states) and to morality (to what extent we are obliged to help if we understand). I applied this to three themes of Faulkner's works in three separate novels. "Empathy and Trauma in As I Lay Dying" considered the use of form and symbolism for encouraging readership empathy for the Bundren family's trauma. "Empathy and Gender in The Sound and the Fury" examined how failing to understand each other and meet gender expectations within the family caused the downfall of the Compsons. "Empathy and the Community in Light in August" looked at outsiders vs. insiders, individual vs. community, and how Faulkner saw a society as so connected yet so fragile without empathetic action. It was a pleasure to work with my supervisor, Dr Tom Smith, who gave me such helpful guidance and politely ignored my moments of hysteria.

During the last month of my dissertation, I discovered the British Association of American Studies. I was checking out my options for going back to work in America, and one of my friends mentioned Kirsty Callaghan, a UEA graduate who was studying in the US. As many of you know I am the ultimate social network stalker, so of course I found Kirsty's Twitter and got in touch to ask about the award. I searched on Google myself, which is when I found one of the options for this year, the MA Graduate Teaching Assistantship in Southern Studies, University of Mississippi. Need you hear more? I am a Southern culture obsessive, especially when it comes to food and music, and this would be in the very town that Faulkner lived. Not only would it mean a Masters, but the opportunity to teach and even apply for an internship. So it may surprise you to hear that my first reaction was to say No. I read it through, just barely gave myself time to imagine it, then shut the window and just thought No. I said to myself that the deadline was too soon, I needed to take time out after my degree, I couldn't possibly study abroad again. However, I found myself still thinking about it afterwards, and I couldn't help but mention it to people over the next day. I even said, "I wish I could apply for this." When no one looked at me with comprehension, but with utter bewilderment, I realised I was standing in my own way and had no good reason not to at least apply. So I hurriedly asked for references, requested transcripts and wrote a personal statement. I looked at my stack of Faulkner novels, and asked him to love me back.

Before Christmas, I was invited to interview for the position on January 14th at Keele University. Slight hiccup - I was due to be getting back from America that morning, and could never make it in time. A couple of phonecalls and a depressing amount of money later I was booked onto an earlier flight. I tortured myself with practice interview questions in my head, but otherwise enjoyed Christmas with my family. It was lovely to be at home with them this year after missing last year's, despite how wonderful that was too. Naturally I got disgustingly ill in time for the new year, and opted instead to drink tea and go to bed early. I didn't sleep well for three nights in a row, and by the day of my flight I was definitely someone you'd avoid on the bus. Unfortunately those next to me for 10 hours on the plane didn't have that luxury. So there I was, with a cold, cough and sore throat, my head pounding and the repeated thought of You are going to die! You are most definitely GOING TO DIE! as is standard for every flight I have to go on. It sucks that I love to travel but am still terrified of flying. 5 hours into the flight I was feeling very hot and sick so I got up to go to the bathroom. I then fainted in the aisle, and woke up with about four stewardesses grouped around me. They gave me water and an oxygen mask and I tried my best to be amused/keep my eyes away from the emergency door. Despite the journey, my trip to San Francisco was absolutely perfect. I ate Kahlua cheesecake, spent a day in Golden Gate Park, watched an adorable pug in Dolores Park, bought a sequin trapper hat from Forever21, watched the Tar Heels win twice, drank a couple of IPAs and most importantly spent time with my favourite Southern gentleman. (Yes, someone does come before Faulkner.)

Why do I always encounter the police on my travels? Golden Gate Park, San Francisco

I was well-prepared for my interview and was therefore uncharacteristically calm. Kirsty suggested bringing along a copy of my dissertation, so I did this along with a selection of Creative Writing Society workshop plans from my time as Secretary, essays relating to the South from UEA, and a couple of projects I did at UNC. I debated bringing along my short story, "Storms and Flurries", set in Charlotte, NC, which was published by What the Dickens? magazine, but I thought it might be inappropriate for the interview. Sadly they actually did express disappointment that I hadn't brought it along with everything else, but at least it is easy to find online! Anyway, I took the advice of my friends to remember that I was already qualified enough to get the interview, and to focus on demonstrating my personality. I felt a little flustered trying to explain my dissertation, but more confident once we talked more casually about the South and why it is so interesting. In some ways I was just so pleased to have got to that point. Just a year before, I had gone through some of the most horrendous moments of my life, and there I was sitting there discussing them honestly. More than anything, I am proud to say that I have made sense of the difficulties I experienced at UNC. I feel that not having had the perfect study abroad experience has actually strengthened me for later life. It gives me confidence that I will be an observant and understanding teacher, that I will persevere through academic challenges, that I will stand up for my own needs and aspirations. I said something to this effect in my interview, though of course with about 23% of the eloquence.

Honestly, it was just nice to get to discuss all of my work and have three accomplished people be interested in what I had to say. Whether I had got it or not, I felt pleased with everything I had achieved, and very much geared up for my final semester at UEA. My parents and I celebrated our Keele roadtrip with coffee and cupcakes then drove back to St Albans. I spent a lonely hour in my room unable to talk to anyone or read anything because I was waiting for the phonecall. When it got to 5pm, I told myself sternly that I hadn't got it and that was that. Who needs academia when you can bake cupcakes and write about people sleeping with their housemate's girlfriend! (Watch out for my next short story, "Gooseberry Pie".) At 5.30pm I got a phonecall to tell me that they would like to offer me the position. I know that I said the word "wonderful" (I'm still British) and that it was difficult to listen to the rest because I was busy thinking Is this real? IS THIS ACTUALLY REAL? rather like whilst flying but altogether more pleasant. I nearly fell down the stairs, celebrated with champagne with my family (though we all paused to grimace after taking a sip; it was "matured" apparently), then called as many of my friends as I could to shriek and request that they come and visit me.

Finally I have had the perfect excuse to use my favourite Faulkner quote! I love it so much, because it perfectly sums up part of my personality and where it's lead me. In Light in August, Lena Groves pauses to consider how she has got all the way from Alabama to Mississippi and then on to Tennessee. Like Faulkner characters, I've always been obsessed with my own journey and past, mapping out where I started and how I got to this point in my life, imagining where I could go next. I mean it both literally and figuratively. I've always loved being abroad, though as a child it was usually Ireland or France. The best trips, obviously, were to America. We went to the East Coast when I was 8, and the West Coast when I was 12. I jumped at the chance to go to New York City at 16, and to travel several cities at 18. I lived there temporarily at 21, and will return again at 23. As I walked around San Francisco, a city I am completely in love with, I wondered if one day I would live there. Maybe. I still have 5 months of Norwich ahead of me, then 2 years of Oxford, Mississippi. Who knows where my reading and writing will take me next. My, my. A body does get around.

Jamestown, Virginia, August 1997