It was always so hot, and everyone was so polite, and everything was all surface but underneath it was like a bomb waiting to go off.

Today I will attempt to answer the question: What is the South?

From Southern Studies 101 to Southern Studies 601, from Mississippi to North Carolina, I have talked to a lot of people about what "the South" really means. We draw lines between different countries, but defining a region is more complicated.

In the UK, we pretty much understand where England ends and where Scotland and Wales begin. But I've found that people get more argumentative when it comes to placing counties within a region. For instance, when I was at UEA, I heard people argue that Norfolk was part of the North, the South, the Midlands, the East and the Southeast. (Can't we agree on "East Anglia?") Defining, say, the South of England, would be entirely subject to context and individual perspectives. It's exactly the same in the US, except they like to talk about it a lot more.

During my first semester at Ole Miss, someone asked if it was my first time in the US.

"No," I told him, "I lived in North Carolina for a year."

He replied, "Oh, so this is your first time in the South!"

What? Is North Carolina a Yankee state now? My North Carolinian fiance grinds his teeth at the very suggestion he is not a real southerner.

There are some states that most people willingly agree are part of the American South (such as Alabama and Mississippi), and others that are more up for debate (such as Texas or Kentucky). For some people, the Deep South is somehow "more southern" than the culture found in the Carolinas. So who's in, and who's out? Who is at the center and who is on the fringe? How do you define a region, and what does it all mean in the end?

Here are some different definitions of what some consider to be "the South":

Geographical Definition

"The relationship between the Mason and Dixon needs some fixin'." 

- LL Cool J. 

(Who could do with enrolling in Southern Studies 101. Brad Paisley should come too.)

As you can see from the map on the right, the US Census defines the South as encompassing the following states: Maryland, West Virginia, Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana, Oklahoma and Texas.

What a big party! And it really does screw with you when you're trying to use statistics to back up a point about rural culture and big cities such as Dallas and Tallahassee keep getting in the way. Moving on...

Historical Definition

"Advance the flag of Dixie! Hurrah! Hurrah!

In Dixie's land we take our stand, and live or die for Dixie!" 
- Confederate States of America War Song. Also Kevin Spacey, briefly.

The South is still defined today by its role in the 19th century: secession from the Union (on the part of - in order - South Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, Texas, Virginia, Arkansas, North Carolina, Tennessee), support of slavery, formation of the Confederacy and subsequently the Civil War. To tell the whole truth, despite the fact that I am a Southern Studies student, I am no Civil War buff. Eventually I will sit down and watch the entire Ken Burns TV series.

But for now I will just say that I was honestly surprised by how much the Civil War still has a ghostly presence within the South. Also known as "the war between the states" and "the war of Northern aggression", it did after all end as long ago as 1865. Yet it is referenced far, far more than I can recall World War II being brought up during all my years in Britain, and that was only my grandparents' generation. I can remember being a young girl and hearing soldier stories from my grandfather, evacuee stories from my grandmother - but I never digested it as a source of personal pride or personal history. The Confederacy still is a part of southern "tradition" for some families and individuals, which manifests in a number of ways: joining a group like the Daughters of the Confederacy, celebrating Robert E. Lee Day, flying the Confederate Flag, etc.

 Cultural Definition

 "The old game, I suspect, is beginning to play out in the Bible Belt." - H.L. Mencken. 

 

It occurs to me that "the South" is not always a recognizable term to those who do not call the United States home. Which leads to a somewhat awkward situation when I try to explain what I'm getting a Master's in. Southern America... You mean like Brazil? No, just no. At least you'll be close to you boyfriend in California, right? Hmm... How near is it to New York/Washington D.C./Chicago/Los Angeles? It's not. I can sort of work with you if you know where Florida is though.

You get the idea.

But what people DO know is that some parts of America are very, very religious. Occasionally someone will ask, "Is Mississippi in the Bible Belt?" Yes, yes, YES. Now we are getting somewhere! The Bible Belt refers to the southeastern (and sometimes southcentral, and occasionally midwestern) states of the US, and points to the proportion of evangelical Protestants, as well as the importance of religious/church culture in general. Sometimes you hear the phrase "the Buckle of the Bible Belt", as in most extreme, but it is apparently a multi-buckling belt as many places have been labeled this, based on the presence mega-churches, percentage of Baptists, or perhaps Pat Robertson appreciation.

My department at the University of Mississippi is called the Center for the Study of Southern Culture. It's exactly what it says on the tin: we study culture. What is culture, aside from religion? In academic gobbledeegook, we are an interdisciplinary bunch who study topics such as literature and literary theory, history, sociology, anthropology, documentary, ethnography, communications, globalization, politics and economics. Each discipline gives us a small idea of southern identity, even as it may obscure other ideas. Culture is not always clear-cut and harmonious. It is complicated, in flux, evading conclusions.

I can give you southern tropes with which to communicate ideas about the South, but as I've said, these are mere dots of the puzzle. Southern people say "y'all." Faulkner, Welty and O'Connor wrote southern literature. Let Us Now Praise Famous Men documents southern life. Charlotte, North Carolina, is the headquarters of Bank of America and is part of the global South. The South is so vast, so varied, so complex, that even after years of study - and for some, a lifetime of experience - there is always more to learn.

 Personal Definition

“I quickly realized there is no such thing as the South; there are just hundreds of souths." - Wiley Cash.

If I had to pin down the main reason why I love to study culture, I would say its fluidity.

Most people know I am far from a black-and-white person. I believe in moral relativism, I am agnostic, I see the world in terms of multiplicity. I am also not an ambivalent person. I find our world contradictory, unjust sometimes, unfathomable and yet meaningful - never boring, never not worth thinking about. I get lost in the details of life, people and places. I know I can never fully answer a question like, "What is the South?" and yet I will try for the rest of my life.

To end this post, I have a challenge for you.

Whether you have lived in the South all your life, moved there for college or a job, married a southerner, taken a trip to Atlanta, watched Gone With The Wind one time, or never heard of it until this post, I want you to take a moment to think about this.

Set a timer for 1-2 minutes. Without stopping, write down everything that comes to mind about the South.

I'll end here with what I came up with, and I hope some of you will share your thoughts too.

The South is...
Sweet tea, long porches, slow talking and soft accents, nice manners, racism, women who want to get married young, excellent universities, storytelling, conflict, sweet potato mash with marshmallows, humidity, buzzing cicadas at night, football and basketball, blue skies, mountains, banjos, MLK, honey, peaches, patriotism, guns and cars, rednecks, cotton and mills, grits, Elvis Presley.

Now let us drink the stars, it's time to steal away. Let's go get lost right here in the USA.

I hope my lack of blog entries can be a testament to how busy my first year at Ole Miss was. Luckily, I’ve been keeping notes, so while I still have a few study-free days left, I’m going to write several entries. I hope you enjoy them!

[Written September 2, 2012] Hello, finally, from Oxford, where it truly is a dark and stormy night. Outside it is a cacophony of rain fall, thunderclaps, wind and rustling branches. Inside, I’ve had several cups of tea to calm myself down as the dog roams around barking (the kitten is completely unafraid and smug). I have five (!) books still to finish in time for this week’s classes. I have an essay about a truck contest to write. But I have been in America almost a month and, apart from a few scribbled notes, have not had a chance to write about it yet. I figure I will never be any less busy, so now is as good a time as any.

Of course I want to write about Oxford. I’ve been dreaming of the Faulknerland since I was nineteen; it’s amazing that I’m actually living here. It is a wonderful place for so many reasons, but best of all it already feels like home. The thing is, I have the next two years to bore you all with Oxford-related gushing. And it just so happens that I have other stories to bore you with first. I flew to San Francisco on August 8, and drove* for five days to get to Mississippi. So first of all I want to take you through some musings related to that. Please, no hatred from any Brits about putting the month before the date, I need to get in the habit!

*And when I say “drove”, I mean sitting in the passenger seat eating Rainbow cookies, worrying aloud about Ole Miss and taking pictures of billboards and cornfields whilst my boyfriend sat behind the wheel the whole time.

08/08: London, UK to San Francisco, CA

During my ten hour flight, I came to a conclusion: airplanes bring out the worst in people. Cramped, tired and always enduring the screams of children, airline passengers must be the worst customers ever. Everyone is so demanding and unfriendly in a way that I feel sure they would not be in any other setting. Fellow passengers were especially demanding and unfriendly due to a malfunction with the entertainment sets, which meant no TV or music for the first two hours of the flight. I, of course, came prepared. I sat reading Bill Bryson and tried not to laugh out loud. I’m sure I must have been quite a sight, grinning widely in a crowd of frowns and pursed lips. If I am ever even a fraction as good as Bill Bryson I will die happy. Also, I’m not entirely convinced he and my dad are separate people.

I was more cheerful on this flight than usual – as it happens I’m afraid of flying. A lot of my positivity has to do with Virgin Atlantic. They truly are the best airline I’ve ever experienced; the staff is helpful, the entertainment selection is usually great (when working!) and I actually really like the food. And they were very nice to me that time I fainted in the middle of the aisle back in January [2012]. Now, if they would pay me for endorsing them publicly I would like them even better. Graduate school is expensive!

My cheeriness was waning by the end of the flight, however. Someone had rapped on the bathroom door in a most demanding and unfriendly manner as I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I am as courteous as possible on a plane, and this, I felt, gave me the right to take the tiniest bit longer in the bathroom. But apparently not. I harrumphed back to my seat and was then slumped on by the people next to me for the remainder of the flight. It is very odd to constantly have a child’s feet or head in your lap when you do not know them. I vowed to never let my own future children loll about like that on a plane, and squirmed Britishly for the last hour.

After queuing for another hour and a half, I somehow still had the adrenaline to ignore my coccyx injury and haul my own at-the-weight-limit suitcases off the conveyor belt. I was thankfully still awake enough to recognize my boyfriend at the gate rather than absentmindedly trying to board a plane to Canada or something (“Must. Be. In. Commonwealth.”). We got in the car, drove through San Francisco, and for some reason covered the topics of drugs, drunk driving and guns within the first hour. I shifted in my seat and fought the urge to run, on foot, back to the airport to go home. I stayed awake through the evening, which I spent with Chip, his roommate Marie, and Tar Heel friends Katie, David and Amanda. We ordered Chinese, which was a huge amount of food for a small amount of money. Ah yes, I’m back in the USA.

08/09: San Francisco, CA to Elko, NV

Chip and I set out in the car the next morning, circling back five minutes later to collect the coolbox. (But not, as it turns out, my Topshop sandals, which still reside on his bedroom floor.) Then, since we had delayed ourselves already, we decided to go grocery shopping. I was very pleased about this, as my greatest hang up about doing a road trip (or being in America generally!) is not having adequate access to fruit. Since we were running late already I didn’t get a chance to dance around the grocery store exclaiming over every item. Don’t worry, that blog entry will come.

I was sad to leave San Francisco so soon. It’s one of my favorite cities where I have made such great memories, and I still dream of living there one day. However, we drove over the Bay Bridge, northeast to Sacramento, Lake Tahoe and Reno. We listened to only a little bit of Rush Limbaugh. And what can I tell you about Nevada? We left the greenery and rivers of California for dusty, open space. We drove for hours without seeing much of anything. We had no radio or cell phone coverage. We passed gas stations, each one looking the same, except sometimes with the addition of a casino. I was surprised by how many bits of tyres (or tires!) there were on the road. Then, just as I was starting to get bored, actual tumbleweeds rolled in front of us on the highway.

We reached Elko in the evening, passing a small roadside community on the way in. The little part of Elko we saw had chain restaurants, an RV park and some surprisingly high-priced hotels. Interestingly, Elko has a “boom and bust” economy based on the price of gold; a large amount of Nevada’s gold is mined there and the town has many abandoned mining camps. As Hunter S. Thompson wrote in his short story, Fear and Loathing in Elko, “The federal government owns 90% of this land, and most of it is useless for anything except weapons testing and poison-gas experiments.” But clearly there is more to it than this. Elko hosts the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering every January, and has done for almost 30 years. I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a good time to me.

The hotel we stayed in was much the same as many I’ve experienced in the US. I always wonder how they came to decide on the exact same breakfast:  a waffle iron with batter next to it, cold hard-boiled eggs, cheap muffins/donuts, white bread with peanut butter or jam in plastic pots, yoghurt, questionable-looking fruit, cereal in dispensers and some juice, tea and coffee. I’ve seen the same selection as far-flung as Georgia, Texas and Colorado. You could see the same America in any given hotel. I don’t know whether that’s comforting or creepy.

08/10: Elko, NV to Laramie, WY

Back on the road, Nevada continued to be flat, dry and empty. We were cheered up, however, by a lady waving at us from a neighboring car; we understood as they passed us and we saw their South Carolina license plate. Southerners unite! We eventually crossed into the mountains of Utah, and I became engrossed in the selection of billboards at the side of the road. The billboards gave me a number to call if I was in debt, informed me that evolution was an evil myth, praised the immigrant population and encouraged me to “hail to the beef” at a local restaurant.

But what you really want to know about is Salt Lake City. We drove around it for a bit out of curiosity. It is a big place: spacious, beautiful, and more than a little bit freaky. It’s impossible to be in Salt Lake City without constantly thinking, “Is that person over there a Mormon? Do they know that I’m not a Mormon?! Oh, there’s the North Carolina license plate. They probably do know I’m not a Mormon. Maybe they don’t mind. Are they looking at me?” I’m not really speaking to Mormonism or Mormon people. It is not something I’m particularly educated about, unless you count Angels in America and Mitt Romney. But sometimes the reputation of something gets under your skin all the same, and that’s how I felt there. Not a mature or informed approach of course, but a truthful one if nothing else.

We exchanged the close-range mountains of Utah for the endlessly wide feel of Wyoming. The spaciousness and high altitude made me nervous. You absolutely cannot get that same feeling in the UK, that you are in the middle of nowhere. It was like being on another planet. I was relieved when we finally arrived at our hotel in Laramie, with lots of buildings and people surrounding us. I know that plenty of people were shocked that I chose to move voluntarily to a place as different as Mississippi, but I will take humidity and DFE (Deep Fried Everything) over high altitude, headaches and nosebleeds any day. No offense, Wyoming – you’re just out of my league and I know it.

Laramie is home to the University of Wyoming, the only university in the state. It is also home to Kirsty Callaghan, fellow UEA American Studies graduate and the recipient of the BAAS award in 2011. Since we knew we would be passing through Wyoming anyway, Kirsty and I arranged to meet at a microbrewery called, fittingly, Altitude. We talked cowboys, attitudes to land and the upcoming election. Kirsty had been volunteering for the local Democrats (apparently a caller once complained about her English accent and the fact that they were clearly outsourcing) despite the fact that Wyoming is typically a Republican state. I’ll get into this another time, but the Republicanism in Wyoming seems to be based more on living far from Washington DC and wanting freedom to do what they wish in their huuuuuge open spaces, compared to those in the South who think much more about social hierarchy and staying true to tradition. It is interesting to think of how in a country of this size, political parties have to appeal to people of so many different cultures.

08/11: Laramie, WY to Kansas City, MO

We left Laramie in the morning, looking out for the golden Abraham Lincoln head that Kirsty had told us about. Despite its size, I wasn't able to get a picture of it in time, so here is a link if you're curious (and I know that you are).

[Continued Jan 17, 2013] After this, there really didn’t seem like anything better to do so I fell asleep and when I woke up we were in Nebraska. Go back to sleep, right? Absolutely not! You see, one of my favorite books is Willa Cather’s My Antonia. I even have an audio book in which the narrator sounds suspiciously like Reverend Lovejoy.

[Continued Aug 5, 2013] Okay, so admittedly I don’t have much more to say than that. We drove through Lincoln, which is the capital city of Nebraska and the second most populous after Omaha. I know that not everyone understands these whims, but I absolutely want to return to Nebraska and learn more. I am intrigued by its small population amongst the plains and prairies, and its historical and current race relations between Native Americans, African American migrants and European immigrants. It is also the home of both Warren Buffett and Kool-Aid, so there you go.

I have always been curious about these places that people turn away from, or tell me, “There’s no point in going there – there’s nothing to see.” It is said about many, many US states. If I feel strongly enough about a place, I will ignore the warnings and go anyway. Often I have been rewarded with some amazing discoveries of landscapes, buildings and people. I think you can tell how much I took Michael Palin’s work to heart, especially his view that there is more that brings us together than divides us. I still believe in looking for stories in unlikely places.

We went through Lincoln without pulling over at all. As we waited for a light to change on the outskirts of the city, I rolled down my window, closed my eyes, and listened to the hum of locusts in the grass.

08/12: Kansas City, MO to West Memphis, AK

Two important things to mention about Missouri:

One. I damaged my camera in a town called St Joseph. I was busy puzzling over a billboard (yes, again) about a blood drive boasting about its “FREE AIR CONDITIONING.” I’ll let that one sit with you.

Two. Half of Kansas City is actually in Missouri, half is in Kansas.

Okay, so I know that second one wasn’t really a surprise to most people but I totally didn’t know. I also didn’t know much about Kansas City other than a refrain from a Stray Cats song, but I am always curious and Chip is a barbecue fanatic so we took some time to explore.

I’m going to take a moment to teach some BBQ 101. Settle down, settle down, I know there are disagreements about this. In England, “barbecue” has several definitions. It is first of all an event, reserved for any day that there is the slightest hint of sunshine (“Darling, the Manfredjinsinjins at number 43 are having a barbecue, do we have any Pimm’s?”), a piece of outdoor cooking equipment that you swear at when it refuses to light properly, and an action describing how you cook your beef burgers, sausages, chicken, salmon, corn-on-the-cob or bananas.

In America, barbecue is the food itself, and the culture that surrounds it. Americans do not have a neighborhood barbecue, they have a cook out. They also do not barbecue their food – they grill it. What we call grilling is called broiling here. Stay with me! Anyway, more interesting is the discrepancies between different regions of the US. (I apologize if I butcher several of the details in this explanation.) In North Carolina, barbecue is pork, and the sauce changes by location: vinegar in the east, tomato in the west, a blend in the middle. The pork is shredded (or pulled as we might say) and often served in a bun topped with coleslaw. In Texas, barbecue is beef, and there are many regional differences of technique and sauce within the state. In Kansas City, barbecue can be pork, beef or chicken. That’s about as much as I can condense the topic of southern barbecue without doing a full essay, so please try it if you visit the South or its fringe states. I have sometimes considered becoming a vegetarian, but the thought of barbecue prevents me.

Despite these differences, there is one thing that Americans and Britons have in common when it comes to barbecue: both insist that their definition is the correct one.

08/13: West Memphis, AK to Oxford, MS

We should have learned from Missouri/Kansas that just because a city seems like it’s probably in a certain state doesn’t necessarily mean that it is. We wanted a cheap hotel in Memphis, to check out the closest city to Oxford and have some time to relax before moving me in to my new place, so we didn’t book one right in the center. We booked one in West Memphis, and then became thoroughly confused that our GPS (British: SatNav) couldn’t find it at all. Well, that is because West Memphis is not in Tennessee, like Memphis is. It’s in Arkansas. Go figure.

A question I get asked a lot at home is, “Why is it pronounced Arkansaw?” You lazy people, don’t you know how to use Google? It’s okay, I did it for you. The root of the name is Native American, a Quapaw/Sioux word akakaze meaning “land of downriver people” or “people of the south wind” respectively. The pronunciation is French. Apparently, the pronunciation was a matter of such debate that it was made official in state legislation in 1881. But unfortunately that did not solve all of the problems in Arkansas. It took until 2007 for the state to pass a resolution that the possessive form of the name should be Arkansas’s. Scandal! Scandal!

I didn’t have a chance to see much of Arkansas, but as a neighboring state to Mississippi I hope to do so in the future. When I think of Arkansas, my mind goes to Bill Clinton, the violent desegregation of Little Rock Central High School in 1957, an amazing MFA program at the University of Arkansas, the arming of teachers at Clarksville High School and the headquarters of Walmart. On our drive through Arkansas, we stopped at the most antiquated gas station we had encountered so far. We also drove behind two horse-drawn buggies. I had never connected Amish culture to Arkansas, but later research revealed that there is in fact one community in Sturkie, which we must have been near.

But back to the journey. We left Arkansas, and West Memphis, for Memphis Proper in Tennessee. I always think that southern cities are somewhat of an oxymoron, which was made apparent as we waited f-o-r-e-v-e-r for pedestrians to cross the street. No one is in a hurry (unless they’re on a highway). Chip, a native of North Carolina who had been in California for a year, sighed and said, “I have missed the South so much.” Our last meal of the roadtrip was in IHOP (International House of Pancakes, which I always want to stylize as iHOP) where we were served over and over again with more coffee and more Dr Pepper. IHOP is one of those restaurants that is pleasantly unprofessional, with consistent food and harried-looking waiting staff. I still have ambitions to visit IHOP on Cox in North Carolina, where, I am told, they receive more prank phone calls than legitimate ones.

I was extremely anxious on the drive from Memphis to Oxford, feeling my stomach flip as we passed the Welcome to Mississippi sign. Now, I have passed that sign and done the 85-mile drive several times. I have many stories of my first year of Oxford, but for now, as pretentious as it is to quote myself, I will leave you with a Tweet from the first day that I arrived:

My hair is huge, my skin is bitten, my belly is full of fried catfish and hushpuppies. It feels so good to be back in the South. #olemiss

 

And this is a whole 'nother story.

23.

Cake for my last birthday. I got creative.

I won’t always love what I’ll never have, I won’t always live in my regrets…

Today I am 24. As far back as I can remember, my birthday has made me anxious. I’ve never liked to be center of attention. I dreaded opening gifts in front of a circle of people, desperately trying to compose my face into an expression of delight whilst fighting the urge to run out the door. As an adult, it’s about more than just shyness. I absolutely appreciate a thoughtful present, but I would genuinely rather someone makes time for me than they spend money on me. I’m sure other July babies can relate to the fact that there’s a lot going on with holidays, events, summer jobs – time is difficult to find.

Birthdays were really a cocktail of disaster for someone like me. I’m a deep thinker, a perfectionist, I like things to go to plan, and I always want to please others. But I am very stubborn. I never felt like I could live up to the expectations for a birthday and so some years I refused to celebrate it at all. If you think I sound selfish, I actually agree with you. I’m sure that I hurt family and friends by not being grateful that they wanted to do something for me.

You’ll sit alone forever, if you wait for the right time… What are you hoping for?

There is less pressure as I get older, especially with all my moving around, but I am still thinking about how to approach a day that makes me panicky. My solution, from now on, is to use the spotlight in a positive way. Firstly, I want to take this day to express how much I love and appreciate my friends and family, whether in England, Ireland or America. I have had a turbulent couple of years, and you have all shown me so much love and support. I could not have kept going without your company, your advice, your comedy and your kindness.

Secondly, I am giving everyone a present. Can you guess what it is? Yes, a real blog post! Okay, maybe not the BEST present but you’re here now so it’s something to read while you eat lunch or whatever. I am doing something a little artsy-fartsy and different by interspersing this post with lyrics, but it’s for good reason.

Amazing still it seems, I’ll be 23…

I was inspired to write this post a couple of days ago when I was listening to Pandora and Jimmy Eat World’s “23” came on. It is a very special song to me. I first heard it in 2005. Twenty-three felt a long way away to me then, and I could only imagine what my life might be like in 8 years. I distinctly remember playing the song on my iPod on Hallowe’en of 2007, as I sat on a plane headed to New York. I had the next five years mapped out: gap year, two years at UEA, a year in the states, final year of UEA. I would turn twenty-three around the time of graduation, and from there was a true unknown. Listening to the song, I vaguely wondered about location, career, and love. At that time, I had dreams to live in the US more permanently, I thought I would like to work in publishing, and I wasn’t sure that I knew what being in love felt like. Every time I heard “23”, as I came closer to reaching it myself, I would think about how my hopes and dreams were changing.

No one else will know these lonely dreams…

That moment was 5 years and 8.5 months ago. Naturally, my desires for location, career and relationships changed a lot during that time. I suffered through extreme homesickness during my year abroad and felt sure I would never leave England again; I became convinced that I wanted to be an academic; I swung from avoiding dating entirely to muddling through difficult relationships and finally figuring out what I wanted. But the funny thing is, most of what I initially wished for – what I thought about during that plane ride – came true during my 23^rd year. I moved back to the US; I pursued a Master’s and realized I want to work in publishing more than I want to get a PhD; I’m in a stable and happy relationship.

And I still listen to Jimmy Eat World. I have many memories of playing Futures with secondary school friends, which turned into a lot of Clarity and Chase This Light at UEA. It’s funny to me that thinking about them really irritated me when I was at Carolina; it is so fitting to how frustrated I was with life in general. They released Invented, which at first I did not like at all, and then went touring in Europe, stopping at none other than NORWICH, where all my friends went to see them without me. But, it got better. Their music still conjures good memories, and I have tickets to see them live in Charlotte this summer.

Now - with the help of Jimmy Eat World - I will tell you a few things I’m especially grateful for as I move on from 23…

I’m still driving away…  

I am finally driving! I’ve always boasted about my love of public transport, cycling and walking, and didn’t bother to get a license. But then I moved to the South. And mashed up my coccyx so I can no longer sit on a bike. I couldn’t buy groceries or really go anywhere in Mississippi without the aid of friends, so I finally got a permit and bought a car. Her name is Caddy (who gets it?). I’m planning on taking my test in a couple of months. And yes, British friends, you can make fun of me because I did NOT  a) learn to drive a manual or b) get TRULY tested by enduring the humiliation of the British driving test. But I will counter with the fact that my driving test fees cost $15 (around £10). So.

That once we said goodbye…  

Speaking of Britain, YES, I MISS YOU ALL. I miss narrow lanes and HobNobs and European fashion and Ribena and the BBC and Curlywurlies and people who know about Michael Palin and Stephen Fry and The Tea Junction. I’ll be back in December with my strange American-Southern/English-Southern accent. Bloody hell, y’all!

 

No one else will have me, only you…  

Public declarations of love are not really my thang, but I still want to say how much I love and appreciate my wonderful boyfriend. He makes me laugh, puts up with my hysteria and hypochondria, politely tries most of my experimental dinners, and truly believes in me. He’s my best friend, and I’m so happy that I will finally spend a birthday with him. Even if we will be having vegan cake.

Don’t give away the end, the one thing that stays mine…  

Writing is still my greatest passion. I’m very grateful that I have had so much encouragement to keep going, and ideas to keep me working. On a related note, I am spending my summer interning with the Hub City Writers Project, a literary nonprofit in Spartanburg, South Carolina that is both press and independent bookstore. I have been running their teen summer camps, which has led to new dreams about stories, teaching, nonprofit work and more. It’s been a real privilege. Also, their conference is this weekend, meaning I can spend my birthday hanging out with writers. Perfect!

I won’t always live, not stopping…  

It seems I like to keep lurching around and between two countries, despite how much I loathe packing and plane rides. Over the last 2 years, I have lived in Chapel Hill, North Carolina; Norwich, UK; (a total of 3 weeks in San Francisco, California); St. Albans, UK; Oxford, Mississippi; Spartanburg, South Carolina. I’m not sure where I’m headed after this year. I made a list of possible cities for fun and came up with a variety including Austin, Brighton, Buenos Aires, Berlin  and even “somewhere in Sweden”. Mostly I just want to be somewhere where someone will pay me.

And I’m sorry every day…  

I considered making my own sad face but ultimately decided I'm not as cool.

I ended up being WAY too busy in graduate school to ever update this blog. But I have been keeping notes, and I’m hoping to have a window of time before classes start again. I desperately want to tell you all about Oxford!

But that’s it from me for now. Happy birthday to me, but more importantly - I hope that YOU have a great day!

I was born, lucky me, in a land that I love

I've been looking over my first ever post, Where are you going, where have you been? and am struck by the fact that my feelings from then and now are so similar. (And that I didn't actually know what "liberal arts" means, but I pledged not to edit anything retrospectively.) You would think that with everything that's happened to me over the last two years, I would be a different person entirely. Or at the very least, that I would view my old words as naive - but I don't. Back in 2010, I was sad to say goodbye and worrying about how to handle depression abroad, but I was also very excited. It's pretty much how I feel now. The only big difference is that I have a greater understanding of my own weaknesses, and how these can be challenged in such a situation.

If ever I talk to people who haven't studied/lived abroad about the difficulties I experienced, a common reaction is that my expectations must have been too high, or that I made the wrong choices. By contrast, when I talk to those who have been abroad, even if their experience was 100x better than mine, they usually nod their heads and say, "That's how it goes sometimes." Don't get me wrong, there is a lot that I could have done better. This time around, I do want to be more assertive, more forgiving, more aware of how I'm feeling and what I can do about it. I understand my strengths a lot more now, too. But I also know that for any year in your life, regardless of setting, you can't be expected to control every single thing. Quite simply: shit happens. It might be that it takes me awhile to make friends, or to get into the swing of classes, or to adjust to the new climate. It might be that something goes horribly wrong. But no amount of preparation and/or panic is going to change that possibility, so I might as well focus on the excitement. My enthusiasm for my year abroad was certainly not what made it difficult; if anything, it was the reason I was able to keep going.

Obviously, the major difference between then and now is the fact that I'm leaving for two years, not one. It's also a more transient time than when I left before. The lives of my friends and family are going to change so much between now and May 2014. They'll be pursuing careers, moving houses, travelling the world, getting engaged. It would be an entirely different world for me to come back to. I've had to say a more permanent goodbye to the life that I knew, both in Norwich and St Albans. Strangely enough, that is easier. I don't have the burden of coming home and trying to fit back in again a year later, pushing aside these experiences that no one else witnessed. It's easier to believe I can make Oxford my new home in a way that I couldn't with Chapel Hill. I expect I will still feel lost at first. When you move elsewhere, sometimes you have to accept certain sacrifices. For me, it's some of my hobbies, such as fashion and cooking. In Mississippi, I can't live with one eye on the high street at all times, collecting limited edition clothing*, nor can I comfortably peruse Sainsbury's to make my usual dishes. I will have to adapt, and accept I can't always get hold of Quorn or creme fraiche. These are little things, but I'm sure they will sometimes make me sigh. I'm not sure it's possible to ever feel as comfortable in a foreign country as the place where you grew up.

*I'm a proud owner of a Queen's Guard crop top, a Jubilee-themed Topshop item. It's a real wonder that I actually resisted the Corgi-patterned bags.

When my visa-approved passport was returned to me last week, my nana was surprised to see that I don't have an Irish passport. It would never occur to me to get one, since I have never lived in Ireland and my dad's side is predominantly English. She asked, "But do you feel Irish?" I thought about this for a moment before replying, "I do on St. Patrick's Day." It does go a little deeper than that. I love visiting Ireland, and knowing that people I love grew up there, saw these places every day. I have a lot of childhood memories that tie me to the country, even little things like the food I begged for and the music I heard there. I wear a Claddagh ring, a gift from my nana. I thought seriously about applying to Trinity College. Yet to be honest, my relationship with Ireland is almost no different to my relationship with the South. I love Southern food, Southern literature, Southern music. I feel like I have an understanding of the culture without being truly part of it. It's somewhere I would be excited to live. There's no rhyme or reason to me attaching myself to it in such a way, it just happened.

What does it means to "come from" a country or town - is it your heritage, where you lived as a child, where you move to as an adult? I've been meditating on this a lot recently, perhaps due to the number of patriotic events this year. Some people are dismissive of the idea that one can be proud to be from somewhere, as it's really only an accident of birth. Other people hold tightly to their nationality, whether it's somewhere they can barely remember or where they grew up all along. The other day I met up with Tash, who was the first friend I made at UEA. Whilst I grew up only a short train ride from London, Tash grew up 5 hours away, in Devon. We walked along the Thames, thronged by Olympics tourists, and both felt that in some way, this capital was truly ours and something to be proud of. I'm not going all Colonialist on you - I offer no intelligent comments on Britain's history, and I don't view my birthplace as an achievement of some kind. But I am grateful for the way my country shaped me. As the Olympics opening ceremony demonstrated, Britain is a country that values art, humour and compassion. Who I am now, as a person and as a writer, is largely the result of that.

For instance, I would probably not have encountered the same television and writing. Many people know how much I admire Michael Palin. I'm a huge fan of Monty Python, and he was always my favourite. I used to rewind the Biggus Dickus scene of Life of Brian. I love his travel shows and his books. Now, everyone and their parrot just likes to discuss how Palin is so "nice", which is actually not why I am drawn to his work. Obviously, he is a talented writer and actor, and his journeys fuelled my own interest in travel. But mainly it is the fact that he appears to be someone who is comfortable with the fact that life does not have hard and fast answers. He doesn't aim to conclude, and he lives his life with empathy. (I shudder when I say "empathy" now, thanks to my dissertation!) When I read his work or his interviews, I feel a sense of peace, even if my life is currently all over the place. Last week, I read an interview with him in the Independent. He made a comment about John Cleese which resonated with me:

"I think he set himself a very high standard of achievement and possibly feels he never quite attained it. He's always moving: first to New York, then to California, now Monaco. Where next? I always wanted to say to him: 'John, you're so talented. You have a lovely wife and kids; just relax.' But there was always something more that he wanted, to a point that was almost destructive."

"Just relax" is my new mantra. I worry so much. Every day I wake up asking myself if I'm good enough, in my relationships and in my pursuits. If I may say so, I have inherited the British tradition of apologising for everything, which means it's hard to congratulate yourself. Being awarded a scholarship is one of the biggest things that's ever happened to me. You would think that I spent every day since January being overjoyed, proud of myself, successful. But I've been taught modesty all my life, and sometimes that drifts accidentally into self-consciousness. In some ways it's easier to process failure than it is to know what to do with success. I think it's how most people would feel, actually. My inclination to deconstruct and understand is in many ways a good quality, but sometimes it does need to be ignored and replaced swiftly with a "just relax."

I was caught on camera the other day as I was considering all of this. I have no idea what it was for, but I was amused that the footage, shot so randomly, would be rather poignant to me. I had taken the familiar train journey from St Albans to Kings Cross-St Pancras, and sat down outside the station. I was dressed in Topshop and Miss Selfridge, my iPod in and playing the Kinks. As I waited for Tash's train to arrive from Norwich, I continued reading Faulkner's The Wild Palms. At some point I paused, thinking about the upcoming move, my tendency to agonise, and how I should "just relax". I glanced up, squinting into the sunlight, and noticed the camera pointed right at me. The person holding it couldn't possibly have known, but what they recorded was a moment which connected me to all the places I've lived, the person I've been in all of them, and the place and person I'm now going towards.

I also like to express myself with cake.

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