Celidah and Context

I think I have discovered where the modern liberal arts, particularly the study of English literature, have failed. (At least, I've come a step closer to realizing what my father has been telling me for years.) Part of becoming educated is to develop a sense of context. To properly understand a text, a student has to have read many of the books that influenced the writer. He may even need to have tried writing texts himself to get a feel for the narrative. The goal of context is to build up a body of ideas and experiences held in common with a writer. Without this context, modern students are simply floundering in the dark for a world of lost meaning.

Tonight, thanks to a tradition barn dance called a celidah sponsored by the chaplaincy, I am one step closer to the context I need for the works of Jane Austen. Just imagine the experience...

The band slows toward the end of a song, signaling a dance is about to begin. A young man asks me to dance. I feel no sense of drama because my heart already belongs to someone else, but I am excited to be dancing. We line up in triplets--girl, boy, girl. The caller briefly outlines the dance and off we go, galloping down the floor, turning, and returning again. A few spins, a circle, and we're off galloping again until the caller calls out "boys advance" and the two women pass our partner on to another man. As the dance continues, I notice how different it is to be partnered with each different men. Some are unfamiliar and strange, bizarre partners. Others just aren't attractive, probably sweating profusely. Some can't dance very well and I lead them through an awkward round before passing them on gratefully. Others are familiar and I cling to them like a lifeline in a storm of chaos. Around and around we go and every time we switch, I imagine the ecstasy of meeting the man I love at the next reel. And that is the moment I realize what it must have been like to be Anne Elliot. I look around them warm room, sweaty, smiling young faces all around me, and realize I've stepped into the world of any of Jane Austen's heroines.

That is context. That is a life experience that will fundamentally shape the way I read a particular author's books for the rest of my life. The celidah opened a window into another time and another place, bringing one step closer to the sophistication and art of Austen's works.

Of course, that realization comes with the far more humbling one that I will never grasp the full depths of Austen's works. She is in a time and a place far removed from me. I shall have to continue, as an English student, to do my best to have as many exciting experiences and to explore as many new ideas as I can.

Matriculation

Inordinately late due to the inadvertent destruction of my USB ports, I present for your enjoyment a post about matriculation--the day on which I became an official student at Oxford University.

First of all, I feel compelled to explain that the weather was extremely sticky. My hair looks a bit Hermione-esque. But, here I am in all of my sub-fosc glory.

The head burser said I would earn a reputation wearing this hat. He tried to talk me into borrow a mortar board. But I've worn mortar boards and I think they are far sillier. Besides, students must carry their mortar boards--they aren't allowed to even wear them until graduation. I, on the other hand, must wear my soft cap as it cannot be carried.

En masse, the entire new undergraduate and graduate body of Exeter College marched down the street to the Sheldonian Theatre. The experience was rather strange. Oxford is one of the only places in the world you can stand on the street looking like this without anyone thinking anything of it. As a group though, you attract loads of attention. We did look rather dashing.

The Sheldonian Theatre is very nice, though very small. The colleges could not all come at once. The colleges marched in in order of foundation, so Exeter was in the first group.

The ceremony itself was rather anti-climactic. It gave the surreal experience of actually earning my place here, achieving my dream of coming here, a degree of cold, final reality. This is really happening and I am really here!

Why I Couldn't Sleep Last Night

I just wanted to share with you the reason I couldn't sleep last night. It was so perfectly British...

As you know, I live in the chaplaincy. That means a lot of people come and go from what is basically the ground floor of my house. Last night, the Oxford University Newman Society had a drinks party. (Eighteen year-olds are allowed to drink here, so most freshmen events for organizations involve beer or wine.) The Newman Society's involved champagne cocktails and had a pianist. Very ritzy. The entire event was much more fun than I expected and I shall probably participate in more of their events later in the year. I retired early to do some more work before crawling into bed around eleven.

It wasn't until I turned off my computer that the noise began: loud, tipsy British men. The pianist seemed to be banging on the keys as chorus after chorus of patriotic hymns wafted up the two flights of stairs--'God Save the Queen,' 'I Vow to Thee My Country,' round after round of enthusiastically sung songs. I don't know what time it ended, but I do know it lasted more than half an hour.

Now, tell me, where else would some of the more masculine men boisterously sing patriotic carols at midnight?