Alligators and Lobster Skin

Originally written for Ramp.ie as part of the emigration series on June 14 2013

My sister lives in West Palm Beach, Florida and George and I finally made it down there to visit last weekend. We took advantage of living with other adults who can look after our children and went. This was only our second weekend alone since the eldest was born and probably my last bit of breathing space before my training starts in the summer so it was a trip we both needed. I spent some time in a pre-vacation salon as New Yorkers do and arrived there with an impressive tan. Chemical, yes but the first time I have ever been brown. Even George kept double checking me.
I liked West Palm a lot. The weather was a bit stormy for the first two days but even so the temperature was perfect for walking around the surprisingly many little bars and restaurants, all heavily advertising various happy hour deals on cocktails and appetizers. Although, the pool was a little chilly, the hot tub was delicious, even in the rain, possibly even more so because of it. Half-joking I demanded to be shown alligators and the next thing I knew, we were kayaking down the Loxahatchee River through eerie, overhanging trees, flanked by seven-foot-long alligators and whatever other intimidating creatures that lurked under the black swamp water only inches from our plastic boats.
On our last day, after picking up supplies from a supermarket with valet parking, we headed to Palm Beach to experience the gorgeously fine sand and warm soupy sea. It’s hard to believe that this was still the Atlantic Ocean. I spent too much time here buried, undisturbed in a book and as we ate dinner later I became acutely aware of a familiar hot, stinging across the backs of my thighs. My light golden glow of a tan had been replaced with a roaring ruby-red burn causing me to limp around like an old lady. You can take the girl out of Ireland, I guess but there’s no shedding that Irish skin.
So we’re back in New York now where Memorial Day has passed, the pool is open and it is officially summer. It’s looking like it’ll be quite a stressful, busy one for me, I’m glad I had the opportunity to escape to paradise for a bit before diving in.

Mothers' Day

Emigration Diary: Mother’s Day

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Posted May 14, 2013 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

It was Mother’s Day here last Sunday. I saw my children for approximately twenty minutes in the morning, received my cute handmade cards and then I went and worked a double shift in the restaurant on a crazily busy day. Mother’s day is big business here, just like all the other Hallmark Holidays. Everyone in town and their mother seemed to be clamouring for a table in our petite establishment. There are hours of the day that passed in such a whirr of bread baskets, table numbers and skirt steaks that I don’t have any recollection of them at all. And this is my little housewife job, I have a gnawing sense of fear that things are about to get really real.
I have a list an arm long of online coursework to do, assignments to submit and documents I have to gather by June. I am at a disadvantage because I have to sit a multi-subject teaching certification exam that covers such subjects as American history and social studies that I never covered in school not having gone to an American high school or college, so I have to study that too. My children still need to eat nutritious meals and need clean clothes to wear. They need help with their homework and to be brought to the various birthday parties and play dates they are invited to. The training in the summer is six weeks from 9 to 6.30 an hour and a half away from home. I will hardly see them at all in that time. The pool is to be relined and opened this week. Will I ever get to swim in it? George has been constructing a brand new little kitchen, weekend by weekend. At the moment I can’t foresee a time when I will actually get to cook in it. I have no idea what my schedule will look like in September. I just hope I can work out some kind of work/life balance that keeps everyone happy and home life running smoothly.
It seems that if I want the American dream to come true I’m going to have to spread myself very thinly. I am aware that other working mothers juggle this stuff all the time, it is obviously doable if a little overwhelming and I’m confident that I’ll somehow figure it all out but re-entering the rat race to this extent after eight years of being home with the kids is damn scary. This is what I wanted though, isn’t it? This is why I uprooted my family and transplanted them across the Atlantic Ocean. I’m going to do my best to make a go of it with my fingers kept tightly crossed that this is The Right Thing To Do and hey, with a bit of luck and a lot of hard work I may end up with a few more letters after my name and the resources to fund my children to earn a few when their time comes. It gives me confidence that my youngest child draws me cheering under a blue sky. I hope he still sees me like this next year.

Acceptance

Emigration Diary: Acceptance

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Posted May 1, 2013 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

I was accepted to the NYC Teaching Fellows to train to teach special education. With one refresh of Gmail, I was offered not just a job but a career. I’ve to train in June and find a teaching job in a NY public school by September. I’ll be simultaneously studying for a Masters in Special Education in a CUNY college. It is by no means to be an easy number but I’m hoping it will be very rewarding. In just over a year here I will have a salary I don’t think I would ever have been offered in Ireland.
There are a few things I miss though, probably the biggest one being decent radio. Flicking through the stations here at any given time all I hear is Led Zeppelin, The Eagles, Metallica, Pink Floyd or Pearl Jam. All great bands with great songs but when they’re on constantly on several frequencies they start to grate on the nerves. There are a few Latino and R&B stations too, but I’m not that desperate yet. At home I usually listen to Pandora, which plays exactly the music I want to hear but lacks the companionship live radio gives. I tried using the Irish radio apps but the time difference is too disconcerting. Listening to DJs commiserate with those stuck in home time traffic over lunch or being lulled to sleep while I’m cooking dinner doesn’t work for me. Also, the daily uproars about issues I know and care less and less about makes me feel less like I have radio companions and more like I’m living on a completely different planet.

I spoke to a guy from Dublin who has been here for 25 years. He told me a sad truth about being an expatriate. He said that I will always be a foreigner here. I will be completely accepted and welcomed but I would always be known and thought of as ‘the Irish woman’. He also said that the longer I stay away from Ireland the more foreign I will become there too. The less I will feel like I belong there and I will in effect become nationless. My kids, on the other hand, will be completely American in ten years. At the moment, I still refer to Ireland as ‘back home’. I still make comparisons between prices. I still think in euro and the metric system and centigrade. When I’m driving I sometimes find my left hand searching for a gear stick and even though I ask the attendant for gas it’s because I noticed the car needed petrol. I do feel these subconscious happenings slowly changing. I don’t have to convert Fahrenheit in my head to know if the kids need a jacket or not anymore. I know my weight in pounds, the date with the month first and I can refer to people’s pants without smirking now. I don’t think I’ll ever respond to the word ‘fanny’ with a straight face though. There are some things that just sound plain wrong.
I’m guessing that my new career will speed these changes in me up a lot. There will be whole new worlds of people who simply won’t understand me if I don’t adjust my language and pronunciation accordingly. I’m finding it all very exciting now that I was accepted to the fellowship. I may well be half way down the road to national identity limbo but I certainly feel like I’m in the right place right now.

Bottoms Up

Emigration Diary: Bottoms Up!

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Posted April 17, 2013 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

I have been promoted from hostess to waitress. Neither term is politically correct, I know, but it doesn’t seem to matter here. I think the former sounds a lot more glamorous too, but the reality is the latter makes more money. So here I go; movin’ on up.
I don’t think I would have taken a job in a restaurant in Ireland. I worked in a few while I was in college but since then it never would have occurred to me to apply. Even here I consider it temporary. I’m still waiting to hear about the teaching course and another dream position in publishing where I’ve advanced through the initial stages of interviewing, but in the meantime this suits me. It’s local, it works well with my childcare arrangements, I like my colleagues and the regulars and it’s a pleasant place to be.
If you enjoy people-watching, the restaurant/bar business is one to be in. I’ve seen blind dates, date-night dates, custody arguments, people eating with families one day on a date with someone else the next, middle-aged couples getting over amorous at the bar, little old ladies drinking martini glasses full of neat vodka in the middle of the day. It’s a small town, if we don’t know someone’s story or whatever the current gossip about them is, we simply make something up. It’s a fun game.
People here have a noticeably different relationship with alcohol than in Ireland. Plenty of people here have one glass of wine with lunch, or one cocktail at happy hour and then go off about their day. I don’t think I ever experienced people in Ireland drinking cocktails at 3pm who weren’t either still at a bar or home in a sorry state at 10. Bartenders are a lot freer with the measures here too. I found this out the hard way when I drank a lot more than I thought one night and suffered the whole of the next day. I can only imagine what bars in Dublin would be like if publicans were so free with their spirits. It’s not that people don’t get drunk here; they do, and dangerously often drive home. It just seems less messy somehow. Perhaps it’s the attitude, perhaps people just handle drink better, perhaps they know when to stop, perhaps all that is just an illusion. I am always surprised when somebody orders a straight up martini with their sandwich or has a few rum and cokes on a business lunch. I certainly wouldn’t be able to get on with my day if I started drinking spirits at lunchtime. I don’t think I want to try that aspect of this new culture I’m experiencing, I’m not sure it’s safe. I’ll stick to my glass of wine after the kids go to bed, thanks.

Egg Hunting

Emigration Diary: Egg Hunting

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Posted April 3, 2013 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

Last week was Spring Break. All the kids were off school and college. It was very welcome in our school district for kids and teachers alike, after having missed out on Winter Break because of the unscheduled Hurricane Hallowe’en Holiday back in October. It is called Spring Break here because we do not mention Easter in schools. The actual holiday coincided with the days of Passover. Jewish holidays are all observed by schools in New York. Everyone was back in school on what would be Easter Monday to us. Unfortunately, there is no bank holiday here.
I am unsure why the school doesn’t allow Easter celebrations. To me it is not a religious holiday. It is a celebration of Spring and fertility, hence all the eggs and bunnies. The school may have ignored it, but the town sure didn’t. Egg decorations hung everywhere. Baskets and bunnies were available in every store. Most places even stocked Cadbury Cream Eggs much to our delight. They are actually smaller here, only 34g to the Irish 40g. They fit four into what should be a three pack but at least they taste the same. What wasn’t so easily available was a traditional Easter egg: a large egg in a box with a couple of chocolate bars beside it. I found some online but there was no way was I paying $20 for a small Crunchie egg. My mom bought a few in the famed Myers of Keswick English grocery shop in Manhattan, but they were still extremely expensive compared to what they cost in Ireland and compared to how many regular chocolate bars could be bought for the same price. It was nice to get one each though. I’m saving my Maltesers egg for a chocolate nostalgia moment.
We had our own little egg hunt in the garden and later we went down to the town for the village hunt. The park was filled with little plastic eggs filled with candy. There were hundreds of kids. At 1pm the Mayor let down the rope and said ‘Go!’. Kiddie chaos ensued. Adults wandered around desperately trying to keep track of their children. By 1.01pm the park was completely clear of eggs and the rest of the time was spent by families trying to reunite themselves. Afterwards, there was a series of egg & spoon races. My eldest was awarded the prize in the 6/7 year old boys’ category. Although he wasn’t the first to cross the line, the judge decided that he cheated the least. He was presented with a large chocolate bunny. George maintained that he should have won the parents’ race, but the judge was too distracted by a leggy mom and awarded her the prize.
And so we’re heading into the last trimester of school. I’ve already been getting letters about end of year testing and enrollment for next year. I think it’s official: we survived our first New York winter. Now, where’s my badge?

The School Science Fair and the Snowy Parade

Emigration Diary: The School Science Fair And The Snowy Parade

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Posted March 20, 2013 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

After the Valentine’s Day disaster I discovered that in order to avoid any more grade school cultural blunders I should simply take my cues from remembered episodes of The Simpsons. This is what I did last week when confronted with phenomena of The Science Fair.
I was unable to attend the Parent’s Information Evening due to work commitments and so had to make do with a downloaded PDF informing me of nothing more than the required dimensions of the display, the judging criteria, a reminder that it should be the students’ own work and that scientific method must be followed. My second grader was enthusiastic. He had obviously discussed the upcoming fair with the science teacher. That’s what I get for signing him up to Science Club. Despite how cool it sounded, I dissuaded him from the ambitious wind powered contraption he was originally planning. After all, where was he supposed to get indoor wind without a socket for a fan? He settled on a series of experiments on bridges he was to build out of K-Nex. This sounded more reasonable. I bought him a notebook and he set to work. He got his little brother to weigh toy cars to test his structures. It was odd listening to scientific measurements in ounces and inches. The metric system really does make much more sense.
It was interesting watching him work. He started with one structure which collapsed under just a few cars and then added different parts to it until he came up with a structure that would hold all of his cars. Of course two nights before the fair I was presented with pages of scribbled notes and asked to help him write it up properly in his notebook. He was still writing at 10.30pm the night before it was due. He had photos for his display and he planned to bring the final successful bridge as a model. It was only thanks to Twitter that I discovered that the poster board I had supplied wasn’t going to cut it. The display had to stand up by itself. Thankfully, the local stationary store is more familiar with science fairs than I am and stocks reasonably priced cardboard displays for exactly that purpose.
It became apparent at the parents viewing that we had got it right. His project stood up both physically and metaphorically quite well among the others. There was even a fourth grade project quite similar to his. The standard of the projects was excellent. There were plant tropisms, hamster mazes, mentos explosions, dogs’ paw preferences and a myriad of vegetables acting as batteries. Admittedly, I was disappointed not to see a single baking soda volcano. My son won the first prize for second grade. He was thrilled with himself. He even allowed pictures to be taken. We are very proud. He’s to take his entry to the County fair next. Perhaps next year I should let him try whatever wind powered contraption he comes up with.

We headed into New York City to see the parade on St Patrick’s Day. Or actually St Patrick’s Eve, as this was, bizarrely, when the parade was on. The train journey was an eye opener. Dublin absolutely does not have the monopoly on half-dressed sparkly shamrock adorned drunk teenagers. Green knee socks and short shorts with cleavage crushing leprechaun waistcoats was the uniform of choice for the majority. I dread to think of their fate later that day because by the time we arrived in Penn Station it was snowing.
We made our way up by Central Park following the sound of drumming and the trail of green debris and found a decent viewing spot. We saw police bands, firefighter bands, prison warden bands, college bands, Irish Society bands and yet more police bands. It’s remarkable how many members of the emergency services in New York are Irish. We stood for about an hour as the snow fluttered around us. The atmosphere was pleasant, we waved and clapped as the bands passed by. It was pretty cold though. We were wrapped up, but I hadn’t really prepared for snow. My kids were getting bored and starting to shiver and whine too. I suggested we just wait to see a few floats and then go in search of food.
But there were to be no floats or puppets, just marching band after marching band, kilts and flags adding the only colour. I was shocked and a little disappointed. The bands are, of course, impressive, but the biggest St Patrick’s Day parade in the world doesn’t have any floats, puppets or giant heads? As the blizzard worsened and the goosebumps became visible on the drummer girls’ legs we retired in the most Irish American of ways to TGI Fridays where the choice of beer was between green Budweiser and Guinness with a shamrock in the head. No ‘traditional’ Patty’s Day corned beef and cabbage for us; we ordered steak.

Shamrocks, Chivalry and Such Shenanigans

Emigration Diary: Shamrocks, Chivalry and Such Shenanigans

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Posted March 6, 2013 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

A bad thing happened last week. I got a call to cover a shift and when I arrived I found out that the reason was that my colleague’s house had burned down. No people had been home but the family’s beloved pets and all their belongings had perished in the fire. I watched as the town sprung into action. The fire had happened on Wednesday morning and by Thursday evening three fundraisers had been organised by different local establishments with the first to take place on Friday night. The family were handed gift card after gift card for various different stores by people hoping to make this difficult time even a little bit easier for them. Hundreds of people attended the fundraisers which raised thousands of dollars. The family are still overwhelmed by the sheer amount of kindness shown. I had never expected to find this type of community spirit in New York. It was incredibly touching.

My children, not here much more than a wet weekend, have frequented Central Park, The Lego Store and The Subway System more often than a lot of adults who live here.

This is a small town. It has a population of about 8000 making it similar in size to Thurles or Dunboyne. I have spoken to adults who have lived here or in other nearby towns all their lives who can count the number of times they have been into New York City on one hand, even though it is just over an hour away. My children, not here much more than a wet weekend, have frequented Central Park, The Lego Store and The Subway System more often than a lot of adults who live here. Many people obviously do commute daily on the LIRR or by car but just as many seem to feel no need to leave this scenic, sleepy town for the skyrising, quickstepping, ever moving mass of confusion that is Manhattan. Despite the sea and the parks and the malls, I start to get cabin fever if I stay on Long Island too long, much as I did when I lived in Dublin 15 and didn’t venture into town for months on end. I guess as much as I am able to fit into Suburbia, I’ll always be a city girl at heart.
We’ve decided to take the kids into Manhattan to the parade on the 17th. It’s St Patrick’s Month here in New York. Apparently so that the bagpipers can attend them all and lend some authenticity to the smaller local parades, there is one every Saturday and Sunday in March in different nearby towns. Having previously shunned the Dublin parade with its amazing spectacle of tourists waving their cellphones in the air and the odd head of a tall puppet to attend the much smaller Lucan parade which featured every child in the town cheered on only by their sibling toddlers and grandparents, I’m not sure how this will go. I figure it’s definitely worth doing once though. Judging by the shamrocks and gaudy green tat popping up everywhere from the grocery stores to the sushi restaurants, I may have to make a little bit more of an effort than my usual green ribbon in my hair. Interestingly, any bar staff I’ve spoken to dread St Patrick’s Day more than any other. ‘People just drink way too much and usually fall over or get thrown out for fighting before they even tip.’ Sounds fun doesn’t it? I’m glad I’m not working in the bar that day anyway.
It’s a funny situation to be in, having left Ireland to go somewhere where people often get emotional with longing to visit towns and places I happily waved goodbye to. People hug me and shake my hand when they hear my accent, jubilant that they placed it correctly and that its not actually Scottish, then mildly disappointed when I don’t come from the precise town of their ancestors. Total strangers are constantly trying to hook me up with other Irish families, which although is very nice of them, I feel unnecessary. I live here now. I’ll be ‘the nice Irish girl’ constituent of this small community until I move on. My children say the Pledge of Allegiance to the American flag every day. If I’m to become a teacher or even a citizen, I’ll have to learn it myself. We will wear green and wave flags on St Patrick’s Day just like we always did but that’s about as maudlin for ‘the old country’ that I’ll get. Like many before me, my leprechaun top hat hangs here on the Statue of Liberty now.

Snow, Hearts and Cheeses

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Emigration Diary: Snow, Hearts and Cheeses

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Posted February 20, 2013 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

When it snows in Ireland, it causes mayhem; buses stop running, mail stops being delivered, and people have difficulty getting to work and school. I always thought because Long Island regularly gets a lot of snow that it is well prepared for it. There are thousands of snow ploughs. The roads get gritted nightly in very cold weather and most people have cars or winter tyres that can well handle the snow. It became very apparent with last week’s nor’easter storm, dubbed Nemo, that even well-equipped Long Island can’t handle two feet of snow when it falls altogether over just a few hours.
Driving was impossible during the blizzard. We had what are called white out conditions; it wasn’t possible to see more than a few feet ahead. Cars suddenly became stuck and people were forced to either abandon them or wait in them until they were rescued. Thankfully, we were all able to leave work early, so by the time the blizzard was in full force we were all safely home and warm. The next day was an eye-opener. It looked beautiful outside. The skies were blue and the sun was shining.
The reality of getting anywhere hit us pretty hard though. Our street had been ploughed which meant we could drive on it but only after digging away the mountain of snow that the plough had deposited at the bottom of our drive, as well as the six by two feet that had settled in front and on top of the car. Digging snow, for the record, is a great way of banishing bingo wings.
The smaller snow ploughs were unable to function in that amount of snow and even some of the bigger industrial ones got stuck ploughing the expressway. We managed to get to some nearby hills to take the kids sledding. Now, that is really fun! Except of course for having to drag the sled and sometimes the children on it back up the hill every single time. The school couldn’t open after the weekend because so many roads were still impassable that it wasn’t safe for the school buses. My children were pretty happy about this until they realised that they will now have to lose a scheduled midterm because all of their snow days were used up after the hurricane. Everything is back to normal again now but the snow remains, frozen solid now, everywhere but the roads. Walking anywhere is completely out of the question and I’m really glad I have good boots.

Valentine’s Day is celebrated a bit differently here than in Ireland. It’s not merely a celebration of romantic love between adults, there are Valentine’s cards for friends, siblings, parents, grandparents and children. If you like someone at all you are supposed to declare this with a cardboard pink heart on the day. My kids came home from school with bags full of notes, cards, pencils and stickers from their classmates both male and female. There are a lot of candies and lollipops available in the stores for this purpose but as there is a ban on food-sharing in our school district, parents have to get creative. I felt bad because I hadn’t supplied my children with anything to distribute. How was I to know though? I’m thinking of making some St Patrick ’s Day goody bags for them to give out to their friends to compensate for my latest cultural faux pas.

We also experienced the wonder that is Chuck E Cheese this week. Our Kindergardener was invited to a birthday party there and I let his big brother invite a friend his own age to play with. I was expecting a play centre with climbing structures and slides similar to ones we frequented in Ireland. It was not like that at all.

Chuck E Cheese is Vegas for kiddies. It consists solely of arcade type games; think off-season Bray on steroids with everything at eye level for the vertically challenged. You buy tokens on entry and the kids feed these into machines such as the Winning Streak Wheel and Deal or no Deal in return for tickets. There is no skill or physical exercise involved at all. It merely provides kids with a comprehensive introduction to gambling and slot machines. I was stunned. The tickets can then be exchanged for worthless plastic prizes. None of which are any good.

The birthday celebrant gets to go into a machine like the one in Crystal Maze that shoots out a whole thousand tickets which he can then exchange for a big prize like a colouring set. On the half hour Chuck E comes out and grushies tickets about causing instant wrestling carnage. Then there is cheap ketchup flavoured pizza. The kids had a lot of fun but I found the whole experience upsetting. We won’t be returning there in a hurry. I’ve scratched it completely off my potential birthday party venue regardless of my kids’ yearning for a go in the Ticket Blaster machine.
I expressed my dismay at the set-up to another parent. ‘Welcome to America!’ she smiled wryly. I guess that says it all.

It is what it is.

Emigration Diary: It Is What It Is

Posted February 6, 2013 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

I had an interview in the city the other day. Well, not so much an interview as a four hour observation of my suitability to be a teacher in NYC. It included role plays, a five minute teaching sample, a maths test, a written test and a group presentation. If they do deem me to be built of the right stuff it looks like a very interesting program. After an intensive period of training over the summer, I will be given support to find a teaching position in a high-need school in NYC. I will then simultaneously teach and study for a Masters in Education in a CUNY college. It sounds like it will be hard work with many tough challenges but potentially very rewarding.
It struck me while I was watching the other candidates’ teaching samples that I wasn’t the only one with an accent. Even people who had been brought up in New York had varying accents, some of them with a foreign lilt. It really was a very diverse bunch of people who had decided to apply to this program that has the overall mission of increasing academic achievement within the city’s more disadvantaged schools. Diverse people from diverse backgrounds, many experts in their fields with absolutely no previous teaching experience. What the selectors made very clear they were looking for was potential, idealism and commitment.
Many years ago, back at the turn of the century, in fact, I applied to do a bridging course in Dublin that would allow me adapt my Arts degree to an Education degree which would allow me teach elementary school in Ireland. I was refused admission to this course on the basis that I was one grade short in the Irish language in my leaving certificate. I wrote a carefully worded letter, outlining all my previous experiences with TEFL, school workshops and afterschool projects and relevant courses that I had already taken and even offered to spend two months in the Gaeltacht before the commencement of the course and to sit the Irish exam again. The same day I posted that letter I mailed a response to an ad for teachers in an international school in the Gulf. About two weeks later, at 9am I got a phonecall from a rather rude lady in the college. ‘What are you doing, writing me letters?’ she shrilled ‘You’re not eligible and that’s that.’ Exactly two hours later, I wiped away my tears to answer the phone to a man with an intriguing foreign accent arranging an interview in the Westbury Hotel for the position in Qatar. I hung up the phone and decided then and there that if they were willing to give me a chance and my own country wasn’t, I would go to wherever it was. I wasn’t planning to teach Geography. That was the first time I emigrated out of Ireland.
Here I am now again. My first excursion away was always temporary. It was a two year contract which I extended to three. I could have stayed longer but I really felt it was time for me to leave. I actually wanted to come here to the US then but I knew it would take a while to get a visa and I wanted to come legally. I wasn’t really counting on the ten year wait but I managed to accumulate some people in those years that I insisted on taking with me. They’re all happily in their routines of school and work here now. I haven’t found it as easy as I thought it would be to break into an exciting career. I’m looking at this program as a big chance.
I may get it I may not. I have other interests I’m exploring here that were repeatedly shot down in Ireland too. I certainly did my best on the day. The thing that stays with me though is that they at least gave me the opportunity to prove myself. As they say here quite a bit, ‘It is what it is.’ which I find a whole lot more comforting and easier to take than a dismissive Irish ‘and that’s that.’

Tom-ay-to/Tom-ah-to

Emigration Diary: Tom-ay-to/Tom-ah-to

Posted January 23, 2013 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

We’ve passed the six month mark in the US. It’s really starting to feel like home now. It struck me as I made plans with a friend to go camping that I would still be here in the summer. I’m not here temporarily on vacation like I’ve always been before. I have no flights to arrange to organize the trip. We simply have to choose the dates and pick a park and drive there. It’s also pretty much guaranteed that we’ll get at least some good weather if we do.
It’s hard to imagine the heat of the summer when it is as bracingly cold outside as it is at the moment. I really need to change my phone and my inner thermometer from Celsius to Fahrenheit. I really scared a coffee shop barista when I said it was below zero outside. These are the things I struggle most with. I miss the metric system. I am still unable to estimate how far a mile is; figure out what height my children are or how much weight I put on over Christmas. Some of these issues are more problematic than others. I still get confused about how to write the date every single time I have to. I figure it out, rather morbidly, by thinking of 9/11.

Baysil is an ‘erb.

I am getting to grips with pronunciation and spelling though. I have dropped the ‘u’s from colour, favour and neighbour, ’ized’ most of my ‘ises’ and lost the double ‘l’ from jewellery and travelling. None of that hurt a bit. I can say ‘Baysil is an ‘erb’ with barely a smirk now and I didn’t bat an eyelid when I was asked for an ah-pricot sour the other day. I’m still not entirely clear what exactly I’m supposed to call my handbag. Is it a purse or a pocketbook and if it’s the former, what do I call my purse? My kids correct me constantly for calling underwear ‘pants’ and pants ‘trousers’. I’ve reluctantly started referring to the press as a closet and I avoid speaking the number thirty three in public entirely because of its evil ‘th’ qualities.
We have settled in to the community pretty well. The boys have regular playdates with their schoolmates. There are usually quite a few familiar faces if we walk into a local bar. We know who the most efficient cashiers at the supermarket are. I have someone I return to for eyebrow maintenance and we know which stores stock George’s favourite beer. I think the fact that I’ve been working in the restaurant has helped this transition enormously. Not only have I made friends there who invite me places socially but I have a selection of people to ask about the little cultural things I’m unsure of. How many school fundraiser items am I expected to buy or sell to be considered a good parent? (At least $100 worth.) Am I supposed to give the school bus drivers a Christmas tip? (Yes.) What the hell is an Arnold Palmer? (Half iced tea half lemonade.)
A big test of cultural familiarity is coming up on February 3rd with Super Bowl Sunday. It seems attendance at a party is compulsory. I haven’t a clue though. I’ve half watched a few games but I can’t for the life of me figure out the rules. I even find it difficult to remember what teams play which sports for what states. There’s nothing new there though, I’ve never really followed any sports, I was pretty much as clueless about the European Cup last year. I guess I’ll just do what I usually do and wing it. Smile when everyone cheers and try not to clap when people look devastated. Here, of course, the wings come with buffalo sauce. Bring it on. I have no problem relating to these or the nachos at all.

Out with the Old

Emigration Diary: Out with the Old

Posted January 9, 2013 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

I can’t think of another annual chore I do with as much pleasure as the tearing down of the Christmas tree. Despite the merriment it went up with and how lovely Christmas was, I find comfort in reclaiming the corner it occupied and replacing the gaudy fairy lights with an unassuming lamp. I don’t see bareness where the Christmas cards stood, I see lack of clutter and I feel renewed and eager to get started.
How many times have I spoken about getting started though? When we moved here first in July, when the kids started school in September, after we recovered from the storm in November and now again in January because it’s the New Year. So we’ve been here six months and I still feel that I haven’t yet begun. What exactly is it that I feel has to start?
The answer is nothing. One great big moment of life changing epiphany is never going to happen. No fireworks or fanfare is scheduled to proclaim ‘Welcome to Your New Life!’ but slowly and surely things are getting done. George has a job he’s happy in for the most part. The kids are settled in school, have made friends and are getting good reports. I have a job I enjoy although I still want to get a better one. I’ve organised health insurance, doctors and dentists for everyone, I have a regular shopping list and I’ve got my New York driving license. I’ve even made some new friends myself. Our everyday routine is actually fairly similar to what it was in Ireland. It’s almost like we didn’t start a new life at all but simply moved our old lives to a new country.
We have a recording of our five year old last Christmas singing songs by the Christmas Tree. He was only four then and still had a babyish look about him. It was only watching it this year I noticed what a strong North Dublin accent he had. We recorded him singing the same songs this year and the Dub is mostly gone. He no longer pronounces ‘right’ as ‘roitsh’. Now it’s ‘riyte’. This doesn’t upset me in the least. When mine talk among other children their Irish accents are still perceptible. I wonder for how much longer. I’m working on building up the courage to record myself to see if my accent is changing at all. I can tell it hasn’t disappeared completely because it’s commented on so often, you know, by ‘Irish’ people.

My accent is quite the conversation starter in the restaurant where I work. Sometimes I feel like I should be getting commission from Bord Fáilte.

In fact, my accent is quite the conversation starter in the restaurant where I work. Many customers would love to visit or revisit Ireland. There was a point on New Year’s Eve when I stood discussing the merits of various Irish golf courses I’d never set foot in while precariously balancing a stack of dirty glasses on a tray. Sometimes I feel like I should be getting commission from Bord Fáilte.
I mentioned The Gathering to a few people who expressed interest in making the trip. ‘Well, if you’re going to go, 2013 is the year to do it! The whole year is to be a celebration welcoming home Irish emigrants of all generations’. That’s where I ran out of steam though. It would be nice if I had some incentive to throw in: ‘There are discounts on all the historical sites and museums.’ No. ‘There are deals on hire cars or bus tours if you mention the words The Gathering’ Not at all. ‘There are special hotel room rates if you produce a postcard invitation.’ None of that. So, instead, when I was asked what the point of The Gathering is I had to answer humbly but honestly ‘Oh, I guess they’re trying to increase tourism, get people to spend money, improve the economy’ Which led to the same old conversation about negative equity, ghost estates, NAMA and run down shopping malls and with that the notion of romantic Ireland was dead and gone to me. Again.
I have actually been invited home to visit this year. I don’t think I can go though. There are many people I’d really love to see but I’d prefer if they’d all come here instead. I’m just not ready to go back yet. I’m not sure what exactly it is that I’m afraid of but the feeling of apprehension I get when I think of setting foot on Irish soil is similar to that of an impending 20 year school reunion. What is that I wonder? Perhaps it’s just that to me, with the unceremonious tossing out of the tree, the symbol of celebration of the end of the old year, 2012, the year emblazoned on every single form of acceptable ID I now possess, it’s a time to keep moving forward. Now is not the time to revisit and reminisce because the future path is still too unclear. I can’t look back yet because for now, while it’s foggy and uphill, I’ve got to keep looking where I’m going. At least, with the Christmas clutter cleared, I’m not stepping on pine needles on my way.