Confession: I am one of those lame bloggers

"Are you going to be one of those lame bloggers who starts a blog and writes a couple of times in it and just stops?" a friend asked me in February.

"Of course not!" I said. "How dare you. I'm not one of those lame bloggers."

But the evidence speaks for itself. My last post was on February 14th. It is now May 13th. I have not posted in three months. And I am definitely one of those lame bloggers.

Why post now? Per usual, I am avoiding work. I'm in the middle of exams, and anything - including broadcasting my blogger's shame - is preferable to writing a paper on class relations in 20th century Scotland, or memorizing 400 characters in Chinese.

But that doesn't answer the question of why I haven't posted for three months. I don't actually have a good answer. An infernal laziness has settled over me during the course of this semester, and most of the time, I'd rather lie in bed and scroll endlessly through Pinterest than actually do something, like going for a walk, studying, socializing, or, of course, blogging.

I could blame my depressive tendencies for this. I could also blame my lack of enthusiasm for the University of Edinburgh's undergrad academics (see prior posts for details). But I think it's mostly my fault. I could be a more productive citizen of the world. I could overcome my mysterious lack of energy. But I simply haven't. I've started to be comfortable with mindless mediocrity.

Oh, I sound stuffy. This blog is meant to be exciting. Here are some exciting things.

So what have I been up to since February? Besides bemoaning my laziness, many exciting things. I went to pub quizzes. I went to the Highlands. I traveled around Italy, Morocco, and France.

And this is all I have time to write for now. Finals are calling. But I hope to write a post about each and every one of these shenanigans before I leave on May 29th.

Here's to most interesting (and more regular) blog posts in the future.

-Emily O.

Unfortunately, this post is not about Harry Potter

Hello, friend. Or enemy. Frienemy? Or just acquaintance. Or stranger. Whoever you are: hello.

In my last post, I promised that my next post would be about Harry Potter. I did believe it at the time. But I am also chronically lazy, forgetful, and prone to saying I'll do things and then, through a combination of laziness and forgetfulness, not do them. So this post is not about Harry Potter. And I apologize for that.

But the next-ish one might be. I leave for a 6-day trip around the Highlands tomorrow, where I plan to see many Harry Potter-related sights, of which I will take pictures, and about which I will blog. So never fear. In the meantime, if you are not too disillusioned with me, feel free to read my general life updates below.

I've now been in Edinburgh for one month and three days, and I believe I am finally starting to feel settled. I am accustomed to drinking an average of five cups of tea a day. I go to class semi-regularly, and in my free time, I tend to sleep, wander, or watch truly disgusting amounts of television illegally.

Now, for a few quick updates.

1. Because I am taking Intro to Mandarin Chinese, I am naturally in the process of learning introductory Mandarin Chinese.

It is wickedly difficult.

Take Chinese, I thought to myself. It won't be so difficult. You're good at learning languages. You know some French, and some Russian - Chinese will be a piece of cake.

This is, unfortunately, not the case. In Chinese, there is no phonetic alphabet. Words are represented with characters, not with letters that correspond to specific sounds. You can look at a word and have no idea what it means, let alone how to pronounce it.

For example, I am at a loss to say how this means "passport."

I am also at a loss to say how this means "coach."

But enough of that. Chinese - and my peculiar difficulties with it - deserves its own post. For now, know that it is a beautiful language, with a beautiful writing system, but that for native English-speakers, to learn it is first to pass through the fires of linguistic hell.

2. I recently climbed Arthur's Seat. This is a large mountainish hill, or a large hillish mountain, that sits in the middle-ish of the city. It was once an active volcano, and although many have assured me that it's now long-extinct, I still manage to convince myself on occasion that it will erupt, and everyone in a 30-mile radius will die in agony.

This is, of course, irrational. It's a thought I think less and less now. The more I look at it, the more it seems to be no more than a large and peaceful lump.

Rather beautiful, too. The view at the top, when it is not foggy, is really astounding. Usually I use "astounding" with a hint of sarcasm. At the moment, there is zero sarcasm. And I'm not even being sarcastic about not being sarcastic.

Climbing down proved to be more of an adventure than climbing up, mostly because I chose this way down. It would not have been a problem if I had been gifted with great strength and agility. But as it is, I have about as much litheness in me as a loaf of bread:

I left mostly unscathed, minus a few thistle-scratches and large bruises, and small blow to my pride.

3. I encountered a sparkly toilet. It looked like this.

 

In exactly six hours, I leave for the Highlands, where I suspect sparkly toilets will be curiously lacking.

Keep an eye out for further updates, and one day, the elusive Harry Potter post.

-Emily O.

"Royally Stupid": the conclusion

Once upon a time, in response to a rather royally stupid homework question, I, Emily O., took things a little too far and sent a few "inappropriate" emails to various people in the Edinburgh History of Art department. I got in trouble. I had to meet with the head of the department. This is the conclusion of this altogether rather trivial tale.

If you would like to read the emails in question, please refer to my last post. If you would just like a quick version of the end of this story, so you can get on with your life, read the following list and get on with it already.

1. I did not die.
2. I was not exiled.
3. I left the meeting with more questions than answers.

For a more in-depth, blow-by-blow retelling, read on.

But first, a disclaimer. I'm not entirely sure this will be 100% accurate, because I accidentally drugged myself before my appointment with the head of the art history department.

The culprit was Ativan, a rather standard anti-anxiety med that, if taken at the right dose, will take the edge off of bothersome nervousness. And as someone with an anxiety disorder, I do take it when I need it. But for me, the "right" dose is very small. As many of my friends know, I have an extremely low tolerance, for anything. One cup of coffee gets my hands shaking. One beer can have me running around the room shouting. The smallest possible dosage of almost any anti-depressant will make my legs jiggle and my teeth chatter. So naturally, unless I want to knock myself out for three hours, I take the tiniest bit of Ativan I can - one-fourth of a 1-milligram pill. For an idea of its size, see picture below, with Q-tip for reference.

On most days, this speck of medicine does what it's supposed to do - calm me down without putting me to sleep. But not on this day. I'm not sure why. Maybe it was because I'd slept only five hours, or because I had only spaghetti for breakfast. For whatever reason, by the time I got to the head's office, I had trouble keeping my eyes open, let alone smiling, or responding to simple phrases like "How are you?"

The head was a Scottish woman with a big smile, crinkly eyes, and rambunctiously curly hair, who seemed altogether friendly and very willing to listen. We sat down. We exchanged pleasantries. Even in my semi-conscious state, I made an effort to be very friendly, because I knew that we weren't going to have any sort of meaningful dialogue if I blasted in, sarcasm guns blazing, shouting about things I don't care much about, like late medieval art.

Here is an approximate-ish transcript of our conversation.

Head: I want you to know that the email you sent - well, you made an excellent point which demonstrated your intelligence.
(I nod. Attempt to smile. Am unsuccessful. Yawn.)
Head: But I think in the...informality of the email, you might have...undermined yourself.
Me: I really apologize if I offended anybody. I didn't mean to. I was more frustrated with the question itself, not any specific person.
Head: Yes, yes, the tutor said you apologized, that's good. You know, you might feel like just a cog in a big machine here, in this large course, and you might feel like you're not getting noticed, but we do notice. Professors, tutors, we all work together and keep an eye on things. Of course, we keep an eye on all our students, but you visiting students especially, we pay attention to you.
(There is a pause, which is uncomfortable. Conversation proceeds.)
Head: You did make a good point, of course.
Me: Yes, can we talk about that really quick? I mean, I look at that question, and maybe I'm wrong, but I see that it isn't going to lead to any sort of real analysis or real insight on anything.
Head: Yes, yes.
Me: But of course if there's some value in it that I'm not seeing, I'd be very open to hearing about, you know, if there's something I'm really missing in this question.
Head: You've hit the nail on the head. It is a stupid question.
Me: Oh.
(Another pause. The head smiles as I try to process this.)
Me: So...then why are we being asked to answer it? I mean, I saw the question and I was frustrated, a little offended that we were even being asked it.
Head: Well, let me explain it this way. We give students a variety of questions - good ones, mediocre ones, some bad ones. The students who'll get the best grades are going aren't the ones who just answer the questions - they're  the ones who can analyze the questions, question the questions.
Me: So you put that question in there...and good students are supposed to see that it's stupid.
Head: Yes.
Me: I'm sorry, I missed that little facet of the system here. I didn't know it worked that way.
Head: Yes, but now I've clued you in, haven't I? It's really all a big game. Some students know how to play it, to question what their professors are saying - some students don't.
Me: So...are all the students aware that they're supposed to question the questions?
Head: Well...we do have the professor say something about it on the first day, about having them think critically and all that.
Me: It's just that neither of my group members thought we were supposed to criticize than question. I mean, they agreed with me - they disliked the question - but they still tried to answer it even though they didn't see much point in it. And another friend of mine said she just didn't know how to answer it. I guess, my experience so far has been that students I know really don't seem to question...things. They could question the question, but they didn't want to - or think they were allowed to - they didn't seem to want to actually say something about it for whatever reason. I mean, if not everyone knows that they're allowed to question things...or if they aren't willing to...I mean, if only the good students are really "in on this game"...I mean...I don't know...it just seems...
(At this point, Ativan kicks in full-power. I come to a dead stop. Thankfully, the head gets the gist of what I'm saying - that it all seems a bit unfair.)
Head: Oh, Emily, that's very generous of you, to be ambitious for other people. I have colleagues like that, who are ambitious for a all of their students, and it's very kind of them, it's a wonderful thing. But you don't have to be ambitious for everyone. Everyone's got their own life to live. Do you see what I'm saying?
(I am too drugged, and a bit too disturbed, to respond. A few academic-looking men walk in. The head says goodbye. I smile, sort of. End of approximate-ish transcript.)

So I'm not really in trouble. I wasn't even really chastised. I sort of wish I had been - that's silly, I know - but it would have made the overall conversation a little bit less...disturbing.

Maybe I've just read too much into it all - maybe I shouldn't have been disturbed. I've told other people about it, and most of them aren't really disturbed at all.

Because I am very much a list person, I'll list a few things that I was (but may not supposed to have been) disturbed by.

1. The fact that visiting students apparently get more attention than regular students. I mean, seriously? I'm only here for a semester. I don't particularly care if I get mediocre grades, because I'm here to enjoy myself, not just impress my professors. Why not pay attention to, say, the university's Art History majors, who do actually care about the subject, who might actually get legitimately angry at a badly written question about late medieval art, who really do want to do their best? Of course, I won't lie - I love attention, of almost any kind. It's quite flattering. But I certainly don't like it at the expense of other people who need it far more than I do.

2. If this course is all some "game" designed to reward whichever students question authority in spite of the fact that they aren't really encouraged to question authority (and that many of them aren't even aware that they're allowed to or supposed to question the questions they get), to me, that seems quite unfair. I really like the idea of leveling out the playing field for everyone as much as possible - or, at a minimum, making sure every student is very aware of the course's expectations, so that everyone knows exactly what they have to do to get an A.

And the students who are most likely to feel entitled to question the professors are students like me - students who are fortunate enough to come from well-off families that encourage their children to treat authority figures as equals rather than superiors. In terms of how likely a student is to be successful, there is a very strong link (at least in the US) between the students's family income, the values their parents instill in them, and their later success in life. Of course, this isn't universally true. But students from middle- to upper-class families tend to have parents who encourage them to feel entitled and expect them to interact with authority figures (like professors, for example) as if they are equals, whereas students from lower-income backgrounds tend not to feel as entitled to question the authority figures in their lives.

I really really really want to stress that this is not universally true. Most of my sparse knowledge of the subject comes from Unequal Childhoods, a book I read in my Intro to Sociology class about the relationship between family income and children's future success (link to basic info here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unequal_Childhoods), which you may critique at your leisure.

To put it simply, I don't think I'm comfortable with the idea of a university that doesn't really allow students to have something like an equal footing so that each student will (theoretically) have an equal-ish chance at doing well in the course.

3. Apparently, it's "generous" to "be ambitious for other people," to want other people to do well. Last I head, I thought it was just "not being a self-absorbed asshole."

But aside from these bits that I can't seem to get out of my head, the meeting went well, I guess. I mean, I'm not dead. My understanding of life has been broadened. And I was right - it really was a royally stupid god-awful good-for-nothing question.

Probably what's surprised me most about this entire debacle is the variety of reactions I've gotten to it. Some people really disapprove of the email - you know, the one where I bluntly panned the work of renowned professors, that got me into this mess. Others have expressed heartfelt, truly touching concern for my sanity. Others don't seem to care one way or the other. Others are amused. Others are glad that I'm having a new life experience, even if they didn't like the email, and still others (mostly my fellow critically-thinking socially-aware liberal classmates - Mohomies, you know who you are) are congratulating me for speaking my mind in spite of the consequences. I welcome all range of reactions, and I'd happily talk to anyone about the topic, if anyone has any strange interest in the generally dull and meandering mishmash of my life.

I can't pretend the email wasn't immature, in a lot of respects - well, probably in almost every respect possible. And I can't even pretend to care much about late medieval prayer books. But in spite of all this, I can't bring myself to regret any of it. I'm proud of myself for taking a chance and speaking my mind instead of covering up my frustration (however silly or pointless it might have been) in a boring, stuffy, suck-uppy email. I'm proud that I went into that meeting with as open of a mind as I could possibly have, given that I was about to enter a drug-induced coma, and I'm proud that I didn't accept everything the head told me without giving it a good critical once-over. I mean, I do wish I'd been a bit more forward at the meeting - truth be told, I'm a bit of a coward, and I'm much friendlier and suck-uppy-er in real life than I am in email. But I've learned more about the University of Edinburgh and the British/Scottish attitudes about education and social hierarchies than I ever would have if I'd been appropriately polite. And to be honest, I like my new self - the blunt, slightly rebellious one - a little better than the old one, who tried to be the perfect student even when all of that supposed "perfection" could be so very stifling.

Most importantly, I would never have met with the head of the art history department and learned this much if I hadn't been so scandalously candid in my email in the first place.

And let know one forget that when I said that question was a piece of trash,
I WAS RIGHT

So ends this brief, trifling episode in my semester in Edinburgh. Thank you for reading. Tune in next time for what I'm sure you really want to hear about: all things Harry fricking Potter.

In which I make enemies within the Art History department

To anyone who said I might just have one blog post and then never blog about my time in Scotland again:
YOU WERE WRONG
Here is a blog post.

But first, a bit about me.

As you may have seen in my last post, I am an American college student currently studying abroad in Edinburgh. This isn't the first time I've left the US - I recently spent a few weeks in South Korea, the details of which you can read about here: http://emilyoskoreanescapades.blogspot.co.uk/

Also, my name is Emily O.  My middle name is Richelle, which I find a little froufrou for someone like me, who is most often found wearing sweatpants, eating disgusting amounts of cookies, and ranting about the evils of the wealthy white patriarchy. Although I am an English major, I also have other interests, like whales, rocks, black holes, 80's music, and Netflix. I look sort of like that picture of me on the right. If you would like to know anything more about my character, please refer to this article published in the Onion, which, to my shame, accurately describes me.

Anyways. Back to Scotland.

For the most part, my two weeks here have been lovely and uneventful. I have three lovely flatmates, a lovely group of friends, and I happen to be living in a lovely city that looks like this.

So for the most part, things are, well, lovely. But since lovely things are usually boring, I won't bother you with any more of them. I'll bother you with the more interesting stuff. You know. Embarrassment. Culture shock. Incompetence. Human struggle. The stuff stories are made of.

I got into a spot of trouble. Not with anything interesting, like the law, or drunken Scottish warrior-lairds. Just the University of Edinburgh History of Art department.

I come from a small women's college in the US, where, theoretically, all students receive oodles of support from professors and administrators and are encouraged to voice their opinions. I'm used to small classes and oodles of support. So you can imagine that a big university environment might come as a shock to me. In my Intro Art History lecture, there are 200-ish students. We are all divided up into tutorial groups headed by a tutor (an Art History grad student), in which we discuss the lecture and other bits that the various people designing the course feel are important.

My trouble concerns a strongly worded email in response to a homework question about a subject I don't know or care much about: late medieval art. And this email is why I am supposed to meet with the head of the Art History department tomorrow.

Hm, you say. Why get your panties in a knot over one tiny homework assignment about a subject as insignificant as that? Why not use your energy for something that really matters, like world hunger, human rights, or saving our ecosystem from total annihilation within the next century?

I don't know. I don't know why. I just did it. Maybe I'm stressed, possessed, or subconsciously obsessed with 15th-century illuminated prayer books. It's like spontaneous combustion, but with emails, instead of fire. It's like a mad crusade for a cause I don't think I support. It's like—

Oh, enough excuses. Here is the email I sent to my tutor. You can judge me for yourself.

Hello. I hope you are well. I have a complaint. 

This is probably not a surprise. 

As I'm sure you know, for Monday, my group (C) has to answer the following question:"How would early viewers, including the Duke of Berry, have reacted to the experience of viewing the Calendar cycle in the Très Riches Heures?" 

Now, the problem is, this is a royally stupid question. 

We can't possibly know how anybody in the 1400's REALLY reacted to anything. All we can do is make some simplistic conjectures that have about a .000001% chance of being accurate, because obviously, we can't read the minds of anyone, much less anyone who died 600 years ago. Instead of engaging with the art itself, it seems like we're just supposed to come up with vague ideas of something that can never be conclusively proven. To make an argument, we have to have evidence, yes? Well, how are we supposed to make an argument out of evidence that DOES NOT EXIST? 

But I am aware that whoever came up with this god-awful question has a PhD in History of Art, whereas I do not. I am also aware that whoever came up with this god-awful question probably didn't deliberately give us a question they thought was god-awful, and that there is probably some broader, more relevant conclusion we are supposed to reach. 

Please tell me what this conclusion might be, or I will be very unpleasant and opinionated in class on Monday, and everyone will hate me. 

In short: why is it important to imagine the reactions of sketchily-defined "viewers" to pieces of art, in spite of the fact that we'll never actually know how they would have reacted, or did react? 

Thank you.Have a nice weekend.-Emily Oxfordps. My fellow group members are not involved in this email at all. They are more even-keeled and complacent than I am.

I now regret some parts of this email. Well, mostly just the PS. My group members are lovely people who I should not have described as "complacent," because "complacent" means something like "showing smug satisfaction of with oneself," and I thought it meant "unwilling to rock the boat; tending to go with the status quo." I don't know how I made this mistake. I'm an English major, for God's sake. But at any rate, the last sentence of the PS was unacceptable, with either meaning, and I readily accept whatever punishment Karma has in store for me. But I don't regret the rest of the email. My pride prevents me from doing anything so mature as that.

In response, I got a very long, considerate email from the tutor, in which he tried to explain the merits of the question. His response included this bit, which I'm sure was not ill-intentioned, but a little patronizing nonetheless:

Of course we can't go into Berry's head, nor that of later viewers of the TRHs - but what art history in part does is reconstruct choice, experience and reaction - and we all do this, from the nascent steps of an undergraduate to an old professor past retirement. The latter may have more knowledge and experience, but he or she began as an unknowing undergraduate too.

He then asked me to meet with one of his higher-ups to discuss some basics on respect. Shortly thereafter, the head of the Art History department sent me a very nice email, asking me to meet with her to discuss "the tone you used throughout the email, which we felt was inappropriate."

My next logical step should have been to send a formal apology and wait patiently for my disciplinary hearing.

But I didn't.

I've spent my entire life being the polite straight-A good-girl, and it was so, so refreshing to be a rebel instead, even for something as tiny as this. I was on a power trip. I'm still on a power trip. It's exhilarating. Stupid, but exhilarating.

That being said, I may have taken things a bit too far. I am young. I am insecure. I am self-centered. But I do not like being called a "nascent" or "unknowing" undergraduate. And I do not like discipline, however well-intentioned it might be.

This email, I sent to my tutor:

Thank you for your honesty. I apologize if my email personally offended you or any of your colleagues. Please know that I'm not frustrated with you, the lecturers, the course, the tutorial, the university, or with anyone in particular, but rather with a system in which "nascent undergraduates" must defer to their elders.

And to be fair, it was a bad question.

And I this email, to the head of the Art History department:

It would be best for me to meet at noon, if that's alright. I hope that we can discuss my actual concern as well as the email itself, scandalous though it may be. Have a good evening!

In short, if there is an Art History hell, I will burn in it.

I am now experiencing massive mood swings. I go from rebellious exhilaration to fearing that I'll be exiled to some desolate British island, because really, I am a coward at heart. My meek and suck-uppy 12-year-old self still lives within me and cannot bear the idea of going against the status quo. But what is done. At this point, I've gone too far. I'm in too deep. I can't back out now.

I'd give a more impassioned speech, but I must go to bed. You know, saving strength and all that, for the conflict ahead. Maybe I'll sleep on the issue and wake up more mature and open-minded, ready to accept some discipline and grovel my way out of trouble. But maybe I won't.

Because really, it was a terrible question.

Melodramatically yours,
-Emily O.

Tartan vs. argyle: a brief introduction

When I sat down to create this blog, I thought, "Well, the background should be something suitably Scottish. Maybe some sheep, some haggis, or a bit of tartan." Deciding that sheep would be a bit pastoral, and haggis would be a bit disgusting, I settled on tartan. But something seemed...off.

The background, as you can see, is actually argyle. Tartan looks more like this:

By now, you probably know how qualified I am to be writing a blog about Scotland.

I know, I know. "Then why read this?" you're probably wondering. "The writer is clearly incompetent. She's probably just some American tourist, stumbling around and getting lost and asking people to repeat themselves because their accents are too 'thick.'"

Well, fair enough.

I am incompetent. I am just some American tourist. I do get lost. I don't often ask people to repeat themselves, because I have a good ear, which is probably because I've been raised on a healthy diet of BBC period pieces since age five. And I've seen Trainspotting. That has to count for something.

Still, I'll admit I'm not quite qualified to write this blog. But that's just the fun of it. I'd like to think that I won't make any mistakes, that I'll always be witty and cultured, that I'll blend seamlessly into the background, that I shan't trip over some ancient cobblestone and plunge headfirst into the Water of Leith. But I will make mistakes. I will make a fool of myself. And at the end of it all, I hope I'll have discovered something, about myself, about life, about love, about the exact difference between tartan and argyle, or about how to fall into a freezing river and survive to blog about it.

So, my readers, do be patient. You might discover something, too.

Unless you don't.

But at least you'll have had a good laugh.

Until next time -
Emily O.