I was in Ireland, completely alone in life, far from family and friends, when I finally discovered what it means to feel at home. I was almost thirty years old.
I had come over on a scholarship to complete a program of Irish studies, mainly to further cement an emerging self to the source I had come to identify with most closely. Growing up I had always been aware of my family’s background, but had yet to fuse my roots to my identity, and felt a strange sense of disconnect between place and purpose. I was a Southerner, to be sure, shortening sentences and lengthening vowels with the best of them, but it never felt like it was me speaking as much as it did me playing the part of a Southern speaker. A character in a play, if you will. As my studies drew me deeper into the Irish side of my family tree, I began to feel a kinship of sorts with the myths and the legends that sang to me across the centuries. I began to feel as if I knew the characters in the legends, with a level of psychological insight more common to familial bonds than friendship or fandom. I could see them in my mind, anticipate their words and actions, and think the thoughts I knew would be in their heads. I understood them better than I understood myself. When one of my professors suggested a study abroad program as a possible fork in my educational path, I knew right away that I would do it, and where I would go. Continue reading »
