Learning to Be Away

Despite the title of this entry, I am certain I will never really learn to cope with separating from the places and people I love. Being in South Africa has given me plenty (and plenty) of time alone with my thoughts.

I miss Michigan terribly now that I am away from it. East Lansing, I'm sorry, but I have no trouble being away from you...but I miss how all my friends and fellow Lansing residents have made a rather bleak city into a very tolerable community. At this center of this community, of course, is the taco truck. It has given my poor tummy homesickness on many occasions while in South Africa.

(http://flickr.com/photos/seancookphotography/3684933736/)


I've been listening to some of the music that reminds me of Michigan...but not too much, because like Andrea has already pointed out, it makes me very homesick.

I first saw Frontier Ruckus nearly five years ago when they first started out and I first moved to Michigan. I went to more shows of theirs than I can remember, and it has been interesting to trace their progress. Their music will always remind me of many different things - but always of Michigan.



For three years I tried to get several different people to take me up North, where I had heard Michigan was beautiful (something that was hard to spot in Lansing). Finally I met a guy that would take me there - I think this was one of the first signs that I had a keeper.


Zach and I have now made a habit of camping up North. My first time in Sleeping Bear was almost like being back at the ocean. "Up North" is how Michiganders refer to it....I can only think of one other place in the world that I would rather be than "Up North." Sufjan Stevens has paid a fantastic tribute to Sleeping Bear. I also have listened to his music on occasion while in South Africa, but only when it is not overwhelming for me.


Of course my other home is in Pennsylvania. There are so many things I miss about it - many which I have already written about. I miss those places that have become a distant memory to me - the huge steaming towers and the enormous pebbled wall covered in bits of moss. I suppose it would seem much smaller now.



but that's a story for another time....

District Six

Yesterday my dad sent me a story that he had written to his workplace newsletter. He shared his experience with moving into a new house and that sort of odd sentimental pain you feel about leaving your former home. Here's a section of it:

"When I pulled into the driveway and got out of the truck, two grouse flushed from the bushes where they had spent the night sheltered from the snowfall. Regardless, I felt strangely alone in a place where I had lived for so many years. In my mind I expected to see the kids and dogs playing in the fresh snow and smoke rising from the chimney. But there were neither kids nor dogs in the yard and the chimney cap was cold and snow covered. At that moment I realized that this was no longer my home. I don’t know how long I stood there in the silence of the snow covered landscape but it was long enough recall almost every day of the past 22 years that we lived there and raised our two kids."

Admittedly, I kind of got a little weepy at this point of the story - both my parents and I are very happy with our new homes and of course, there was a lot to dislike about the old home, but the nostalgia of losing a place that has been a part of your life for over 20 years is a bit overwhelming at times.

Perhaps it was with this in mind, that I was a bit overwhelmed when I visited the District Six Museum today in Cape Town. District Six was a section of the city that was inhabited by many different people of all backgrounds into the 1960s in Cape Town.



Increased racial oppression within the country eventually led to the Government's re-zoning of District Six into a "Whites Only" area in 1966. Thousands were forced out of their homes and the destruction of their communities began under the sanitized objective of "Urban Renewal".




At home, as my parents continued the process of moving out, my mom was carefully selecting which objects to bring to the new house. It was smaller, and many things had to be left behind, yet she carefully selected some of my old dolls and cleaned them up and packed them away for me. Objects like these don't hold a monetary value - their value is more in their nostalgia - they become small objects of memory from your past.

At the District Six museum, it was clear that forcible removal had occurred swiftly and families were not left with much time or opportunity to carefully pack away these small objects of memory. Instead, after destruction, many people went back to their former communities and gathered the small remainders of their life in District Six.



It seems silly that someone would think to rescue a piece of a toilet bowl from the debris, but it also suggests the level of decimation of this community - there was no opportunity for a careful selection of objects, and more than likely this was one of the few surviving reminders of the former community.

People describe the District Six Museum as a "living museum" - it was constructed and designed with the help of former residents of District Six. While it's also very informative, it's the memories and remaining possessions of these residents that fill the rooms of the museum. Throughout are candid shots of residents - reminders that at one time "District Six" wasn't a name symbolic of the atrocities of the Apartheid era, but just a normal place filled with average people.




Beyond the small scraps that remained of the area, the museum was filled with memories that residents had shared. Some of these were embroidered onto a cloth that hung in the museum - many people echoed the idea that these types of reminders were not so easily destroyed with a bulldozer.

Ten (missed) Things

This is a post for Andrea who created a list of Ten Things that make her happy. My list is a bit different...since coming to South Africa it's much easier for me to understand the things I miss when they are temporarily not with me.

1.Friends/Family: This one is definitely my most missed/thing that makes me happiest. Logical deduction tells me that Lansing, Michigan has to be one of the worst places in the US to live, yet my friends make it quite enjoyable most of the times.

2.the smell of Spring: Perhaps I won't appreciate this one as much this year, having just returned from a summer climate, but there's nothing more fantastic than that first smell of spring in the air after a treacherous winter.


3. Listening to 78s on our Victrola: I first discovered 78s around my senior year of high school. It was so difficult to come across old music from the 20s and 30s on CDs, especially music that hasn't been digitally remastered by some asshole. Prior to electric recording processes, music was loud! It had to be so that it could be picked up through that big recording cone the band would play into. In the 1930s music really took a turn for the mellow side. Perhaps this was part of the Depression Era/moving away from the Jazz Age, but because this is the start of electrical recording processes, we really get to hear from the crooners that could finally record a quieter song. Zach and I have a beautiful portable Victrola that I like to take outside in the summertime. I can think of hardly anything more perfect than sitting outside in our garden listening to it play.

4. My Little Monkeys: This one requires explanation, but I have two adorable ferrets, Saint Francis of Assisi and Simon. I refer to them and Zach, collectively as my little monkeys...and I miss them terribly!


5. My family's cabin: This is an obvious one. I have written about the cabin in the past. This place has several factors that make it such a fantastic place for me. Our family has a long past and tradition there that stems from hunting. Perhaps I've spoiled that tradition a bit by both being a woman and a vegetarian, but I still have a great respect and understanding for the importance of the tradition of these hunting camps. Had there not been adorable critters involved, I would have enjoyed being a part of it. Despite this, I still have many fond memories at the cabin. Having moved around a couple of times to different houses growing up, the cabin is still the one place that I've always had around me. Finally, it's an ideal place to stay. No electricity, no indoor plumbing, and no cell phone signal! Anywhere else, I would really miss these things, but at the cabin, you exchange them for things that are better; the low hiss of the Coleman lamps, the ample opportunities to read a good book, the whipporwills calling...I could write so much here!

6. Cross Country Skiing at midnight: This is the only reason I will miss winter this year! I dread the cold and am not much for snow, but if you can muster up the motivation to drag yourself out of a cozy house in the middle of a February night to go skiing, it is fantastic! I've been surprised at the amount of solitude we have had skiing through wooded back lots at night. You forget that you're living in the city. And of course, no trip would be complete without a bottle of liquor to keep you warm!



7. My car: That's all I have to say about that!


8. The local dive bar: Here in Michigan it's Dagwoods or the Unicorn. Sometimes you want to go where everybooody knows your naaaame.

9. Having a little brother: My little brother is a real pain in the ass or not pleasant to be around way more than he should be. But it's interesting to think, "If I was a guy, is that how I would have turned out???" No way! But I can still see little bits of me in his personality. Everytime he quotes a Smashing Pumpkins song on his facebook page, I give myself some bonus points for that!

10. Back to the Future: Have you ever watched a movie so much that you feel like it's your movie...It's almost a tad bit strange to hear someone else say their favorite movie is Back to the Future. I have a couple of movies like that, but I easily can say I've never seen any movie as much as this one (actually I could say that about any one in the triology, including that horrible third one).

That's my list...now make like a tree and buzz off!

Reading Olive's Letters

When historians are in the archives, it is as close as they will physically come to the people they are studying. When reading letters on thin yellowed sheets of paper, I take special note to small details. A slight stain makes you curious - was there a coffee drip? Smudged writing suggests that perhaps the letter writer was in a hurry. My favorite small details are fingerprints generally caused by the smudged ink of a fountain pen. When you can see the fingerprint of a person that lived a hundred years before, you feel closer to them...it's a detail so intimate that you wouldn't have noticed had you been their best friend.

Reading letters, as I found out today, can also be quite sad. As a historian, you generally know what's next in the "big events" and use the archives to gather your detailed information. Before reading through her letters, I knew that Olive Schreiner gave birth to her only child that died shortly afterwards. The incident was so painful that she never really fully recovered. It's tragic, but the incident is so far removed from my reality that it is difficult to really care. It's not until I am sifting through her letters and looking at her fingerprint on the smudged ink that the details become more important to me. Her series of letters to a close friend is quite painful to read when you are a historian that knows the events that will occur. For 8 months she discusses the baby, and plans for the baby. Her health is perfect and she claims she never felt better. One quote in particular stuck out:

September 15, 1894: "I am very well. It's not the little tiny baby I look forward to as much, but the little child when it grows older, and I can tell it stories and take it for walks with me. Cron is very anxious it should be a little girl, but except for this...I shall be as glad if it is a boy as a girl.”

When you know the big picture to the small details it can be almost painful to read Olive's letters at times.

Wandering

Tomorrow I'm leaving for South Africa. I'll attempt to keep my posts aligned with the subject matter of the blog (although I may have trouble finding nostalgic reminders in South Africa).

Although I'll miss my little monkeys while I'm gone, I've enjoyed traveling alone the couple of times I have done so in the past. I'm a wanderer anyways, so it's nice not to have a set schedule or itinerary to follow. Below are some images I captured during these "wandering" moments when I had no idea what I was looking for.


Grove of pines on Emperor's grounds - Tokyo


Kyoto


Stumbling upon this-Kyoto


Or this 13th Century Church (I'm standing inside looking out)...somewhere in Eastern Ireland


The cows seemed to notice that I was an out of towner as I walked past them...



These trips were four years ago. I've changed a bit since then and am probably not as much of a "wanderer" as I used to be. I wouldn't change a thing about those trips to Japan and Ireland, however, and hopefully I still have some of that wandering spunk in me. I think I do.

If I had a box...

If I had a box that I kept artifacts of the past in...

What would I keep in it?


A weenie whistle found at a yard sale when I was a teenager.


A worn and faded photograph of me and my mom - she was younger then than I am now.


Old band stickers from my favorite band, the Smashing Pumpkins


My sanitary napkin disposal bag collection (unused!)


My favorite book from when I was young (Andrea, I'm planning another blog on the illustrations).


An image captured from one of my strongest childhood memories: Nana had just walked me down to the ocean, but the waves scared me too much, so I walked back, slightly embarrassed.


A CD carefully crafted for me from a dear friend


My kindergarten drawing book


A card from church camp, where I worked for five years and lived for 18


My bath people (I lost the third one) and a few of my fisher price people (frank, paul, and peppermint patty)


My cat sammy and my mom's reflection


A note from Kristy that summed up our understanding of high school German class


A picture of mom and Nana. I was just born and mom was just married in the spring. Her and nana look like strangers to each other in this picture, you can see it in their body language. She reminds me so much of myself.



Of course, I have three of these boxes, I could never fit everything in just one.

Christmas Lights

We got the Christmas lights up just in time for the first snowfall. I found most of these large bulb strands at thrift stores. I like their vintage look, and with any luck, they won't get hot enough to burn down the house. Now if I could only finish grading and then perhaps I could start on the Christmas cookies.

Future Uncertainties and Past Realities

This day has culminated into a series of small panic attacks over various events and deadlines that resulted from one thing - this damn dissertation. This morning Zach woke up at 7:30 and rushed out the door to start his first day working on MSU's student organic farm. I envy his ability to be useful to society. I sometimes have this feeling teaching...but geez, I swear this dissertation will be the death of me! When these panic attacks set in, it's usually a good time for me to realize how quickly everything will pass by, and how fortunate I've been in my life thus far.

I have an album I've been keeping for the past couple of years. It's a collection of photographs I've picked up at antique stores.


The collection is partly a memorial, small, insignificant, and unseen, (but a memorial nonetheless!)to these people. I don't know why anyone would ever want to sell or toss aside these memories of their ancestors, but at some point they did. It probably has something to do with how people handle death when it occurs (or don't handle it). I've been careful to keep the collections together, so as to not mix families. When a new family collection starts, I have carefully labeled it (even though I don't know the families' names).


Part of the reason I keep the album is also to have an idea of life 50, 80, or 100 years ago.

Not an actual idea, but a nostalgic idea. I've been slowly covering my life with objects of the past. It provides me with a reality I'm unfamiliar with (isn't this ironic for a historian to say?)and thus, one that is obviously a romantic illusion. Almost everyone looks happy in these pictures and certainly no one is writing dissertations! Most importantly, people have homes, farms, families, and possessions that are valuable (aka not made in China and shipped to Wal-Mart at 5 for $5).

This has really become noticeable to me after living in Lansing where there's shadows of this past life in the form of paved, abandoned lots and shells of auto industry plants everywhere. These things just didn't exist in the past (or at least people neglected to capture them in photographs). This is such a common site in our city. I hate driving past sites like this just because it's so damn ugly, but I can't imagine what former employees and people that have lived in Lansing for decades must feel.
Below are two of my favorite images from the album

Historical Imagination

When I teach history classes here at MSU I try to emphasize the importance of historical imagination and how to detect it when you are reading a book or watching a film. Since I've started writing my dissertation this past year, I have sometimes grappled with my own use of historical imagination. What is my role as a historian? At what level do I intend to lay out facts and at what level do I consider myself a story teller? There seems to be a fine line and just the right mixture of both when I am writing, although this is something I have not mastered by any means.
What struck me as interesting today, however, was my own unconscious use of historical imagination. Mainly I'm thinking about my family here and how we have interpreted our past. As Sullivans, my family clearly embraces our Irish heritage. People have talked about my Great Grandfather Frank Sullivan's "Irish temper" or Papa's Irish nickname "Mick".
I've done quite a bit of extensive genealogy research to date, and I don't even have a single record of a family member residing in Ireland. Today I traced a line of our family back to Switzerland and even found the name of the boat my Great Great Great Grandfather rode into New York City - the William Tell. But not a single stinkin' connection to Ireland yet.
Of course, it easy enough to explain our interest in Irish heritage - Sullivan has been the name that's stuck with us, so of course we claim to be Irish. But I also think there's a bit of romance in all of this: The working class Irish that were all treated like dirt and still managed to drink their whiskey and do a jig at the end of the day - merry drunks, that's what they were.

How's that for historical imagination?

Here's some photographs from my past's past:

The Wirth Family - my mother's side of the family. My gram and pap are in the back row. Note my gram's saddle shoes. We are very similar in many ways.


Great uncle Jack Foster worked in the coal mines of Western PA


Frank "Irish temper" Sullivan (also a coal miner in Western PA)