This Year.

Well.
Here we are.
My bags are (mostly) packed,  my worldly possessions from a year of living, working, playing in this medieval city reduced to one suitcase, and two backpacks. I've given away books, prized spices, and an inexplicable amount of sugar. I still have a to-do list a mile long-- on it are thrilling errands such as: charity shop, bank, any library books???, send final letters, check in tomorrow morning.   It's funny how your life can be reduced to such a laundry list of banalities. The next inhabitant of room 206 will never know how long I sat at this desk (now returned to its original position), working on my dissertation. They'll never know how many times I rearranged the furniture, much to the bemusement of my downstairs neighbours (at least three times). They'll never now how often I walked across the hall to annoy/coerce/persuade Mimi to play cards, meander about the town, or check my appalling grammar (more times than I can even count). I can only hope that they'll be as lucky to find such an amazing friend across from them. Unfortunately, Mimi and I have decided to leave my second wardrobe in her room, so they won't have an immediate way to break the ice. Then again, they might not be the kind of person who needs a(n entirely fabricated) reason to talk to strangers.
But hopefully the future resident of 206 will share some of my experiences. They will find people with common interests, write essays, read books, pay overdue library fines at least once. They will walk the city walls on their way to the grocery store, just because they can. They will drink a single pint in several pubs in the course of one evening. They will drink a yard of ale, or watch their friends attempt it. As a result, they will be ruined for beer for the rest of their lives, knowing that Northern beer is the only option. And they will miss home sometimes, but by the end of the year, they will not possibly think that there is anywhere else in the world they could ever want to be.

This year, this city, these people have changed me in ways I never thought possible. I used to joke that I must have suffered brain injury because I became such a different person when I came here. But I think that, in truth, I had a chance here in York to be who ever I wanted to be. I spent the last four years of my life trying to decide what that person would be, and here I could put into practice. And I found yet another group of people who were supportive of me and my dreams. And when you have that kind of support coming from all over the world--from Colorado, from the Northwest, from Australia--it can really change how you approach life.
I don't think I can ever be described as a laid back person by any means. And while LC certainly did a lot to mellow me, I still am quite stubborn and determined. York has challenged me and given me a place to express that determination. I've been pushed far outside of my comfort zone, but I've realised that I can handle it. And while the future is looming ominously, I still feel in control of my life and my career. And while I'll never be laid back, and while I'll never like uncertainty, change, or transition, at least I've finally come to accept that fact.
I wish I could adequately express how much this year has meant to me, but I know I will fall short. So I'll just say that this year as been more than I could have ever hoped for, and that it has changed me for the better. I can only hope to live up to it.

(Pictures of people's desks always amuse me. [That is only one book stack of several.])

(My desks. Yes, desks plural. See also: teacups, plural; oranges, plural.)

   
Hey look! It has been less than a month since my last post. I am now on the home stretch of my dissertation, which feels so amazing. I did final edits this morning, and I have a few bits I want to smooth out, but now I am ready for the final bits and pieces: Table of Contents, Acknowledgements, printing and binding.
     I've wrestled a lot with this paper. At first, I never thought I would get to 15,000 words, but now I'm pushing the grace limit at 22,000 words. But I've also felt at a plateau with my writing this summer. This has happened to me before, most lately, my junior year of college. It's a really frustrating feeling--you just know you're writing can be better, but you have no idea how to get there. At the time, I had two professors who had some excellent advice for me, which I wrote down and carried around with me for years. Basically: be sharper, clearer, and deeper.
     This time around, none of my professors have been able to help me in the same way, except to remind me to be confident in my writing and my research. Instead, I've been reading a lot of authors I really admire (both fiction and nonfiction) and studying their prose for guidance. I can't say it's worked terribly well, but at least if I'm reading good writing, I might absorb some of it?
      Trying to be deep, sharp, and confident are three things that are incredibly difficult for me to do. I like to write in the passive voice, be polite in my analysis, and qualify every judgement I make. This might make me sound like a nice person, but it really doesn't come off well on paper. In an effort to combat this, I've spent the last week or so editing my paper, taking out qualifications, showing what research I've done, and writing and rewriting in an active voice.
     Today, I did a final edit, and my goodness. I had been so worn out with my paper; I felt so frustrated because my summer of research didn't seem to come to any real result. But after taking ownership of my research, being unafraid to critically judge museums, and having confidence in my conclusions, I am so proud of this paper. It feels like it was worthwhile, and that I have something to add to the discussion about heritage.

     And that's a really good feeling.

(Apologies for the continued summer dissertation blogging. After next week, we'll return to your regularly scheduled blog, which will highlight all the other non-dissertation things I've done this summer. Same bat time, same bat channel.)

"‘Cultures’ defined as homogeneous ensembles are the most dangerous of all social illusions, the sources of all discriminations and pretexts for violence and the permanence of poverty."

So I've been sitting on this for a long time now, but with my final draft in to my professor, I feel like I can share without jinxing anything (which has happened to me once before).

I'm about to be published! In a book!

This is the greatest achievement of my life!!

(!!!)

Last autumn, I wrote an essay for my cultural heritage management class about a new heritage Convention, called the Faro Convention, and its possible impact on the LGBT community. Faro is notable for its insistance that heritage be defined by local communities and people, not by heritage professionals. With individuals making the decisions about what places, objects, skills or traditions are important to them, we as professionals can do a better job of preserving it. Simultaneously pretty cool and sadly revolutionary.

But! Where does this leave invisible communities? Ones that don't often have a voice in public discourse? When I set out to write this essay, I was thinking of the Romani community, who aren't tied to a physical place, which is a large part of traditional heritage definitions. But then I started thinking about the LGBT community and how many people often 'pass' in the wider community, as a safety measure. This notion of passing isn't limited to people--it effects buildings and meeting places as well. That means that, 50 years down the line, a pub that was very culturally significant to the gay community might be knocked down, because it was never seen as significant by the wider community. Which I think we can all agree is a bit of a problem.

So. I wrote an essay. And received a pretty rockin' mark for it, though I had strayed from the prompt quite a bit.

My professor suggested we send it off to some people who work with the Council of Europe, which wrote the Faro Convention. And then a few months ago, my professor invited me to revise it and submit it for a book on the convention he was putting together.

How could I say no?

So I am about to be published. I am so chuffed. This is a subject that's really important to me, and I'm really hoping that this can continue the conversation about how we think about disputed heritage, which is usually the province of war-torn countries, not unremarkable street corners. And it's just an honour to even be asked. I really respect this professor, and he's quite respected by the heritage community both here and abroad. In the midst of dissertation madness, I've also been scrambling to do this--going to Manchester for research, agonising over quotes, and just thinking long and hard. I can't deny that I'm also a little nervous--what if people don't like it? What if some one writes in and tells me I'm totally wrong and there's a whole body of research I overlooked?

But then I have to trust in myself. It will be good experience, even if I do get criticism. And I get to put it on my CV!

(So chuffed.)