Learning More About Myself...Lessons on Dating Learned on the Ould Sod

It is interesting the things that you learn about yourself, most especially when you place yourself in new environments and situations. Being here in Northern Ireland has been such an opportunity, and I believe that the way I see the world has been changed forever. Despite this expected change, I was not expecting for most of it to be insight into myself, and definitely not within the murky realm of relationships and love.

Now, there is a certain confession I must make….I've always harbored a particular nostalgic and romanticized dream of living in Belfast. Did you all REALLY think it was just about gays and conflict and peace studies? For fifteen years I've silently kindled the fire of 'coming home,' vowing to someday live on the 'ould sod.' Why else would Irish crisps taste better than regular frito lay? Or Deloreans be the most kick ass car ever produced (Yes, the DMC Delorean remains the only car to be made in Northern Ireland…and mechanically/electrically flawed with a good number of them becoming flaming infernos…)? When I last left the island of Ireland, I broke down and cried while walking onto the plane, having felt a connection to the people and land which has eluded me back in Amerikay.

While you're wondering, that dream also included falling in love with a Northern Irish man, marrying, and eventually Immigrating.

Glimpses of this can be caught in portions of my journaling made throughout my life (or at least since 2002, when I first made my trip here). There is an idea that life was on hold and would finally "begin" for me. I suspect that much of this stems from not having had much luck in establishing a long term pairing, and also from what others might have inferred. Certainly the last eight years of constant moving has been influenced in some levels at dating frustration (the seven years of moving before that were influenced not so much by dating, but in problematic sexual identity formation from not being able to accept this part of my natural condition). Portland, Honolulu, Newport, Boston, Salt Lake…it's all been a factor. And in fact, each one of these cities has generally involved moving for the potential of certain individuals (Lee, John, Joe, Adam, J'Myle, etc).

Now that I've been here about two and a half months, the foolish notion that "my one and only" is here seems to have gradually sulked away to the deeper recesses of my consciousness. I feel I'm allowed to start looking at my quest for partners in a different light. Aspects of compatibility, attractions, self confidence, self esteem, comfortability with self and others are being reexamined. And odd patterns are making themselves known.

One such insight is the connection between my musical tastes and the experiences and expectations I seek (or have sought) in dating. My preferred music is as passionate and stirring as possible. For example, Shostakovich is one of my favorite composers. Listening to one of his symphonies brings to mind the Innui of siberia and the crying of Mother Russia for the pain of her citizens throughout the last millennium. Playwrights are the same, with O'Casey, Ibsen, Miller, Kushner, and Flaherty/Ahrens all appearing in my repertoire. It takes angst, complexity of themes, and expanse of the human condition to make me happy. Mozart be damned to the darkest circles of Dante's Inferno, especially his light and flutey airs characterized in Eine Kleine Nacht Musik. Unless it's his Dies Irae, I'll leave it to the more classically appreciative. Give me demons and hellfire! Make me relive my pain and guilt! The depths of human pathos are what I want, and I will pay you any amount of admission for such a show. Maybe that's why I love NPR. Country ballads. Victor Hugo. I'm not emo. I'm just someone who loves the highs and the lows.

You're probably wondering what this has to do with my dating, and the answer is EVERYTHING. My expectations seem to have also come to seek similar emotional rushes in dating. Probably it explains why I have a tendency to harp and go back to those I left behind. I don't think I do it out of a tendency to be cruel. I genuinely liked those guys. If I didn't, they would have never arisen again in my mind (yes, there are those I've dated who fall into that category) and I move on. Despite my pronounced distaste of drama in my relationships, there is this certain form of drama which I indeed play. Not for the sake of drama, but for the complex array of emotions it makes me feel. The more complicated, the bigger the attraction. Probably this is also why guys who I "can't read," or "I'm unsure how I feel," are intriguing pursuits.

At any rate, I believe I digress. Like my choices in music, literature and theatre, I have come to require emotional extremes in the guys I date. This seems to happen at the beginning, mostly facilitated by emotional aids such as settings, ambiance, conversation, alcohol, exoticy, time of day, events, etc. By seeking these early on, I set myself up for the failure of a mainstream, i.e normal, course of day to day life. Dating guys who "live more than 1,000 miles away" also aids in an accomplice faire in this game, preventing me from being wrapped up in the mundane, day to day aspects of their lives. Russell was really the first guy I dated whom I saw on a daily basis (Though to be fair, dating Russell was never a normal experience, the tragedy of his life providing more than enough roller coaster fuel).

What does this all mean? I'm not really sure yet. I am dating here and trying to date differently (not to try to find my Northern Irishman mind you, but just dating for companionship for the time being while I'm here). While I slip into old patterns, I am becoming much more cognizant of why I behave and what motivates me to act the way I do. I am especially aware of the integrity of my own study and set boundaries in place, refusing to date or sleep with any of the participants that I am interviewing (admittedly it is an interesting thing to be conducting research within one's own community, which oft times limits your personal enjoyment).

On sunday evening I found myself looking into the azure blue eyes of a gentleman very different from myself. This was our second date, and following a successful home cooked dinner of New Orleans Gumbo and King Cake (Two of my personal favorite recipes), we neglected to turn on netflix to instead talk for several hours. While looking into the eyes of this very interested gentleman, I felt an intense fear, scared to death that he would find the ordinary, everyday Joshua to be a boring old bore. Yet, remarkably, as I focused on this, I didn't push it away. Instead, I felt the familiar, paralyzing fear and began bending it into a different direction. Observe. Describe. Participate…I think that the time is well nigh that I faced some very deep seated fears.

Northern Ireland a transformative experience? Oh, just wait and see! And just for the record, yes, the Deloran is STILL the most kick ass car ever made. And one which I had the joy of driving for two very brief years. And you can take THAT to the bank!

The Loyal Orange Order Parades

On Saturday I witnessed my first Orange parade. While downtown I passed what at first i took to be one of the seemingly frequent 'flag protests' (expected even more so on the heels of this past week's On the Runs controversy). However, I noticed that uniformed PSNI officers were lining up the main thoroughfare of Royal Ave, indicative of something more. My inquiry of one of them turned out that a parade was expected in a bit, so I decided to hang about to experience it.

The Orange order, or Loyal Orange Order is one of three Protestant fraternal organizations (Black Preceptory and Apprentice Boys being the other two) which have become known in Northern Ireland for the many parades that are staged around the year. Over 300 of them will be conducted between April and August, what is known as "Marching Season" culminating with July 12th, the holiday commemoration of William of Orange's 1690 Victory at the Battle of the Boyne. For many protestants these parades are a visible show of their cultural pride and historical origins. The parades have been going on for hundreds of years, but since the troubles have become lightning rods of controversy. While many lodges have altered their routes, some of the more belligerent lodges have continued to insist on marching the traditional routes which (because of a combination of urbanization and population displacement in the 1970s) now go through heavily catholic neighborhoods or business districts.

The particular parade of today was from the Sandy Row lodge, in solidarity of their brother lodge in Woodvale who have been prevented (in frequent parades and protests) since the last July 12th of marching back 'home.' The original parade's Committee had ruled that while they would be allowed to march down the road, they would not be allowed to return by the same route. This led to a very heated marching season, erupting in violence. Today the lodge is still trying to finish the route, believing it is their right both civilly and culturally. Every few weeks another parade is held, which attempts to complete the march, but in turn, is stopped by police. The cost of shutting down the streets and police presence has been enormous, and several stories in the Telegraph have focused on the inability to maintain such costs in a time where resources are already hard to come by.

For a time, I waited, with nothing in sight. Then came the beat of the drums from far off, subtle, but portending a coming storm. As it gained in crescendo, police started moving into position. When the parade finally came into view down North Donegal Street, phalanxes of about five or six different lodges with several band contingents could be seen. Each lodge was dressed in their traditional orange sash (sans bowler), following behind their respective banner indicative of their home lodge. As the parade turned onto Royal Avenue, the din became deafening, the acoustics amplified by the narrow streets and high buildings. The atmosphere created was intimidating, and dare I even say, slightly terrifying? One little girl beside me backed away in terror, clinging to her father in tears. Here were row upon row of stern faced individuals, marching to military songs of old amidst the deafening beat of drums, defiance in their faces.

The Sash (My Father Wore)

So sure l'm an Ulster Orangeman, from Erin's isle I came,
To see my British brethren all of honour and of fame,
And to tell them of my forefathers who fought in days of yore,
That I might have the right to wear, the sash my father wore!

Chorus:
It is old but it is beautiful, and its colours they are fine
It was worn at Derry, Aughrim, Enniskillen and the Boyne.
My father wore it as a youth in bygone days of yore,
And on the Twelfth I love to wear the sash my father wore.

Chorus

For those brave men who crossed the Boyne have not fought or died in vain
Our Unity, Religion, Laws, and Freedom to maintain,
If the call should come we'll follow the drum, and cross that river once more
That tomorrow's Ulsterman may wear the sash my father wore!

Chorus

And when some day, across the sea to Antrim's shore you come,
We'll welcome you in royal style, to the sound of flute and drum
And Ulster's hills shall echo still, from Rathlin to Dromore
As we sing again the loyal strain of the sash my father wore!