Zoe, one of my roommates, has a good friend that lives in Northern Ireland, so this weekend I got to tag along and cross the border with her to visit her friend Ellen. Ellen and her family live on a beautiful farm about 45 minutes outside of Belfast and it was truly wonderful to be in a home with such a delightful family for the weekend. We took the train up from Dublin (on which an entitled and faux-confused old man stole my seat) and arrived at Ellen’s house just in time to head to Belfast for Culture Night. I believe that Culture Night is a vibrant event downtown filled with activities celebrating the arts, history, music, and food of Belfast and those that inhabit it. Unfortunately, we arrived a bit too late in the evening to enjoy much of this culture and my experience was defined more by drunk teens running around streets filled with broken glass. (Well, I suppose this scene doesn’t not reflect Irish culture.) It was truly fascinating.

Speaking of “Irish culture”, it is a term one must use carefully in this separate country to the north. Northern Ireland, a part of the UK, is riddled with a violent history of division and conflict between the Irish Catholics and the British Protestants and a wall still stands in Belfast today to separate the two sides. (A wall, what a silly and divisive concept. Who could think of such a thing?) It was so interesting talking to Ellen, a British Protestant, who didn’t meet any Catholics until she went to university. (Not “college”; “university”…or “uni” if we want to get super colloquial.) Growing up, she had been surrounded by Protestants in her Protestant neighborhood and Protestant schools and there had simply been no opportunity or reason for her to interact with a Catholic person.

When I asked her if it would be offensive for someone to refer to her as “Irish”, she said that she personally wouldn’t be offended, but many people would be. Even though people live in Northern Ireland, being referred to as Irish is offensive. And the same goes for the Northern Irish Catholics: even though they live in the UK, being referred to as British is offensive. I suppose this phenomenon is similar to the frustration that arises in people like Shawn Kim (and other true city dwellers) when someone from a suburb an hour away claims to be from “Chicago”. Identity is a funny thing.

The division and violence involved in this cultural separation both frustrates and fascinates me. The immense Catholic/Protestant divide has always given me troubles (pun intended. If you don’t get it, look it up.) These are two groups that claim, at least fundamentally, to be seeking to form a personal relationship with Jesus and love others in order to help them do the same. Although there may be differences in the way these cultures go about this mission, ultimately Christianity is about loving Jesus and loving his children. Jesus calls us to make disciples of all the nations, and how can we possibly do that if we can’t even unite with the people from across town with the same goal? How can we expect to unite the whole world if we can’t even unite the Christians?

Now I know that there is much more history behind this division that I don’t understand and I have never experienced. But isn’t that the problem with cultural divides? Prejudices and attitudes are passed down through generations and people are content with the way things are simply because that is all they’ve ever known. It is so easy for us to comfortably remain in our isolated bubbles but it is so important for us to break out and learn from people whose ideas and beliefs are different from our own. Which, I suppose, is part of why I’m here. Staying at Vanderbilt for the semester would have been easy. Being here has been challenging, but I’ve really appreciated the opportunities to listen to people talk about their lives, experiences, and beliefs that are so different from my own, even when I fundamentally disagree with them.

Jumping into rural Northern Ireland for the weekend has been truly wonderful. Ellen’s mom made us poached eggs for breakfast that had been laid by their own hens and Ellen and her friends caught us up on the latest gossip about who was dating whom. We hiked around Castlewhellan and found ourselves lost in a maze of shrubbery quite reminiscent of the final leg of Harry Potter’s Triwizard Tournament. We walked along the coast as gusts of wind nearly blew us over and literally prevented seagulls from flying. But my favorite parts of the weekend included simply sitting around the dinner table chatting with Ellen’s family about their lives and trying to explain the great importance Americans place on college sports. They had been to Nashville and I got to talk about the Johnny Cash Museum and the gaudiness of Opryland. Ellen’s family is joyful and selfless and all kinds of wonderful and I’m so happy I had the opportunity to step into their lives for the weekend.

A final note about my weekend: I mentioned hiking around Castlewhellan. Well, as people who know me well may know, my hands are almost always cold. This day in Northern Ireland was no exception to this phenomenon, so as we walked and talked, I had my hands in my pockets to keep them protected from the harsh (read: mild) wind. Well, those who know me well also may know that I’m not great at walking, especially on uneven forest paths. As we marched along, a stray tree branch that had fallen to the ground interacted with my line of walking but not, unfortunately, my line of sight.

I tripped over said tree branch and came tumbling to the ground. The reason I mention this incident is that I want to entertain my audience with this image. Remember, my hands were in my pockets and I couldn’t pull them out in time to catch myself. There was literally nothing I could do except allow my body to fall to the ground and then roll a few feet down the hill in the absolutely least graceful way possible. My jeans and jumper (not sweater, “jumper”) were covered in mud and leaves and Zoe and Ellen were more than concerned for my well-being. I couldn’t stop laughing as I imagined watching myself tumble to the ground so I hope that this post makes my audience think about cross-cultural exchange as well as laugh at my incompetence in regards to one of humankind’s most fundamental functions.