Tennyson and Desperate Housewives (February 28, 2010)

Hello all,
This week, I really mean it when I say that I'll try to keep the email short. You all can take comfort in the fact that justice is served in that I am currently reading Great Expectations for my literature class--Dickens was according to the number of words he wrote, and I imagine that my emails must resemble his prose at points.
I started the week on a somewhat despondent note, discussing the poetry of Alfred, Lord Tennyson in literature class. As our professor explained, the bleak, doubtful mood that underlies Tennyson's poetry exemplifies the demarcation between the more euphoric meditations of the Romantic poets we had previously read and the prevailing attitudes of the Victorian Age, an age in which industrial advancement, political reform, and scientific discoveries effectively turned things on their head. Much of Tennyson't best poetry was written in response to the death of a schoolmate who was Tennyson's closest friend. I typically read poetry with varying degrees of enjoyment, and although the prose was thick at times, there was something both exhausting yet cathartic about certain of Tennyson's poems. I would recommend "Ulysses", "Break, Break, Break", and, of course, "The Charge of the Light Brigade".
The readings for my British culture class continued outlining the pantheon of English kings from the Tudors through the Stuarts, bringing us up to George III for the focus of our Tuesday class period. Although I can keep a handful of the English kings distinct in my mind, most of them run together in a swirl of war, intrigue, and manipulation. I know that history is, to an extent, inherently an account of chaos and turmoil--let's face it, peaceful, normal days aren't really newsworthy--but I found myself aghast at points at the sheer relentless drive of different factions for political influence. Nobody ever seemed to take a break, exploiting the slightest chink or loophole they possibly could to advance their own causes. Perhaps the most staggering facet of all this conflict is the inextricably tangled relationship that existed between politics and religion at that time--a constant back and forth between Catholicism and Protestantism depending on who was on the throne at the time, what other countries were up to, what the relationship with the Vatican was like, how the population was treated at the time, and countless other things. One student in class was insightful enough to point out that perhaps this is one reason that Christianity is such a minor presence in England today--in America, religion is largely an exercise in freedom, but England has a heritage of religion serving as an instrument of suppression, with often fatal consequences for those unwilling to submit to the official policy at the time.
Luckily I had no cause to worry about religious manipulation when I met with my small group once more on Tuesday evening, discussing the eighth commandment--Thou Shalt Not Steal.
I have consistently enjoyed my Wednesday morning class, which is focusing on the Roman Empire for the first half of the semester. The topic of the lecture last week was the legacy the Romans left on the ancient world. I find the study of the Roman Empire fascinating, largely because one can examine the many similarities between Roman culture and modern society, simultaneously consider the critical differences, and try to observe correlations and disparities between the two. I am consistently impressed with the society the Romans built--certainly they were bloodthirsy, brutal, and despotic at turns, but I would be hard-pressed to name any single great society that didn't stoop to similar behavior at least intermittently. And if one examines the triumphs and accomplishments of Roman society, they discover a race that was refreshingly broad-minded, pragmatic, methodical, and dignified. Certainly it's a good thing that some of their practices have been abandoned over the years, but I also think it's a great shame that more powers and influential leaders don't look to them for an example.
That afternoon, in a fit of boredom, I purchased a cheap ukelele. Don't be deceived by the callouses forming on my fingers: I am not that cool, and I don't know what I'm doing.
On Thursday morning I was pleasantly surprised to receive a care package from my girlfriend. I had my final classes of the week, finishing up on Tennyson and limping through a 3-hour grammar lecture. In the evening I went to the weekly meeting of the YSJ Christian Union; this week the leaders had set up several stations around the meeting room for all attendees to go and reflect on different things. It was a pleasant experience. I helped them pack things up afterward and accompanied several of the members to the Student Union afterward, where I chatted with two students who had spent last semester studying in the United States at Michigan State University. They spoke of America in glowing terms.
Friday morning was spent sleeping, grocery shopping, and walking through downpour. In the afternoon I walked through more downpour to meet a British friend and the Hope College exchange student at a Starbucks in the city center. When I joined them, Sam (my British aquaintance) was taking farcical stock of Meaghan's (the exchange student) true American qualities by submitting her to a series of questions. Such things as drinking coffee, shopping at Hollister, and aquaintance with someone who drives a SUV qualified as "American points"; conversely, dislike of McDonald's and admitting the merits of any country other than the United States counted as "American losses"--by the final reckoning of these and similar inquiries, neither Meaghan nor I were truly patriotic. Then my fellow (if dubiously so) American and I were highly entertained by Sam's declaration that the seminal representation of American suburban life was to be found depicted on ABC's "Desperate Housewives". Then I went with Sam to a nearby McDonald's, which Meaghan had asserted was superior to its American counterpart, and we discussed cosmetic differences and underlying similarities between British and American politics. (I should add that both the Starbucks and McDonalds were the most elaborate manifestations of those establishments I have ever been in. Contrary to Meaghan's insistence, British McDonald's tasted just the same as American McDonald's.)
I concluded Friday night with a friendly gathering at Prof. Ward's house and by watching Martin Scorcese's "The Last Temptation of Christ" with one of my fellow Calvin students.
Saturday was a pretty lazy day. I spent the morning sleeping and and making pancakes from a mix I had purcased at the store. The end result, fried with oil in a frying pan rather than cooked on the griddle, was more like a crepe than the pancakes I was raised on. The rest of the day slipped lazily by in a cycle of Dickens, Facebook, Skype, coaxing amateurish noises from the ukelele, and napping.
This morning I hopped on a bus at 8:30 and rode with my fellow Calvin students to the town of Haworth, homeplace of the Brontë sisters. We attended a service at St. Michael and All Angels Anglican church, which stands on the site of the previous church over which Patrick Brontë presided as minister. His two enthusiastic present-day successors led us through what was possibly the most invigorating church service I've ever attended (and yes, I make that remark about a service in the Anglican church). Despite the fact that the heating system in the church had broken down that morning, the two boisterous ministers (the phrase that kept flitting through my mind throughout the service was "holy mischief-makers") kept things cheerful, upbeat, and even humorous. Following the service, we looked around the gorgeous building and took a peek at a memorial chapel that stands over a crypt housing the remains of most of the Brontë family.
We then walked to the parsonage where Patrick Brontë raised his gifted daughters. The parsonage stands just behind the church itself, and its front door overlooks the cramped ranks of headstones that stick up from the churchyard. This is a testimony to Haworth's bleak past as a squalid industrial town with a high mortality rate. Conditions were squalid, and evidently groundwater seeping through that very cemetary was just one of the many factors that contributed to the unhealthy living conditions. Growing up in a setting like that, it's no wonder that the Brontës wrote such bleak, dark, and unorthodox works. First we enjoyed a lecture by one of the musuem staff, which confirmed the fact that most great writers were formed by personal experiences that were at least slightly hellish. Then we toured the house itself, which was furnished largely with original furniture and actual possessions of the Brontës. Perhaps the most macabre item on display was a bonnet which was intended for Charlotte Brontë's unborn child, who accompanied her pregnant mother to her death. Also on display were several artworks by the Brontës' good-for-nothing older brother and some of their earliest writings--fantasy epics composed on folios only slightly larger than matchbooks, adorned with Lilliputian handwriting.
From the parsonage museum, we set out on a muddy hike across the moors that inspired much of Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights. Although it was overcast and somewhat chilly, the scenery was starkly gorgeous, reminiscent in some ways of the Lake District, which we visited last weekend. After nearly two hours, we reached the secluded site of a ruined house, which is thought to have inspired the setting of Wuthering Heights. We stopped to take a group picture and hang out with some sheep that were seemed indifferent to our presence, then headed out to return to the bus. Our group got spread out and separated on this return hike, but this allowed me some nice conversation and reflection of the experience of traveling abroad with one of my friends in the group. We finally made it back to the bus, where I napped much of the way back to York.
I thank all of you once again who are interested enough in me and my travels to read all these dispatches. I miss you all and think about you frequently.
God bless!
-John Morton