The ASL Chronicles

A few friends have asked... how goes it, using ASL in the UK? How's the signing? How are the interpreters? Have you learned any BSL?

More on interpreters and BSL in another post very soon, but yesterday I had my third weekly signing gathering with other Rhodies (and accumulated Oxford friends), so my inclination is to answer the former with: terrific! I've been fortunate enough to meet many people here who are very intellectually curious about languages, who are open to learning, and who are exceptionally good at remembering what I teach them. I doubt whether I've ever felt so comfortable being myself with a group of hearing peers, or at least gotten to such a place so quickly, and it suddenly struck me yesterday: this sort of feeling makes me feel so settled and so happy. That doesn't mean there aren't still challenges -- for instance, twice this past week I went to large group dinners in which seven or eight people were chatting around a table and I felt totally lost. And I'm also still struggling with some of the international students I meet (and still gravitating toward American friends, since they are usually a thousand times easier to understand!). I'm currently undergoing some mixed feelings about both of those things, which I am trying to work through -- but I do know what my strengths are and am trying to utilize those while stretching my boundaries as much as is reasonably possible. It is an ongoing process indeed... Some international friends I've made are careful to speak clearly when chatting with me, though, and I'm admittedly loving the other aspects of social life here: the frequent tea and coffee dates, the nights sitting in a cozy pub swapping stories or just talking about ideas with a range of different people. These social affairs are all the more enjoyable when sign language is involved. Which it has been, more and more often as of late.

Much of that is due to the ASL gatherings each week at Rhodes House, due to the good signing conversations that follow with friends after these gatherings, and also due to that principle of openness and honesty I raised earlier. I've been shaking the rust off my usually-pretty-dormant signing skills, taking that plunge, and seeing people start to reciprocate in kind. We're all doing the best we can, I think, combining the visual and the verbal and the auditory and the what have you, in pursuit of some sort of connection and human understanding. But I'll say, isn't it lovely that I should find myself signing so much here!

A British All Hallows' Eve

Happy Halloween! A day late, but then it's practically still Halloween in California at the time I'm writing this, so who's counting? (Also, is it Halloween or Hallowe'en? The British seem to prefer the latter in many cases, so I'm currently a little confused.)

In celebration of the holiday, which actually doesn't seem to go as gangbusters here in the UK as it does in America, a bunch of friends and I crashed the Brasenose College Halloween bop with our costumes (a few people in our group were actually from Brasenose; the rest of us pretended we were and sat in the bar and enjoyed the free drinks). I decided to go as a scarecrow, prompted by a little help on costume ideas/shopping/accessories from one of my good friends here, and put the finishing touches on my costume with a sheaf of wheat that I found at the Covered Market here in Oxford. The result meant that I was dropping wheat stalks wherever I walked, including into other people's faces or drinks, and that I smelled like wheat the entire night, but at least I was hearty and wholesome? (And at least I did get many compliments, which was a big deal for this normally not-so-creative dresser-upper?) The British students either didn't dress up at all, or dressed up in the mysterious and prevalent animal onesies that seem to emanate from one of the stores in the Oxford shopping center, or dressed up as scary things -- for them, Halloween means blood and gore and creatures that go "bump" in the night. Our American ensemble was rather tame in comparison:

Now on to November, which has somehow arrived already! How have I spent an entire month in Oxford thus far? It's been an incredible, incredible adventure, and I want time to quit passing so quickly.

A Pint at the Eagle and Child

Oxford is full of literary traditions. One of them being that, for many years, C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien and their friends used to meet every Tuesday in The Eagle and Child pub on St. Giles' Street, where they would discuss the progress of their literary ideas and engage in some good-spirited argument and debate. Over a pint or two, of course. This group famously called itself "The Inklings," and the marks of their literary prowess are still visible in The Eagle and Child, as well as all across Oxford.

Now, The Eagle and Child is just across the street from St. John's, and I see it every day while walking to and from various places. I've also gone there a few times and would call it one of my favorite pubs in the city so far -- relaxed, cozy, and with enough secluded spots for good conversation. Just this past week, a few Rhodie friends and I were chatting about our personal writing, or our aspirations to write more while in Oxford, and the idea came to us. Why not form our own weekly writers' gathering in The Eagle and Child, to share our stories or essays or poems with each other over a drink or two? That is, why not establish our own version of the Inklings? ("The Inkjets," one of my friends playfully suggested.)

The entire idea reeks of literary pretension, I confess, but the four of us eagerly settled on it, circulated some of our work among the group this past week, and then met in The Eagle and Child last night for a night full of good literary conversation. Our gathering took the form of a very informal writers' workshop, in which we discussed each other's works and each other's ideas. We had an excellent time, and I realized how much I've missed writing workshops and discussions about writing, especially with such a small group of nice, smart, curious, interesting people. The pub finally kicked us out at closing time, but then we lingered in the dark chatting a little longer, and I walked away feeling very eager to do more -- both to pursue more of my own personal writing and to discover more of my friends' creative impulses. This Oxford thing may be steeped in quaint ideas and spirited aspirations like ours, but it's all a little bit magical, and all a little bit unlike anywhere else.

Productive Procrastination

I think since I got to Oxford I've simultaneously spent more time reading in old creaky libraries AND more time procrastinating on my work by doing miscellaneous fun things with friends than I ever have before.

This may seem like a paradox, but I beg to differ after spending all afternoon today slogging through James Joyce's Ulysses, which is as much of a monster as it's reputed to be. And more.

And I also beg to differ after spending the entire weekend doing things like beagling. Which is essentially the very English pastime of dressing up in cravats and sports coats and tights and caps and going out rambling with a pack of hounds across the countryside. I've got a trio of beagles at home, who look very different (and in my opinion are cuter) than their English cousins, and seeing the pack out on the move helped satisfy the craving for puppy contact that I've had during the last few weeks. And no, I did not dress up in the traditional fashion; a few friends and I pulled on the wellies and sweaters and spent the afternoon watching the hunt while trying not to get in the way or interfere with the trail. I can't say I always understood the intricacies of the hunt, but how English we all felt!

Oh, and then there was a symphony on Saturday night in the Sheldonian theatre -- the Oxford Philharmonica played two pieces of Beethoven and I went with a group of other Rhodies. Every time I hear a symphony with my cochlear implant, it sounds different, richer and more interesting somehow, so I enjoyed basking in the curiosities of that experience another time around. (Even if it was nice to go get a drink after and unwind in the pub and ask friends what they thought the music all meant. Yes, getting into this pub life.)

And then there was the Sunday when one of my Stanford friends (in the UK for a business trip to London) came to visit Oxford. We met up with another Stanford friend for lunch, had a very fun mini-reunion, and then got into the Oxford touristy thing in the afternoon -- including climbing Magdalen Tower, the tallest tower in Oxford, with a few other friends-playing-tourist-with-visiting-friends. Pictures from high up abounded, as did the gusts of wind. As I curled up with books later on (after a dinner out at a Thai place, overloading my taste buds with spiciness after too much bland British food), I reflected on how wonderful it had been to see familiar Stanford faces and catch up on life in this bewildering new place. That made for a very satisfying end to a not-very-academically-productive weekend. (Now, more U.S. friends, come visit?)

So, there you go: Oxford, the place of distractions, compounded by grabbing tea with various new people and attempting to make it out to the variety of lectures and events happening across town. And continuing to battle the weather, which today was extremely blustery because of a so-called "hurricane" that hit the UK last night and this morning. That, combined with the time change over the weekend and the suddenly dark evenings, is preparing me for a long and cold winter ahead. Blergh.

On which note, back to reading and my companion Mr. Joyce...

Coming Up, Coming Up to Oxford

This post follows right on the heels of the last one, but the two topics are so separate I figured I'd keep them that way. Last night was our formal "Coming Up Dinner" for the Rhodes Class of 2013. Held at Rhodes House every year as a traditional way to welcome in new scholars, and bookended by the "Going Down Dinner" held at the end of the year for outgoing scholars leaving Oxford/graduating/going off stipend, the Coming Up Dinner was a major event of anticipation for all of us new Rhodies. It's also a swagged-out, decked-up black tie affair evening hosted by the Rhodes Trust, and I was glad the formal dress I'd gotten over the summer proved to be up to snuff! (Thanks, Mom!)

The Rhodes Trust bird emblazons everything, and welcomed us to dinner last night

After showering, getting dressed up, and clicking my way over to Rhodes House in heels, we settled in for a long evening of drinks, conversation, food, drinks, more conversation, group photos, and yet more drinks. (Champagne at the opening reception followed by white wine, red wine, and dessert wine at dinner, followed by port as an after-dinner treat. All with waiters coming by and liberally filling our glasses when we weren't looking. I skipped the port at the end, but let's just say that all of us were in a very good mood by the end of the night!) All the women wore a variety of lovely dresses, the men looked dashing in their tuxes, and I got to meet the Vice Chancellor of Oxford (the very man who officiated the matriculation ceremony last weekend in the Sheldonian). Many of the Rhodes Trustees were there, themselves a mixture of former Rhodes Scholars and current Oxford academics and the like. I felt the force and the flow of all the minds in the room, and honestly had a wonderful couple of conversations over dinner with the other incoming Rhodies sitting near me (no Trustees at our table, for whatever reason). And, even though the formality of the evening was beyond anything I'm used to, I could only describe it with one typically British word: lovely. I had a great time with great company, and still can't quite believe I'm here.

There are three Rachels among this year's American Rhodies -- capturing the Rachel awesomeness, black-tie style.

Back in the Saddle, British Edition

This may sound silly to the non-horsey set, but when I found out that I would be going to Oxford, my early thought process involved ebullience, anticipation, and some immediate worry about certain matters including... how would I ride or stay involved with horses while I lived abroad? What would happen to my longtime equine partner, Scarlett, when I left?

Luckily, the latter question resolved itself very smoothly over the summer, as Scarlett is now in the good hands of my trainer and an adult amateur rider/lessor who rides her very well and has even taken her back to the show ring (their first two shows together involved a string of blue ribbons and championships in the hunters and equitation!). I've been missing my big, white pony, but have had such peace of mind while in England, just from knowing she's well taken care of.

But as for me -- I've been riding horses for over half of my life now (which seems strange to me when I think of it in those terms), and the animals and riding itself have become as central to the way I view myself as anything else. Riding, horses in general, and the people I have met through horses have all taught me so very much: patience, discipline, the value of a long-enduring passion, personal leadership and resilience, focus, how to have fun and laugh all the way through a good long gallop or jumping lesson. And much more. Simply put, I love riding more than I love any other physical activity (with a gorgeous hike in the mountains perhaps placing second), and I didn't know how I would keep doing it in England. Or, rather, I had a feasible idea but wasn't sure how it would work out: the last time I was in Oxford, I declined to join the riding club, but did try a bit of polo, which sated my horse cravings for the time but was rather expensive, foreign, and time-consuming. What would my options be over the next two years?

My overseas riding journey still continues (and, as a side note, I am enjoying and have enjoyed the opportunity to use my time to try new things), but yesterday I attempted to fit another piece in that puzzle by taking the bit in my teeth, jumping in, and running off with the opportunity to go out and ride with the Oxford Riding Club. These horsey metaphors are a bit too fun. Anyway, I found myself back in the saddle yesterday, on a lovely October afternoon in a little yard (as they seem to call them here) out near Reading.

The yard/barn/livery/whatever I'm supposed to call it in British terms was surrounded by green fields and grazing ponies, and although the stables themselves were smaller and more cramped than I'm used to the horses seemed well-looked-after. And, most importantly, I got to ride! The trainer at the riding school was friendly, British, and unfazed when I told her, well, I'm deaf but I've done a lot of riding in the past, though sign language does make it easier, so be sure I can see you when you're telling me something, or feel free to call me into the center of the arena when I don't understand. (She took all of that in over the course of a few seconds and nodded and said, all right, we'll make it work.) We warmed up quickly and got to some jumping. After hopping around some warm-up fences and short courses on the horse we were on, the other Oxford rider in the lesson and I swapped horses. My second horse was a big, forward warmblood type, who carried me right to the jumps (which got up to around 3', big for someone who hasn't as much as ridden in a month) and was honestly a blast. After jumping around a fair bit, we cooled off and it was back to Oxford. Something in me had settled into contentment just from seeing, smelling, and sitting on those horses. It wasn't Stanford, but it was fun. And I've realized that riding for fun is all I want to do at this point -- I had the chance to try out for the riding club's competition squad this past week, but decided I'd had enough of that during the last few years.

The only downside to the day was that I needed to take a lengthy train ride, followed by a bike ride uphill, to get out to ride, which makes me think I might not be able to do it more than once every two weeks in the future. Still, getting my horsey fix, meeting fellow horse people, and proving that I can still jump around and have a good time on these British creatures brightened up my Friday afternoon!

Beware of the Humped Zebras

Lots of foreign dangers to watch out for in England. Including the... humped zebras??

Yes, here's yet another example of the jolly old (read: baffling) lexicon here in the UK.

And what is a humped zebra, you ask? Not a cross between a dromedary and a striped equid, all settled into Oxford like a civilized creature, nor even that striped equid himself getting, ehhh, horny. What else could it possibly be, but a raised crosswalk in the middle of a street? Which warrants its own sign to caution and warn motorists, of course.