Our class saw Dublin’s identity engrained in towering, graffiti ridden social housing flats in Dublin 8. We saw the changing culture absorbed in the Guinness Factory half a block away. Dublin’s past danced around us as our professor softly sang the first few verses from Pete Saint-John’s, “Rare Old Times”. Darren’s soft, conversational voice carried half a block down the road, catching the curiosity of three ten year old girls on their way home from school. They smiled in recognition of the tune and the boldest of the bunch joined in on the chorus. She proudly exclaimed, “my father used to sing this”! The song was written 25 years before the girls were born, yet the story of change that struck their neighborhood was preserved and passed down to them through the oral tradition of song.

I could not think of one American song that myself, my ten year old cousin, my parents, and grandfather might all be able to sing from memory. Certainly none that highlighted the changing landscape and demographic of Philadelphia; that’s something you learn about in American History classes focused on industrialization or gentrification. A month in Dublin has shown me music is not purely for fun and entertainment, but a glue that holds together generations, reminding everyone of the struggles and triumph that accelerated Dublin into a post-modern hub of commerce and education.

If there was one unifying characteristic I’ve found in all Irish people, it is a deeply engrained identity with their hometown; where you are is who you are. If born in Belfast it doesn’t matter if you moved to Dublin as a kid; you would never root for any club but Bredagh (Belfast’s club). In Ireland, your past matters, it makes you, and just like the Gaelic Athletic Association, folk songs like “Rare Old Times” have acted as an integral preservation of Irish identity.

“Rare Old Times” chronicles change in Dublin during one man’s lifetime. He was a “cooper”, one that would repair and make casks at the Guinness Factory. Like his tenement flat, demolished and replaced by social housing, his trade was lost as even the Guinness Factory bowed to modernization. Historic and cultural landmarks of Old Dublin vanished, and, “tall glass cages”, apartment buildings and office complexes, “spring up along the Quay”.

I find Dublin westernized and modern, the romanticized vision I had of an old Ireland is surprisingly hard to find. The Celtic Tiger transported Dublin from a simple city to a posh, expensive, economic force of Western Europe. I think Dubliners see now what they’ve lost during rapid growth; a language, a culture; most importantly an unshakeable sense of community. Apparent and encouraging is Dublin’s conscious effort to regain it’s true identity. Signs, maps, descriptions around the city are written in English and Gaelic, Croke park is the fourth largest stadium in all of Europe though it hosts only Gaelic Games, and ten year old school girls, with nap-sacks on their shoulders, clad in plaid jumpers, can recite, “Dublin in the Rare Ould Times”.

Rare Old Times

On a groggy Tuesday, “Lovers, Strangers, Friends”, slapped me awake with refreshing inspiration. The small, rectangular book sat on display in the LAB Gallery. The cover featured a black and white wedding photograph from the early 19th century. Each of the eleven figures in the photograph had sparkling dabs of black glitter covering their face; preluding the weird, often disturbing content within.

What struck me most about this book was the mysterious way the content of each story mirrored my emotions that morning. A disastrous Tuesday was foreshadowed by a horrible night sleep. I estimated four hours of sleep before an 8 AM alarm forced me out of my cozy nest.

I began the most mentally disengaged day of my trip with a walk to the LAB gallery; kept alert only by headphones blaring triumphantly dark guitar riffs. I sat down for a general discussion of art in Dublin. I heard little, I felt beat-down, sick of the city and sick of school. I remained asleep with eyes open until my writing professor, LeAnn, placed the charmingly handmade book in my hand.

“He stepped off the bus and hitched his bag over his shoulder, accidentally hitting the guy getting off behind him. He muttered an apology and moved away, not really thinking about what direction he went”. The opening line of Niahm Connaghan’s, “Anonymous”, captured the dark, cynical mood that had infected my morning.

I was so enthralled by these sick twisted tales; eagerly devouring each climax, inevitably ending in despair. “Lovers, Strangers, Friends, was the brainchild of visual artist, Martha, who recruited writers off the internet to write a poem or short story inspired by an image she had created, recycled, or distorted. Response was overwhelming, 60 writers wanted to partake. Martha cut down participants to be featured in the final piece. Two books, identical in content rested on a virgin white table in a corner of the gallery. Above in a horizontal line were each of the visual pieces that inspired the stories.

The theme of the book was clearly Dublin, more generally city living. It highlighted the sense of despair, of complete and total loneliness one can feel while surrounded by 1.5 million people. A country boy at heart, this feeling resonates with me, especially on a worn and depressed Tuesday morning.

“Anonymous”, was the only tale that ended remotely happily. The main character, who represents all of us city-livers, moved through a day with meaningless interactions, a ghost in living flesh, until he met a woman named Emma, in an empty pub. A gently and inspiring reminder brightened my day; all it takes to slap any person back into living like it matters is a warm smile, a firm handshake, and the gift of sharing your lonely evening with another soul, lost and suffocated in a hostile terrain of cold concrete. To find such beauty in unexpected art is an incredible reminder to live everyday with eyes wide open.

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During our studies in Dublin, Brittany Kane and Andrew Russin are the students who will be covering the Poetry and Spoken Word beat.