Here, Here and Now: Phenomenology of Being Foreign

I wrote this for my History of Lit. Theory and Criticism class. We attended a poetry reading by noted poets Natasha Tretheway and Paul Muldoon. The experience was nothing short of wonderful. Stamp my forehead with "Paul Muldoon Fan Forever."

. . . . .

What struck me about Paul Muldoon wasn’t something he said during his poetry reading, rather, it was something that was said about him after the session. An individual (who I shall henceforth call Tom, because I simply cannot remember his name anymore) said that he was surprised to find that Muldoon was more “Americanized” than he thought he would be. Curious, I asked him to qualify what he meant with “Americanized.” Tom said Muldoon sounded Americanized, and it had something to do with his vowels. So I asked him if I sounded Americanized and he said yes. It went off-tangent from there, but I’m guessing he said that because of my consonants. No, really. I personally think that my vowels sometimes give my nationality away (that is, if my looks aren’t obvious enough). Words like “amen” I pronounce as “a-men” and not “ay-men” or “aa-men” (although I do say “po-tay-toe” and not “po-taa-toe.”) It’s a nuance that a lot of Americans miss, probably because there are so many existing accents in this country. But to my trained (read: foreign) ear, there is a perceptible difference.

I open with this little anecdote, and the sub par linguistic introspection that followed suit, because I don’t think that Muldoon is Americanized at all, at least not exactly in the way that Tom explained. I can still hear Muldoon’s distinct Irish lilt, even though I could understand every word he said (which doesn’t often seem to be the case with the other Irish people I know.) But more than whether or not Tom and I agree that Muldoon sounded American, what it more interesting is how Tom and I understand “Americanized” differently. Granted that Tom didn’t really put much thought into his notion of Americanized, I can’t help but think that what Americanized (or insert-nationality-ized) means goes beyond the superficial level of accents.

As far as I’m concerned, Muldoon isn’t Americanized because he spoke of “anseo,” Joseph Mary Plunkett Ward, pubs, and secret camps. His poems are about people, places, and memories that portray a lingering kinship with Ireland. It is not simply because he was born there, or that his father was a typical blue collar worker, or the fact that they have bad teeth because their water did not have fluoride. He is not just from Ireland, he is, and forever will be, of Ireland, the country that shaped him. Ireland begat him. Everything – from his values, his quirks, even that interestingly unique hairstyle – speaks of his Irish-ness, and his poems wonderfully reflect this.

It is difficult to wrap my mind around Muldoon’s alleged Americanized-ness. 

To this non-American-who-is-also-often-called-Americanized, the ability to speak English in such a way that Americans will find it easy to understand –- while certainly a compelling piece of evidence –- does not necessarily guarantee Americanized-ness. At least not in the sense I know. Belief and value systems trump accent, no matter how (im)perfectly American it is.

Case in point: Muldoon opened his reading with Anseo. I initially thought he meant “Anne Shaw” and I thought it was odd that they would use someone else’s name to signify their presence. This misinterpretation of this Irish term is inconsequential, and I mention it only because, if anything, it is indicative of my mild acculturation to America. On the other hand, “anseo” reveals Muldoon’s brazen Irish-ness. From being a term that he associates with his youth:

“When the master was calling the roll

At the primary school in Collegelands, 

You were meant to call back Anseo 

And raise your hand

As your name occurred.

Anseo, meaning here, here and now, 

All present and correct,

Was the first word of Irish I spoke” 

(Anseo, lines 1-8); 

To a term that signified an individual’s presence and readiness to join the efforts to stand behind the political and social ideals of their native land: 

“I last met Joseph Mary Plunkett Ward 

In a pub just over the Irish border.

He was living in the open, 

in a secret camp 

On the other side of the mountain.

He was fighting for Ireland, 

Making things happen

How every morning at parade

His volunteers would call back Anseo

And raise their hands

As their names occurred” (29-35, 39-42).

“Here, here and now” becomes something more than a signifier of presence in school. It becomes a statement of belief, of readiness, of willingness to remain in the fight for what Ward and his companions believe. Muldoon, in one poem (in three stanzas!!!), was able to evoke the nostalgia of childhood, the emerging identity of a rebellious youth, and the passionate dedication of a citizen who understands his role in his society. That Muldoon can go through these stages, with accuracy and conciseness, is sheer genius. This is absolute, unadulterated, unabashed admiration speaking, but I can say this also because these stages resonate with me. I am a citizen of a country where people still die if they are on the wrong side of the political fence, a country whose ideals are slowly be eaten away by colonial mentality, a country so far away. I, too, am reminded of days when the most important thing about being in school was, well, being in school. I also remember how school allowed me to become more politically and socially aware. I remember going to my first protest in my Catholic school uniform and my enthusiastic participation in EDSA 2. I remember those days as I look at my own frustrations at being here, so far away from home, not knowing enough but wanting to do something; knowing so much, but not being able to do anything. If anything, the frustration at being here and the yearning to go back shall forever keep me from fully embracing the notion that I, too, am Americanized.

This is precisely why I cannot accept the idea of Muldoon being Americanized. His poems speak too much about Ireland, and even when they do not directly speak of Ireland, I hear it being spoken. His poems begin with something seemingly mundane, but by the end of the poem, I am left feeling raw. I am reminded that I am also a transplant, trying desperately to deal with this new society.

In The Sightseers, Muldoon, yet again, takes his readers on a journey from the mundane to the poignant. The poem describes a benign childhood memory that is coupled with political strife. What begins as a simple ride to see the new roundabout ends with a painful memory that is distinctly Irish.

“Uncle Pat was telling us how the B-Specials 

had stopped him one night somewhere near Ballygawley 

and smashed his bicycle 

and made him sing the Sash and curse the Pope of Rome. 

They held a pistol so hard against his forehead 

there was still the mark of an O when he got home”

(The Sightseers, lines 9-14)

His words are simple yet descriptive. The flippant way he describes that memory -– culminating in an O-mark on a forehead -– does not belie the gravity of what had happened. The O-mark, a reminder of the horrendous experience of being at the business end of a gun, is also the reminder that he is alive. Things could have been much worse than having a ridiculous O on the forehead.

Yes, Muldoon has spent a good portion of his adult life in a foreign country but this does not take away from his Irish-ness. Juxtaposition almost always accentuates one because of its difference from the other. If it’s any indication, I never really felt this Filipino -– whatever that means -– back home. I am now proudly, adamantly, and almost-brattily Filipino and mostly because I live, not just in America, but in West Michigan. As far as racial juxtapositions go, I think I’m all set. In perhaps the same way, Muldoon’s presence in America underscores his Irish-ness, and while his English has become more understandable to Americans, it certainly does not take away from his Irish-ness.

Yes, I am well aware of the tone of defensiveness. Tom actually made a good point, and the reason he gave is one that is shared by many Americans I have met since moving here. And here lies the rub: if I were to acknowledge that Muldoon is Americanized, then I have to acknowledge that I, too, have become Americanized. And that is something that I simply cannot do –- must not do -– because my guilt will have none of it. I simply cannot declare myself Americanized, because I am still too Filipino at heart, others’ opinions of my accent notwithstanding.

National pride and national identity do not figure in a zero-sum equation with quasi-acculturation. This I know, and I keep telling myself that it’s OK to be here, that I can fight for my country from here, that I will eventually go back home. But to be back home, to be with my people…there is no way I can explain how exponentially better that would be. Instead, this is a statement of inequality, where my Filipino-ness will always -– always -– be greater than my alleged American accent.

“Here, here and now” then becomes a phrase that is painfully beautiful and beautifully painful to me in so many levels because I am here. Not there. My “here” has changed. My “there” has changed. But my accent does not determine my Filipino-ness and neither does my location. So I may be here now, but I will be there soon enough.