Remembering Oxford (1): Cornmarket Street and North Parade

Dear readers, perhaps my greatest gain from the Oxford experience (besides learning that I can function on very little sleep, or that crepes can be launched between stairwells and even up through 2nd (3rd in the U.S.) story windows) has been an enlivened appreciation for history and memory. Britain's history goes back so much farther than that of the United States, and sadly it seems that there is very little passion for U.S. history outside using it to promote some political agenda. Whatever happened to history for the sake of illuminating a place, for welcoming guests into a place much broader than today? Don't get me wrong, I do have American friends who love history. But there is something significant about not only knowing the history of war and policies,and knowing the history of a place and people. This is something diverse, it is found in memory passed on from fathers and mothers to their children, and then their grandchildren. So, while the Internet may be obsolete by the time we have children or grandchildren, I think it's vital that we remember and share our memories. I'll start.

Cornmarket Street, Oxford, England, United Kingdom:

The first day I awoke in Oxford Cornmarket street seemed to be the desired destination of every explorer setting off from our house on Crick Road. I had stayed behind to finish unpacking, have a leisurely breakfast and then head out for a little walk. Well, I'm actually quite terrible with directions and didn't want to wander far on my own, so I made it only to North Parade that morning, discovering little grocers-- some with licenses and some who proudly advertised that they were off license (I still have no idea what that means)-- and cafes where you can get a latte for a pound. Later in the term, North Parade became the go-to place of the desparate, especially on our way to, or on breaks from, British Landscapes lectures and videos.

I don't remember exactly when my next attempt to Cornmarket took place. I imagine not long afterwards. But it soon became a daily habit to walk the 15 minutes to Cornmarket (and then usually to High Street on another trip that day) to visit Frewin Court and check my mail, or to get groceries, or study in Borders. The thing about Cornmarket is that it is only one segment of an ongoing road which begins as St. Giles, turns into Magdalen, turns again into Cornmarket, then St. Aldates, etc. . .

Cornmarket, however beautiful the other streets are, was my favorite street in this neverending story of pedestrians. A man with scruffy hair could often be heard playing the pipes, stomping out the rhythm. No matter how tired, stressed or rushed I was I couldn't pass him without smiling. It just happened. A young woman played her penny whistle on Cornmarket as well, though not as well as the piper piped. She had short, dark hair and put her heart and soul into every penny of that whistle, though. Towards Christmas, little brass bands and a Capella groups sang Christmas carols, and the whole street was decorated with icy blue lights that looked like icicles dripping water (they probably were dripping water, seeing as it was Oxford).

Then there were the red poppies. They are to me a memory of remembrance. In Britain as in much of Europe, there is a strong collective memory of the world wars. With the 90th annaversary of the end of WWI, the street was flooded with lapel poppies, the red flowers of Flanders Fields. Almost everyone wore one, young and old, people my age to my great-grandparents' age. At first this was hard for me to see without thinking of the Imperial War Museum, without thinking of the violence and death, the mourning and loss. Then I realized that this is exactly what we need to remember when we think of war, in some way, and what the poppies represent. We need to remember the red. I've blogged about this a bit earlier, but that was before I saw the poppies. Here at home, I do not wear flag pins or yellow ribbons. I do not give money to military organizations. But I found myself asking the woman outside Pret a Manger for a poppy, and donating my 50 pence into her dark blue bucket. Because these poppies do not feign glory, they do not shine like buttercups, and they do not smell of one nation. They are the deep color of blood, of the fields painted with pain, asking us to remember. I bought a poppy on Cornmarket Street, and wept.