Leaving Home, Coming Home

But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed. Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.” – Kahlil Gibran

When I imagine home, I imagine my house. The car pulls up to the driveway, I see my front porch, the windows, the green door, our mailbox. It’s an expressive house. I look at it’s face and I feel a comfort that is only felt once in a blue moon; nowadays, just in that moment of arrival. I know that it’s just a house, and that it’s my family that makes it my home. But undeniably, by just seeing my house, my shoulders relax and I breathe easily, a breath that I didn’t realize I was straining. I know this place and it knows me. The look of familiarity.

Home, the concept of which is constantly expanding.

Home is a weird thing. The first home that I think of, my families house, my real home and my official address, with all the comfort that it holds does not often hold me. It will always feel like home but that doesn’t mean it will always feel the same. And that’s because I have more homes than just that one.

I wanted nothing more than to leave home when I graduated high school at seventeen, and luckily I did just that. In the stress of college applications, Regis University found me and stole me from the East, and the state of Colorado became another one of my homes. My other family lives there; my most considerate and loving friends, the mountains, the sunny weather, and my passion for learning. I effortlessly consider Regis, Denver, and Colorado home. The comfort it has is different than my home in Maryland, because in Colorado, in all of it’s vastness, is where I feel the most myself.

The concept of home keeps changing as I keep migrating. I attach the comfort of home to places, people, even songs, cars, highways, tastes and smells and sounds.

So I find myself always missing something. I have too many homes. And now I have another one. Ireland did not become my home immediately or easily. There were times where I honestly detested the country, and wanted nothing more than to leave it and never come back.I struggled to call Ireland, specifically Maynooth, home. It didn’t give me the same feelings of home that I get in D.C. or in Colorado. It wasn’t until I found a family, that Ireland really became a place worthy of calling home.

I have made powerfully wonderful friends in Ireland. These are people who have seen me through the anxiety of travel, my quietest days, who lived through those challenges beside me, and similarly reaped the rewards of explorations. Over the course of four months I travelled to ten countries, always accompanied by at least one of my mates. We made mistakes every day. We missed busses and sprinted through airports, We ate incredible local cuisine, hiked through national parks, and even camped in the county that I happen to share a name with. These experiences, and more than that these people, proved to me that you can find a home, even as you become more and more nomadic.

I don’t care how cliche it is. It’s people that really make a place a home. People who you  can show a part of yourself to without holding anything back. When I found those people, Ireland became home too.

hardstyle for our last RyanAir flight

me and madeline in paris

smiling with our eyes closed totally 100% on purpose

me and remi avoiding pigeons in venice

lads in kerry

family bonding hardstyle

The Tradition of Tea

The first cup of tea I had in Ireland was ordered for me by my professor, and more than that my friend, Dr. Fretz. I had gotten off the plane from D.C. just that morning, and I was noticeably anguished from jetlag. We were having our first meeting together as a class at The Roost, a corner pub in our small town of Maynooth. It was my first afternoon in Ireland- I was cold, physically and mentally exhausted; a long-haired girl who wanted nothing more than to go to sleep for the night, though it was only 4 p.m. The tea came in a steaming porcelain mug, with a biscuit, sugar, and milk alongside.

Since that initial tea, which woke me up just enough to get my bearings on that first afternoon, I’ve had at least two cups everyday that I’ve lived in Ireland. As an avid coffee drinker since high school, my quick transition to a fondness and preference for tea was a bit surprising. On my first trip to the grocery store here, I bought a 40-pack of Lyons tea. Irish friends have told me that you either prefer Barry’s or Lyons- and well, because Lyons was on sale that day at Dunnes, I complied as a Lyons girl (fitting, as I’m also a Leo)

And that 40-pack barely lasted me a month.

It’s the simplicity of a cup of tea that really charms me; when you order a tea in a cafe the Irish servers don’t ask you,“What type?” or bring out a dreadful box of tea options. I don’t want your earl gray, jasmine-infused, matcha, ginger, peppermint bullshit! Here, tea is tea. Black and Irish. It has just enough caffeine that a couple of warm cups can wake you up in the morning, but you can still have one to relax before bed. It’s meant to be sipped throughout the day- according to the stats on the Lyons box, the average Irishman drinks 5 cups per day.

When you walk into an Irish home, you are usually offered tea within greeting. Tea is truly ingrained into the Irish culture: it is welcoming, homey, and there is never a bad time for it.

When my mom came to Dublin a few months back, we tried a traditional afternoon tea at the famous and picturesque Shelbourne Hotel. My mom and I- in our family that is dominated by men 4-2 – bond over the femininity of activities like this, and I’ve always loved being her only daughter for this reason. Though we dressed as nicely as we could and I even brushed my hair, the customary daintiness of the afternoon tea made my mother and I both feel a bit out of place.

So even though I looked the part, I couldn’t help but break character. When the three tier tray of goods arrived to our table, which was already crammed with patterned gold and white china plates, tea cups, and freshly polished silverware, my mom and I couldn’t help but laugh; “Where do we even start?!”

We looked around us, at the showier families and couples, who looked as if they had been partaking in afternoon tea for years. I felt the server’s eyes on our table as I tried to suppress my giggling. We decided to take on the overwhelming amount of miniature foods from the bottom, working our way up. Tiny sandwiches, tiny scones, and finally tiny desserts.

The afternoon tea has been a quintessential aspect of European social culture, namely for women, since the mid 1800s. The Shelbourne Hotel, centrally located on St. Stephen’s Green, was built in 1824 and quickly became a part of the Dublin socialite lifestyle, offering afternoon teas and of course, the famous Pub inside. With it’s register of well-known Irish guests, from Michael Collins to Liam Neeson, The Shelbourne continues to reign as one of the nicest hotels in the country. On the inside, you can see it is truly a monument of Ireland; the exterior isn’t flashy or architecturally extravagant by any means, but upon entering you are transported to high class, renaissance-style Ireland. The interior decoration isn’t the only aspect of The Shelbourne with age, the hotel workers and guests appear dignified and act like it.

As we finished with our tea, the hostess promptly came from the coatroom with my jacket, and she even helped me put it on. Everything about the process of the afternoon tea made me feel much more proper than I’ve ever felt before, and definitely out-of-place.

As much as I enjoyed those tiny scones with cream and jam, and more so the special afternoon with my mother, I think I prefer to have my tea the real Irish way- hot from the kettle on a dreary, rainy day, with just sugar, please.

Mothers, Daughters, and Dublin

In honor of this past Sunday’s “Irish Mother’s Day” I thought I would take the time to recount how I decided to show my mom around this little city, in the course of her three day, too-short visit. I wanted to be able to show my mom around as if I was a real local, and have her experience some key bits and pieces of Irish culture. Despite her jet-lagged state, she was down for the ride. The goal, ultimately, was for my mom to see and experience elements of Irish culture, and specifically Dublin’s. This and the next few posts will describe what we did on our weekend together, both the facets of Dublin life that have stood out to me, and some experiences new to the both of us. It is a rare experience for me to be alone with my mom for a weekend, nonetheless in another country. Ergo, this is my self made itinerary for a three day, Mother-Daughter, Irish cultural immersion retreat.

I couldn’t start out with a pub, you know? If I was gearing up for a night of drinking for free thanks to my mom’s newly exchanged currency, I had to start out with something a bit more sophisticated, just a dose of culture. Thus, we walked around the landscape of Trinity College for a bit, just us two Catholic women. (Women weren’t able to attend the college until 1904, and Catholics banned until the 1970s!) Eventually, we found ourselves in the old Trinity Library to see the Book of Kells, a transcription of the four canonical gospels, estimated creation circa 800.  Both The Book of Kells, and it’s home, the Trinity Library, are fascinating symbols of Celtic art and the Irish-Catholic heritage.

white people looking at a book

We stood amongst a tight crowd of strangers, all maneuvering to get a look at the ancient manuscript. Under protective glass, The Book was turned to the Gospel of Matthew, 13:13-22. The parable of the sower. When I had a spiritual realization back in high school, I only read The New Testament, which is coolly nicknamed The Good News, particularly for the parables that make up the Gospels. So I was instantly fond of the Book of Kells, not just for it’s somewhat symbolic presence to me, but also the incorporation of the artwork, which has a biblical, animalistic, classically Celtic feel to it. In Lisa Marie Griffith’s Stones of Dublin, she quotes George Otto Simms, “Unparalleled in the other manuscripts of this Irish family are the writhing, chasing, struggling, frolicking creatures, now hiding, now scampering between the lines.” (Griffith, 77) I love that these words of the Gospels, which have become so vital in the lives of so many, are surrounded by doodles. Among the recognizable biblical illustrations of snakes and sleeping lambs are tigers barring their teeth and also fucking peacocks! How did these monks even know about peacocks? Obviously not by word of mouth.

The manuscript itself is absolutely gorgeous. The idea that someone could make their hand so steady, the letters unwaveringly perfect. And the typography so expressively Irish. I can imagine how spiritual that must have felt to the craftsman monk, to bring out his own visionary through the divinity of the Gospel’s words. My mom paralleled my wonder, pointing out the pure lack of error. We both scanned the page as an attempt to locate a mistake or just some evidence of it’s human penmanship, and we both failed.

After our brief moments with The Book, we entered the old Trinity Library, again packed with tourists. I was a bit disappointed when it didn’t have that old library smell, but other than that it was okay. Nothing like a hallway of bookshelves stacked to the ceiling that you aren’t even allowed to touch! It cracked me up when I learned that because of a copyright act passed by the then-combined British and Irish parliaments, the quaint and little Trinity Library was suddenly required to hold “…a copy of every book, pamphlet, and periodical printed legally in Britain and Ireland.” (Griffith, 84) Which the library had no space for. They were absolutely drowning in books, with 1,500-2,000 books coming in annually. What do you do when you got too many books and not enough space?

You burn them!

Just kidding, you renovate. Irish Architect Sir Thomas Deane, hailing from Cork, expertly made the changes to the Long Room of the library. He not only utilized the space with sliding shelves to hold more books but he also fixed the roof, as it was on the brink of collapse. Eventually, the “Ivy League of Ireland” got enough alumni donations to build a new library that actually functions as a library.

The Long Room

The renovations to the Long Room was the last architectural production of Sir Thomas Deane’s career, and “It has been described as ‘a daring transformation that has undoubtedly enhanced the grandeur of what is still one of the largest single-chamber libraries in the world’. (Griffith, 86) The Long Room is pretty sweet, as far as hallways go. It’s certainly photogenic. It’s like a mini-museum, there are marble busts of important white men, letters and other minute pieces of historical significance. Mom and I stuck around for as long as we could before we were both ready for a Guinness. Not a bad venture into Irish culture, made all the better by being alongside my mum.

in Quay’s pub

messy sentences about Belfast

In reflection on my short time in Belfast, I gather that as a tourist you could so easily arrive in Northern Ireland, maybe stomp around Giant’s Causeway or visit the Titanic Museum, and even stop in a few pubs, without fathom of the tension that has yet to cease in this era of Irish politics. As a tourist, you might be confused about why some people choose to fly the Union Jack, and others the Tri-Color. You could pass by murals of the past and buildings in the City Center without a second thought. This is not wholly the tourist at fault- Belfast has a certain tautness to it’s history, rich with tragedy, poverty, and violence. It’s easy to understand the overwhelming quietness about it, as well as the lack of commemoration or public tribute in the city.

I even hesitate to label it a ‘history.’ You don’t have to trace back far at all to see it, and it’s ongoing, too. There is a consistent tension existing, the calamity of Belfast’s past is not at all far-removed. The stories we heard throughout the weekend were mainly personal. It wasn’t out of a textbook chapter or analysis of literature that we come to make sense of this history. We didn’t read it off of plaques or see extravagant memorials, because there wasn’t any. Our guide told stories of friends, neighbors, and relatives. Real people in his life that were effected by the conflict of Northern Ireland.

There are so many layers to Ireland’s struggle for peace. It’s bigger than North v. South, or Protestant v. Catholic, or Brother v. Brother. It is familial, political, vast and tragic in all of it’s natures.

Politics and Pubs

From the outside looking in- a position I often find myself in as a foreigner- it’s easy to look at the statistical make up of Ireland when it comes to the creation of an assumption. Let’s see; I look around and see mostly white faces, and factually, this is a white country. A white, predominately  Catholic country, in specificity. These statistical traits of Ireland may have been mistakenly created into assumptions by me, which is what promptly evoked both my surprise and curiosity of the overwhelming negative view of the state of American politics because of the new POTUS.

Yes, this white, Catholic country has come to a consensus that Donald Trump is a dangerous, stupid, and ridiculous person to be the President of the United States. Throughout my time in Ireland, I have not heard one positive perspective of Donald Trump or his policies. Not in the educational system, the big cities, the smaller towns, or even the international peers with whom I’ve made acquaintance.

In attempting to look at the Irish opinion of Trump from an anthropological perspective, and also in respect that politics is a sensitive, often dangerous topic to discuss over a few pints, I set myself a few boundaries before delving into any political discussion. Namely, I did not discuss Trump unless he was brought up in conversation to me. This also became one of my first curiosities to come out of this analysis. The Irish were almost always open to the discussion of Trump, and they were not afraid to bring it up, often immediately. The top two conversation starters when meeting new people are often: Where are you from? (Washington, D.C.) and, in the University, What are you Studying? (Oh, Communication and Politics). So yeah, I tend to open the door to a political discussion from the get go. Among my American peers, so it seems, they find themselves discussing politics as well within mere mention of being from the States. Regardless, the Irish seem to enjoy our reaction to the Trump presidency and they tend to initiate the political discourse that comes out of it.

When Trump is brought up, the Irish and foreign individuals I’ve met have typically waited  to hear my opinion on him (which is a negative one) before they agree with me, and go in to their personal reasons why. I have a feeling that some of the Irish want to meet a Trump supporter, not to agree with them, but to question their reasoning. It would probably make for more exciting pub conversation, given the nature of the topic. However, in the way my conversations go, I try to do most of the listening in an attempt to really understand the Irish perspective. I tried to ask at least two specific questions, as these conversations tended to be short and often drowned out by loud music and even louder pub banter.

My first question then, was a bit open-ended, simply, “What do you think of him?” Their answers were often expressed with unnerved faces and shaking heads, accompainied by the terms “Mad”or “Insane.” Some individuals found the whole situation humorous, that this was the beginning of the end of the world, or that I got out of there and came to Ireland with perfect timing. This would also initiate questions I was confronted with, namely; “How did America let this happen?” and “Who even voted for him?” Attempting to answer these questions was definitely a challenge, and even led me to explaining the ins and outs of the Electoral College, in one instance.

My second question was a bit more specific, journalistic, and perhaps a bit too boring for some: “How will this effect Ireland?” I was met with nothing of much substance in response, which tended to vary from person to person. When I asked this question to an Irish boy from a small town he shook his head, telling me that nothing would change in Ireland, too slow and too small of a country for any major legislation in America to effect it. The national Irish concerns aren’t focused much on America, but more of an anti-federalist approach to national control versus European control- at least from my newfound understanding of it. An older man, probably in his late 60s, told me that Donald Trump was a huge threat to Europe, and that it would create a domino effect and knock down Ireland with it. Another Maynooth student in the Erasmus program from France told me that she didn’t know much about American politics, albeit that when she reads or watches any media she only sees bad news coming from America, and that is stirring fear throughout Europe.

These mixed reactions to my question reiterated that what is coming from the Trump presidency is threateningly ominous, there is a distinct uncertainty towards what this man, in this position of power, is going to use that power for. On the international sphere, even on this small, white, and Catholic country, Donald Trump is definitely unfavorable. It is being brought up in discussion and deliberation. Transatlantically, individuals are becoming more and more informed, and even upset, with the qualm of the world in the hands of Donald Trump.

Howth, Ireland; Wandering & Wondering

I wasn’t supposed to go it alone this weekend. I had concrete plans; an organized bus schedule practically memorized, the air b&b reserved. However, one afternoon in Dublin turned into a long night in Dublin- spiraling into one missed opportunity, and resulting in one gained.

Ireland is an ideal country to find yourself alone in, after all. I loved that I didn’t need to follow any sort of schedule, my trip did not have any boundaries unless I wanted to set them for myself. Arriving in Howth, I allowed myself pace, slowly walking up and down the quaint roads and leisurely sipping on tea, with one novel, a collection of poetry, and my journal as my only sort of company. (I have mastered the skill of reading with gloves on.)

Howth is a charming town just on the edge of Ireland, it’s coastal cliffs outlining the Irish sea. Wide-eyed, I hiked along these edges of Howth, embracing the blues and greens that this country does not fall short of. Besides a few vocal reactions to the beauty of Howth’s nature, there was a definite silence that came with my solitude. Despite what I am making it seem like, I am not solely an introvert. I volley between my extroverted and introverted natures constantly. I like being a social person, I could even go as far to recognize communication abilities as a skill of mine. I also know that sometimes that side of me can certainly be overbearing. It’s moments of silence, like in Howth, where I can learn how to control those tendencies. Often the best way to get someone to hear you is to just listen.

As I find myself along on this ride, roaming both alone and among others, I hope that I can learn to listen, and in doing so step back, and madly value my becoming as a traveller.

“our heroine, verily drowning in self-pity at the tender age of twenty, embarks on a grand adventure that is not yet either grand or an adventure but, rather, a hastily devised plan to escape the confines of her current existence and the quotidian yet oppressive pressures contained therein.”

so ireland awaits, to become my home in just twenty days. going abroad is not a fear of mine. my fears regarding leaving are processual; small, compact, and often materialistic. it’s as if i could bundle them all up one by one and carry them in my arms; stuff them in a suitcase or under my bed, and simply deny their existence in my self-contained, obsessively loud conscious. my mind has thousands of thoughts when i imagine myself on dublin’s cobblestone streets or in a corner pub on a rainy day in galway. i’m inpatient for this experience,  all while dreading it’s multiplicities in preparations. studying abroad is poorly romanticized. when i write about it, i will do so honestly, for me and not for anyone else.

 

Examining an Intercultural Space: Capitol Hill Books

Adjacent to the Colorado State Capitol building resides a small, unique bookstore called Capitol Hill Books, on the corner of Grant and Colfax. My ethnography began outside the store, where the brick on the small corner shop was chipping and worn out. This made me curious about how long this bookstore has been around for. Outside the store, there was a bike rack with three bikes, and bins and shelves featuring books on sale for less than a dollar. Right outside the door of the bookstore, there was a bulletin board covered in posters and flyers for local poets, music, restaurants, and artists. It seemed as if anyone could hang something up there. The sign that faced Grant St. Advertised: “Capitol Hill Books, Used and Rare” Which made me wonder; what makes a book rare?

I walked into the store on April 12th at approximately 3:47 p.m. I was immediately greeted by the friendly cashier, who was at a long table covered with posters, papers, and stickers with the cash register. The front table was also selling postcards and bookmarks, and had stacks of fliers for the same type of events and artists galleries that were featured on the bulletin board outside. I thought it was interesting that this little bookshop was a place where the artistic and literary community of Denver felt comfortable to share as a space to help each other gain notice and support. I considered that this comfort has to do with the overall feeling Capitol Hill Books has to it, the type of customers they attract, and that as a small business themselves, the employees and owners of the store know how important it is to support small-business ventures, especially those involving art, music, and literature.

When I was in the store, I first sat in a wooden chair that was pushed up along one of the many bookshelves in the store. The store did not have a designated sitting area, but instead chairs were scattered in appropriate places to welcome readers to sit. The first section of the bookstore was Fiction, and it was their most extensive genre-collection available. There were signs on the bookshelves with arrows saying “More fiction this way!” Sitting here, I noticed that the worn out exterior of the store matched it’s interior, which had a vintage, old, worn out feeling- and the products its sold matched this description as well. The ceilings of Capitol Hill Books were odd, classic ceilings with chipping paint and discolored areas, with exposed pipes lining the edge. The carpet was well-walked on and dirty. Something interesting I noticed was that every book shelf was a little different, with various sizes, amounts of shelves, and heights. This is a difference from more popular, new bookstores as they are usually very uniform when it comes to shelving and placement.

After sitting in the large fiction section of the store, I walked around to see what other genres of literature this store offered. The section of Fiction ended with three shelves on poetry, and led into a section for Travel, Metaphysics, Religion, Humor, and the Children’s section. The next section of the store had History, Politics, and Philosophy sections. Besides the used books that were featured on the shelves, the walls and the sides of the bookshelves had plenty of funny, interesting posters and quotes, stickers, and post it notes. I couldn’t quite tell if these were purposely placed for the entertainment of their customers, or just to add to the aesthetic that seemed to be important towards the overall feeling the store emits.

I decided to sit on a stool next to the Travel section, which also gave me the view outside the window of the individuals passing by the store and those who decided to go in. Within the estimated hour and a half I spent in this store, I only saw white individuals walk into the store. The store workers during this time were also only of white ethnicity. However, sitting by the window, I noticed many individuals from various, diverse ethnicities pass by the store without going in. The customers that did walk into the store were a mix of ages and genders, and some made conversation with the cashier at the front, asking for help finding titles or asking for recommendations, which the cashier gladly gave. However others seemed to want to explore the store in privacy. Most people stayed in the store for extended periods of time, hinting that the store is a space for relaxation and entertainment for their customers.

 

Islamophobia; an Intercultural Disparity in Headline News

Islamophobia has been a widely discussed topic in headline news for sometime now, and the conversation has sparked up again recently as a Muslim student from University of California, Berkeley, was removed from a Southwest Airlines flight for being a “perceived threat” on board the aircraft. (Yanan Wang, Washington Post)

According to an essay on Islamophobia by Gallup.com, the term is defined as “An exaggerated fear, hatred, and hostility toward Islam and Muslims that is perpetuated by negative stereotypes resulting in bias, discrimination, and the marginalization and exclusion of Muslims from social, political, and civic life.”

Being a Muslim in America can create some of the most difficult, irrational intercultural interactions due to the bias against Islam influenced by the effects of terrorism, which are only created by a small minority of Muslim groups. This intercultural interaction between Berkeley Student Khairuldeen Makhzoomi and the American Southwest Airlines flight attendant, who went unnamed by journalists, highlights the intercultural disparity caused by the steady increase of Islamophobia in our country.

In the Cross-Cultural perspective of Identity, we learned that Western cultures often have an individualistic tendency in their view of the identities of others, with a strong sense to “know who they are… to be independent and self-reliant, which reflects an emphasis on the cultural value of individualism.” (Nakayama and Martin, 163) This plays into the creation of a stereotypical bias, influenced by politics and media and lack of collectivist thought when it comes to identity, hence the Islamophobic intercultural interaction between Makhzoomi and the Airline Attendant.

The Muslim culture has strong traditional ideology and values in both their Faith in Allah and their Arabic language, which is the language of their Religion, ancestors, and home countries. As he was boarding his flight, Makhzoomi was speaking in Arabic to one of his family members on his cell phone, and used the phrase “Inshallah” which translates to English as “Godwilling.” This was the phrase that became reason for this California student to be escorted off the aircraft, claiming him as a “potential threat.”

To be treated in this manner is an example of a Muslim being interpellated in an exposition of Islamophobia- just for speaking in his cultures’ native tongue and voicing his religious beliefs. Islamophobia is an intercultural disparity that we often see making news headlines. As a student of these intercultural interactions, it is important to take in to account that the process of observing these interactions include ridding myself of all previous assumptions and biases in regards to others’ perceived identities. I wish that all people could see cross-cultural interactions through this lens, before adding to the injustices faced by Muslims in America.

 

http://www.gallup.com/poll/157082/islamophobia-understanding-anti-muslim-sentiment-west.aspx

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2016/04/18/uc-berkeley-student-removed-from-southwest-flight-after-speaking-arabic-on-plane/

Reggae Culture vs. Reggae Pop Culture

Having the opportunity to study Reggae culture opened my eyes to not only the unique history of the traditionally Jamaican music genre, but it also helped me discover both the successes and flaws of American Reggae, and how the genre has been effected by the consumption of popular culture. Traditional reggae, which began in the 1960s, was made popular by influential musicians such as Bob Marley- who would use upbeat vibrations and  musical riffs to not only raise his oppressed Jamaican people up, but also to take a stance on controversial issues that involved racism; as the civil rights movement was just taking off in America during this time. 

As Jamaicans migrated to the New York Boroughs in the later part of the 1970s, we saw reggae music clash very nicely with the developments of East Coast hip hop and rap music during this time- as both cultures could seek out a very similar value set within their music. This was the beginning of American Reggae, and it was largely unaffected by popular culture consumption at the time because where it grew in meaning, it lacked popularity. These Reggae/Hip Hop mash ups still spoke on injustices felt by both racially oppressed cultures.

Now, in contemporary pop culture, we see American “Reggae” groups hailing from California, Colorado, and Florida; all claiming their respect to traditional reggae genre. However, as we discussed in class, these new reggae artists are the same positive lyrical and musical influence as the more traditional reggae voices- but they lack creating an influential, powerful stance on important socio-political issues. As reggae has developed in popularity, it lost one of it’s main purposes due to the industrial consumption trends that occur with pop culture growth. Although we may here artists claim that “Reggae is for everyone,” Reggae has been distinctly influenced by pop culture, creating more of a spectrum of reggae. Where traditional reggae is defined by positive beats, uplifting music, and being a voice of an oppressed community, pop-culture as influenced reggae and the contemporary side of the spectrum has some similarities to the roots of tradition, but lacks what importantly defined the genre when it was organic to its own, unaffected culture.