The End is Nigh

The Day of Judgement is fast approaching. My Viva (thesis defence) is on Friday, 12 October. As in THIS COMING FRIDAY. I regularly flit between calm and panic about it. My examiners are both rather nice people, but I have no idea what they will be like in the viva! And they both have towering reputations not only within my specific field, but within the broader historical profession as well.For this reason, my code names for them (that they know nothing about) are The Living Legend and The Rock Star.

I'm going to a conference at the end of the month. It's a huge conference (over 200 sessions of 2-3 papers each), with over 600 scholars attending from all over the world and from multiple disciplines. Practically every single person at the conference will know who my examiners are. They're that big... 

This makes the prospect of my viva more than slightly terrifying... but it also means that if I pass, my credentials will be ironclad. My supervisor (who is not prone to giving praise) said some very lovely things about my thesis the other day. More importantly he told me that I could go into my viva confident that I have written a good thesis. He could not, however, give me any more counsel regarding the viva itself. Every viva is different. The ideal situation would be for the examiners to tell me that the thesis passed within the first five minutes and then we spend the next hour or two having a nice conversation about my research (the viva has to last a minimum of an hour, although most are around 2 hours). But they may make me squirm and really, really work for it...not passing a verdict until the very end. I'm praying (but trying not to expect) that they tell me in the first five minutes. But until I get that verdict, I'm in a holding pattern.

So prayers and good thoughts for 12 October (at 2pm GMT/9am EST) would be greatly and gratefully appreciated...

The Dragon Vanquished

I recognise that this blog update is long overdue, but I've been a bit busy. I have spent the last three months locked in mortal combat with my PhD thesis (also known as The Six-headed Thesis Dragon of Academic Dread). I am pleased to report (although exhausted and a bit bruised) that the Dragon has at last been slain.

I handed the carcass over to the University authorities on 20 August -- which also happened to be the 500th Anniversary of the founding of St Leonard's, my college within the University of St Andrews -- and haven't been able to look at (let alone type on) a computer since. Not even to answer emails. (I'm still struggling, which is why this update will be uncharacteristically short!)

But before anyone gets too excited, the Quest is far from over. 

The Thesis has now been handed to my internal and external examiners (each an eminent scholar in my field: one from St Andrews and the other from another prestigious British university). They will read it and pick it to bits. Currently, I am waiting for them to schedule my Viva (thesis defence), where the examiners will spend anywhere between 45 minutes and 3 hours grilling me about my research. Then they determine my fate: pass or fail.

After my Viva, I will have to make corrections. This could take anywhere from a few days to a few months to accomplish. Only after my corrections have been approved and the thesis re-submitted will I be permitted to graduate.

But for now, I'm taking a well-earned break -- hanging out with my friend Claire in London this week and Edinburgh next week. Then, after a week with my Scottish family in Glasgow (the Plenderleiths), I'll head back to St Andrews to prepare for the Final Showdown with The Thesis Dragon.

The Soaking Season

May is a rather wet month in St Andrews.  Although this May (with the marked exception of last week) has been particularly rainy and miserable, this designation has nothing to do with the weather.  Instead, it has everything to do with quirky University traditions.  

The cobblestones outside of St Salvator's Chapel are inset with the letters 'PH' in honour of Patrick Hamilton, a young university lecturer who was executed there in 1528.  Hamilton was condemned by the University and the Archbishop for teaching Protestant doctrine.  University lore claims that Hamilton cursed the spot on which he was burned at the stake, declaring that any student who set foot on it would fail their degree.  Although I've never come across any historical evidence of such a curse (and Hamilton factors quite heavily into my research), University students avoid the spot like the plague.  This actually requires some doing, as the letters are smack in the middle of the sidewalk, right outside of the Quad gates.  I've seen groups of chatting students unconsciously part down the middle in order to avoid them.  I've also seen distracted students notice them at the very last minute, stop short and leap (or fall over) to avoid touching them.  Following graduation ceremonies, the 'PH' is often doused with whisky or champagne by thankful graduates.  If you do manage to accidentally step on the 'PH', there is only one way to alleviate the curse:

You must jump in the North Sea at dawn on May 1st. And you must go all the way under.

The May Dip is also the only way to atone for the 'sin' of 'Academic Incest'.  In their first weeks at uni, first-year undergraduates are invited to join an 'Academic Family': they are 'adopted' by third or fourth-year undergraduates (usually a 'mother' and a 'father') who introduce them to the academic and social culture of the University.  It's a rather elaborate tradition, and you usually end up with a very extensive 'family' including brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, nieces, nephews, etc.  My officemate, who has done all three of her degrees here at St Andrews, often refers to her 'husband' and 'children'.  The 'sin' of 'Academic Incest' involves having a romantic relationship with another member of your academic family (although, I think academic 'husbands' and 'wives' are exempt from this).  If you do manage to become romantically involved with a member of your academic family, there is only one means of penance:

You must jump in the North Sea at dawn on May 1st. And you must go all the way under.  

Whilst I have far too much respect for young Master Hamilton to step on his cobblestones, and I have no academic family, and therefore, no one with whom to commit 'Academic Incest'... I jumped into the North Sea at dawn on May 1st. And I went all the way under.  East Sands beach was teeming with undergrads, many of whom had spent the evening and wee hours of the morning sitting around beach bonfires fortifying themselves with 'liquid courage' in preparation for the frigid dip.  The North Sea is always cold, so it is recommended that you charge into the water as fast as you can. And that you get out as quickly as possible. Wetsuits are considered cheating. And while most sensible people (like my friends and myself) opt for bathing suits, there are those impetuous few who choose to leave their inhibitions, and their clothes, behind.  Fortunately, most people are too preoccupied with not getting hypothermia to pay any attention! Police and paramedics are on hand, just to make sure things don't get too out of hand.

I was persuaded to join in this St Andrean Rite of Spring by my friend Katherine.  Now, anyone who knows me knows I am not exactly a 'morning person', so the prospect of getting up at 4:30 to jump into the icy North Sea wasn't exactly high on my 'To Do List'.  But as Katherine pointed out, this is our last year as St Andrews students, and ten years from now, when we look back we will regret not taking part in such an essentially St Andrean tradition.  She proposed only wetting our feet, and I agreed.  Later, after giving the matter further thought (and considerable prodding from my friend Claire), I resolved that this was a 'go big or go home' situation, and prepared myself to go all the way under. Needless to say, I had a rather fitful night's sleep on 30 April, thinking about my alarm going off at o-dark-thirty and the subsequent polar plunge.  Then, at dawn--armed with a warm change of clothes, a hot water bottle, fresh towels, a warm blanket, a flask of hot tea and the moral support of my flatmate, Birgit (who I cajoled into coming along as a spectator, with the promise that witnessing my momentary lapse of reason would be well worth it)--I headed towards the sea.

Katherine had no idea I was actually going to go all in.  When I showed up wearing wellies (rubber boots), she thought I was going to cheat.  She (quite justifiably) stared at me in utter astonishment when I told her my plan (it was a cold, breezy morning).  As the three of us made our way down to the surf, Kat and I agreed that we would hold hands as we charged into the sea (believe me, you need all the encouragement you can get), and that she would let go when she was in as far as she wanted to go, while I would keep going.  So she rolled up her trousers and I stripped down to my bathing suit (remember, I'm sensible).  Leaving our things with Birgit, we held hands, took a deep breath, and went storming into the icy water.

A few strides in I let go of Katherine's hand.  When I got in about waist-deep, I turned back to the shore to get my bearings... and to find Katherine (fully clothed) right behind me! I was so gleefully shocked that I didn't even feel the bone-chilling water as she and I counted to three and went under! Then we high-tailed it out of there! We didn't linger on the beach for long, wanting to get home (to hot showers and pots of tea) before the adrenaline wore off and we were met with the full force of the cold!

So May begins with water, but it also ends with water.  

At the end of the month, when fourth-year undergraduates are taking their very last ever university exams, their friends assemble outside of the exam building--with large buckets of water. After the exam, when the exam-taking fourth-year emerges from the building, their friends douse them in water.  Some of the more afluent students have been known to use champagne (although the University frowns on this).  One of the exam halls is across the street from my office, and you can hear the shrieking and laughter during exam weeks.  Those finishing their exams last week had it easy, since it was warm and sunny. But their fellow fourth-years who finished the previous week were doused with icy water in November-esque conditions, courtesy of the typically unforgiving Scottish weather.  Those finishing exams in January have it the worst. But the University has decided, starting next year, to move the winter exams to before Christmas as opposed to the traditional post-New Year exam period they've had for who knows how long.  At least it might be one or two degrees warmer in December than January, right?  Small consolation for finishing fourth-years who will end up soaked and frozen no matter what!

I manage to bypass the post-exam soaking, since, as a PhD student, I don't have exams.  But my final assessment is far more terrifying: The Viva. Currently, I have a complete draft of my thesis--roughly 83,000 words (that's about 210 pages, 1.5 spaced).  I'm in the process of editing the draft, which may take a month or so to complete. Then I'll have to polish my footnotes and bibliography, write my acknowledgements and an abstract, check for typos, have it all printed and bound (3 copies) and then chase down some signatures. Once everything is in order, I can submit it to the University. They'll hand a copy to my internal examiner (a lecturer or professor in History from the University of St Andrews) and a copy to my external examiner (a lecturer or professor from another British University). Both will be experts in some aspect of my research, and will have up to three months to read my thesis and tear it to shreds. Then, they will set up a date and time to meet with me to discuss it.  This is the Viva (in the States it is called a 'defence').  Basically, it will be me and the two of them, in an office for anywhere from 45 minutes to 4 hours. They will challenge and pick apart my research, and I will have to defend it.  PhDs are won or lost in the Viva. That's why it is called a 'viva', which roughly means 'life' in Latin.  If I pass the Viva, the examiners will give me a list of corrections to make.  These could take anywhere between a few days, a few weeks, a few months or a year to do.  Once the corrections are made, and the internal examiner and my supervisor have signed off on them, I can submit my final thesis to the University, and then start planning for Graduation (God willing, on 30 November this year).

Postgraduates like to think that they are considerably more civil and mature than their undergraduate counterparts, so there are no hoards waiting to drench you with water when you emerge from the Viva.  Most examiners really make you work for those three little letters after your name, so those coming out of the Viva are usually in need of a strong drink--even those who don't normally imbibe! So we celebrate with a bottle (or two) of champagne... like the sophisticated people we like to think we are. There is some debate regarding when one can start using the title 'Doctor'.  Some people say you can use it as soon as you pass the Viva. Others say it is after you submit your final corrected thesis.  Then there are those who say it can only be used after you've had the degree officially conferred on you at a graduation ceremony.  God willing, all three will be taken care of by 30 November.

And then it will be my turn to pour some champagne on the 'PH'.

He Is Risen

On the Resurrection of Christ by William Dunbar (1460-1513)

Done is the battle against the dragon black.

Our champion, Christ, has confounded his force;

The gates of hell are broken with a crack,

The sign of triumph raised is of the cross,

The devil trembles with hiddeous voice,

The souls are redeemed and to heaven can go,

Christ, with His blood, our ransome does induce:

The Lord is risen from the grave.

Overcome is the deadly dragon Lucifer,

The cruel serpent with the deadly sting;

The old violent tiger with his teeth ajar,

Which lay in wait for us for so long,

Thinking to grip us in his claws strong;

The merciful Lord would not that it were so,

He made him of that fang [devil] to fail:

The Lord is risen from the grave.

He for our sake suffered to be slain,

And like a lamb in sacrifice was made ready,

Is like a lion, raised up again,

And as a giant, raises Him on high;

Arising as the dawn radiant and bright,

Aloft has gone the glorious Sun,

The blissfull day is seperated from the night:

The Lord is risen from the grave.

The great Victor again is risen on high,

That for our sins to the death was wounded;

The Son that was all pale now shines bright,

And darkness cleared, our faith is now restored;

The knell of mercy from heaven is sounded,

The Christians [those who believe] are delivered of their woe.

The Jews [those who doubt] and their errors are confounded:

The Lord is risen from the grave.

The foe is chased, the battles cease,

The prison broken, the jailers are banished;

The war is gone, confirmed is the peace,

The fetters loosened and the dungeon emptied,

The ransom made, the prisoners redemeed;

The field [of battle] is won, overcome is the foe,

Despoiled of the treasure that he guarded:

The Lord has risen from the grave.

He is Risen, indeed!

_________________

For those of you who might be interested, here it is in the original Scots:

Done is a battell on the dragon blak,

Our campioun Chryst confountet hes his force;

The yettis of hell ar brokin with a crak,

The signe triumphall rasit is of the croce,

The divillis trymmillis with hiddous voce,

The saulis ar borrowit and to the blis can go,

Chryst with his blud our ransonis dois indoce:

Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

Dungin is the deidly dragon Lucifer,

The crewall serpent with the mortall stang;

The auld kene tegir with his teith on char,

Quhilk in a wait hes lyne for us so lang,

Thinking to grip us in his clows strang;

The mercifull Lord wald nocht that it wer so,

He maid him for to felye of that fang:

Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

He for our saik that sufferit to be slane,

And lyk a lamb in sacrifice wes dicht,

Is lyk a lyone rissin up agane,

And as gyane raxit him on hicht;

Sprungin is Aurora radius and bricht,

On loft is gone the glorius Appollo,

The blisfull day depairtit fro the nycht:

Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

 

The grit victour agane is rissin on hicht,

That for our querrell to the deth wes woundit;

The sone that wox all paill now schynis bricht,

And dirknes clerit, our fayth is now refoundit;

The knell of mercy fra the hevin is soundit,

The Cristin ar deliverit of thair wo,

The Jowis and thair errour ar confoundit:

Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

 

The fo is chasit, the battell is done ceis,

The presone brokin, the jevellouris fleit and flemit;

The weir is gon, confermit is the peis,

The fetteris lowsit and the dungeoun temit,

The ransoun maid, the presoneris redemit;

The field is win, ourcumin is the fo,

Dispulit of the tresur that he yemit:

Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

For the Love of thee

For Good Friday, an excerpt from the late-medieval Scots poem 'The Passioun of Crist' attributed to William Dunbar (1460-1513)

Betuix two thevis ye spreit he gaife

Vnto his fathir moist of mycht

The erd dud trymbill, ye stanis claife,

The sone obscurit fra his licht.

The day wox dirk as ony nycht,

Dede bodyus rais in ye ciete;

Goddis deir sone all thus wes dycht,

O mankind, for the lufe of the.

In weir yat he wes yit on life,

Thai ran ane rude speir in his syde,

And did his precius body rife

Quhill blud and watter did furth glid.

Thus Iesu with his woundis wid

Ane marter sufferit for to de,

An tholit tobe crucifyid,

O mankind, for ye lufe of ye.

_________________________________

Translation:

Between two thieves the Spirit He gave

Unto His Father most of might.

The earth did tremble, the stones clash,

The sun obscured from his light.

The day waxed dark as any night,

Dead bodies rose in the city;

God's dear Son all thus was dead,

O mankind, for the love of thee.

And when that He was yet alive,

They ran a rude spear into His side,

And did his precious body tear

While blood and water did forth glide.

Thus Jesus with His wounds wide,

An innocent suffered for to die,

And submitted to be crucified,

O mankind, for the love of thee.

Christ Crucified Between Two Theives, by Duccio (c.1225-c.1319)

Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones

This past Friday began rather inauspiciously.  I had had a rather disappointing meeting with my supervisor the afternoon before, and while the sun was shining (quite a treat for Scotland in March), my spirits were quite low...

...until around noon, when my officemate Bess burst into the office with some rather interesting news.  For the past few weeks they have been doing some roadworks on Greyfriars Gardens (a street in the centre of town).  

On Friday morning they found a skeleton.

I think our responses to the discovery clearly mark the two of us as historians.  When Bess (whose PhD thesis is on property in late-Medieval and Reformation St Andrews) announced that they had 'found someone', she was giddy with happy excitement. And I, far from expecting recent foul-play, immediately asked (in a rather gleeful tone) if that 'someone' had once belonged to the medieval Franciscan Friary that occupied the site until the 1560s! (Indeed, 'someone' had--but more on that later.)  My housemate, on the other hand (studying International Relations), was rather less excited and considerably more creeped (and grossed) out.  Her response probably has something to do with the fact that I told her over lunch.  Aided by the fact that she is relatively normal...

Bess had come upon the site shortly after the discovery and was full of information.  When the bones were uncovered the crew, taking advantage of their location, asked one of the university's  archaeologist/historians to take a look. Bess happened to be there whilst the professor and another academic were standing over the remains, making their assessment.  They concluded that the bones belonged to a pre-Reformation era teenager, and that the young man had most likely been a novice (a monk in training) in the monastery when he died from a common medieval illness. He was buried in the friary cemetery, lying with his head to the west and his feet pointing east (awaiting the return of Christ and the Resurrection of the Dead.)  


Ah, the joys of living in a 1,300 year-old town. It is not uncommon for British construction crews to come across 'former residents'. Many British communities, like St Andrews, have been around for centuries, if not millennia. Land has always been a precious commodity in the British Isles. Over time, as communities grew in size, building over old cemeteries became common.  In most cases, the dearly departed were exhumed during the building process and removed to another location. 

For centuries St Andrews had been the religious capital of Scotland, as well as a major pilgrimage site for European Christians--the Cathedral claimed to possess the bones of St Andrew, one of the twelve disciples of Jesus.  Many religious orders had churches, monasteries and houses in town. By the sixteenth century, the Franciscans (also known as the Grey Friars, for the grey robes they wore) had one of the largest campuses in town (the walled-in area marked 'Franciscanorum ades' on the map detail below).  The young novice would have been a part of this community within the larger community of St Andrews.

Shortly after 1560, when the Scottish Parliament declared Scotland to be a Protestant kingdom, the Franciscans abandoned their friary in St Andrews and the property was turned over to the town. By the early nineteenth century all the buildings had been removed and the land used as a public park, nostalgically known as Greyfriars Gardens. So when the nineteenth-century city planners decided to put a road through the property, they knew that it would go through a medieval Franciscan cemetery. Most of the former 'residents' of the property were reburied elsewhere.

But it would appear as though they missed one.  

Strange as it may sound, the discovery of this young man's mortal remains greatly brightened my mood.  While he pre-dates my period of research, he reminded me that the men and women I do study were real people, more than just words on paper. They were people who lived and breathed...and died. They had families and friends. Joys and fears. They worked and played. They loved and were loved. They felt pain and gave pain to others.  They had faith and they had doubts. 

I know this is an overly romanticised view, but perhaps it is my responsibility, as a historian, to share their stories. To remember them. And to remind the present and perhaps even the future that, just like this young novice, we are all pilgrims just passing through...

    (St Andrews by J. Geddy, c.1580)

The New Kid in Town

Now, before any of you start freaking out and wondering if there was something important that you missed... this adorable, wonderful, handsome wee bairn is my NEPHEW, Noah Joseph Tapscott.

At 7:56 am (EST) on January 19th the world became a better place, when, in White Marsh, MD, my amazing sister-in-law Jesse and my incredible brother Matt welcomed the latest addition to the family.

And at 1:05 pm (GMT--five hours ahead of EST) Auntie Beth, sitting at her office desk in St Andrews, Scotland, got a text message from the proud papa, announcing the arrival.  Just one letter: 'N'.  And then she started blubbering like a baby. And Auntie Beth is NOT a crier. 

99% of those tears were happy tears.  I was just so overcome by joy and excitement. And love. For Matt and Jesse. For my parents. For my younger sister, Megan. For our family (those by birth and those by choice). But most of all, for wee Noah, himself.  In less than the time it took to type this sentence, I fell head-over-heels in love with a boy I have never met.   

And that is where the other 1% of tears come in: Tears of self-pity. Because an entire ocean stood between me and holding my sweet, wee nephew and whispering in his little ear that I love him. Because 3547 miles kept me from hugging my brother, and telling him in person that I love him, and that I am so ridiculously proud of the man he has become and the dad that he is going to be.  Because I'm in a different hemisphere and I couldn't kiss my sister-in-law and tell her that I love her and that she is an amazing woman, one of best things that ever happened to our family.  

And now that Noah has finally arrived, I would be surprised if Matt and Jesse aren't feeling a bit overwhelmed... But I am an ocean, 3547 miles, and a hemisphere away and cannot do anything to help. I do not have the ability to look them both in the eyes, and assure them that they will be, and already are, amazing parents.

And it breaks my heart.

Now, don't get me wrong, I know that I am where I am supposed to be. Doing what I have been called to do. And I wouldn't change that for anything.  I knew when I was given the chance to get my PhD and to see something of the world at the same time that I would have to make certain sacrifices. Such an amazing opportunity does not come without its costs.  However, these last two and a half weeks have been the hardest by far.

But, oddly enough, they have also been the most productive. I realise that the sooner I finish this PhD--the sooner I finish writing my thesis and pass my Viva and make my final corrections and submit the final copy to the University--the sooner I get to hold my beautiful wee nephew.  Even so, that probably won't be until June at the earliest. But Noah is proving to be a more potent motivation than anything else has--even the prospect of being called 'Dr Tapscott'!  So, for the next few months, my research will be brought to you by the letters...

N   O   A   H.

(Photo by Ellen Coe)