An Article on Culture Shock from the FOFA Newsletter

I have been meaning to post this for some time now, but am just now remembering to do it while I have an Internet connection! I wrote this article for the Focus on Fall Abroad Newsletter distributed to GW students studying abroad during the fall semester. I don't know what told me to write something, other than the Office for Study Abroad's repeated e-mails asking for stories and photos. I'm not usually one to publicly admit that I am wrong, but maybe I've changed. Maybe it was because I thought I could help somebody else. Whatever the reason, I'm glad that I put the feelings to words. I don't know if the two are related, but I have notice that I've felt more adapted after writing it than I felt before.

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Culture Shock: It Happens in Ireland Too
By: Corbb O’Connor, Junior
National University of Ireland, Galway

As I look back on my first few days in Somers Hall at GW’s Mount Vernon Campus, I remember a time of great excitement. I was in a completely new environment with very few (one, actually) familiar people and separated from my parents, but I didn’t care. I realize now that was because of the teamwork involved in GW’s Welcome Week. Those two weeks of more events than anybody could ever attend while still going to class were the reason I didn’t feel “culture shock” in Washington, DC. I think I called my parents two or three times during Welcome Week, mostly to say hello, no I don’t miss home, yes I love it here, and—by the way—I am off to another event to meet more new people.

Through all of my preparations for study abroad, I thought about culture shock once. That was during the Pre-departure Orientation. They said culture shock could happen to anybody, but I didn’t think it would be me. I had a great experience adjusting to a new life in college, so why would Ireland—an English-speaking, modern country—be any different? I wish I knew then about how I would feel for my first week in Galway, Ireland.

One week ago, I moved in to my very empty residence: the single room in three-person apartment (my two flatmates would move in four days later) situated in a development of about 80 townhouses. I didn’t come alone: I had 50-something buddies from IFSA-Butler with a support network of full-time staff in the country. But I felt, and still am feeling, culture shock.

I felt so alone in a place so foreign and so separate from everything—including the Internet—for the first time in my life. I was scared. I wanted to go home. I wanted something familiar. I couldn’t run across campus to watch TV with a friend, for I didn’t know where anybody in my program was living. I couldn’t even walk the five minutes to Dunnes—a department store with a 24-hour supermarket—across the road. (The person known for eating three dinners a night couldn’t walk 5 minutes for food.) I feared that I would get lost or hit by a car, crossing a roundabout for the first time without the help of a traffic light. Most of all, I really missed my eyes, my Guide Dog Phoenix, who—at the last minute—had to stay at home for medical reasons. More than eyes, though, he’s the equivalent of a 16-year-old’s car key: my ticket to independence. With Phoenix, I could go anywhere, at any time, in any weather, and not think about what I might bump into.

Before I left my home in the northwest suburbs of Chicago, I thought that I knew what I was getting myself into. I would live in a single room, located 20 minutes from the school, 15 minutes from the city center, 3,000 miles from Washington. I wouldn’t be bringing my Guide Dog, but I would bring my cane, a tool that I have used since the first grade. I remember my mother fearing that I would be traveling to Ireland without my eyeballs (Phoenix); I remember telling her that I would be fine with my cane. Today, I know she was right. (Yes, mom, I’m admitting it, and I am sorry.)

It’s not all doom and gloom, though. I am adjusting to using a cane all the time, even in the dark. I am adjusting to being farther from my classes and fun in the city than I was accustomed to. Slowly, I am meeting new people at a school where societies and clubs don’t start for another two weeks, contrasted to an immediate start to Welcome Week. In short, I am learning.

I am learning that most of the things I don’t notice every day are the very same things that I need: my eyes, Welcome Week, a small group of people to see every day (like at Mount Vernon), Facebook, and—most importantly—a solid group of friends and family. I forgot how hard it was to find a people for times of great sorrow and great celebration. I have a new appreciation for all of these things, and they won’t ever be the same to me. I keep learning.