As if being an American student at The University of Oxford didn’t make me stand out like a red, white and blue sore thumb as it was, I was terrified when my beloved but unabashedly unassimilated roommate, Rebecca, suggested we attend “Burns Night,” a Scottish independence celebration, at the Oxford Union Society.
There is a way to dress, to think, to talk in every situation at Oxford. Heaven help you if you should fail to guess correctly what ancient and noble tradition you’ve ruined or which social gaffe you’ve committed simply because you were far too stupid to realize that academic robes – which must be worn at Sunday dinners – visiting students can only get after 7 p.m., but before 7:15 p.m., when dinner begins.
We were seated at tables of unrobed Americans – definitely the loser tables – tucked away in the corner of the hall many a time. Well, Burns Night at first seemed like another tradition waiting to be ruined. However, after Rebecca begged me for a solid hour to come with her and, I made her swear to never again mention Harry Potter within earshot of any English person — I agreed to go.
The invitation helpfully listed the dress code as “a touch of tartan.” Of course, we were baffled. Determined to at least dress appropriately, we went to the Union’s front desk to discern whether we needed formal wear, kilts, bagpipes or perhaps even an entire other set of Oxford robes we’d never heard of.
We were met with no fewer than five scornful looks and an explanation of what “plaid” was. They really did think we were idiots. In the end, we just wore jeans and prayed that the free whiskey would hold out long enough for the Scots not to care what we wore. This turned out to be one worry we were silly to have: Alcohol at any British party running out? Not a chance.
It’s safe to say that everyone in the room was about half a bottle jollier than usual by the time we showed up. Three men bounded over to us as soon as we walked in and lead us to the open bar. Soon, Rebecca was discussing the pattern on her shoes with a decidedly un-sober Sean Connery look-alike. I was demonstrating my knowledge of Premier League football (largely garnered from a passing street discussion between two Chelsea supporters earlier) to a small but appreciative group of English students. Things were going grand.
And then they brought out the haggis. Close your eyes and picture the most disgusting thing you could think of that might come out of your toilet pipes. You’ve just pictured haggis.
A red-faced and kilted young man gathered the crowd, took a meat cleaver in his hand and began a wild Ode to Scotland. He forgot it halfway through and had to read the rest off a sheet in his pocket, but he chopped that swollen intestine to smithereens as soon as he’d finished. Our tiny hopes that it was a purely ornamental haggis withered.
We couldn’t afford to ruin one more social encounter so off to the table we went, armed with refilled glasses of whiskey to sample the sheep’s guts that were being cheerfully served to the crowd. In the awful moment between fork and mouth, I was worried, but in truth, it wasn’t bad. It certainly wasn’t good enough for me to take another bite, but I survived and was smiled upon by nearby tartan-wearers.
Maybe they were just drunk. I don’t know for sure, but there was a Scottish Reel after that and it was a blast. Rebecca, Sean Connery, our be-kilted companions and I ended the night fantastically, and I learned an important lesson about multiculturalism. Despite everyone’s initial differences, there is one truly beautiful and unifying aspect of nearly every culture: drinking. Cheers to that.
Emily Foley is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences.