The ostensible reason for my trip to Oxford was to take part
in the first global conference
on play, the subject of my research for the last eight years. But, as always, these conference trips to Britain
are usually a chance to explore, see a few things, and catch up with friends.
Yet, this one felt special.
I left last Monday with a pile of uncompleted manuscripts in my bag for
editing on the plane. I love the chance
for uninterrupted writing and thinking afforded flights across the ocean. The open luminal space between one world and
another, in between the time change and destination, opens new ways of seeing
things.
I read through my friendship manuscript, imagining things
about my father’s best friend from college as I wondered through customs, out
of Heathrow, into my train to Paddington, and off to Oxford. Wandering the streets of an age old city such
as this, I feel like I am navigating a space between time and Technicolor,
movies of my childhood and conferences of my adult years, where my steps follow
in the footpaths of legends, myths and movies.
Wandering through the haze of history at Oxford. Photo by James Rogers. |
My friend Rob dropped by to visit. He’s lived in the UK for several years now,
after spending the better part of two decades in Los Angeles and San Francisco. We talked about the
riots and history of Oxford when the townies rebelled against the drunk
students enjoying free tuition and full access to the pubs of the city. The
author of the
Gravedigger, Rob is one my best friends and certainly one of the only
persons from college with whom I am still in touch. After driving the van from college Rugby
games throughout Southern California, Rob played the sober observer to my
college drunken revelry, bonding, and transgressions with the other Rugby
players and fans. That summer, he
visited me Dallas, staying at my house on Nakoma Drive in Dallas, making
buddies with Essie, our housekeeper, enjoying an omelet and a
conversation. The implicit message of
the visit was that he took my life seriously and we were friends. Over the years, we’ve hung out in San
Francisco, driving North from LA listening to Arlo Guthrie and Madonna. Others meetings took place on Winter days in
Philadelphia, New York, and even to the Oxford like surroundings of the
University of the South in Sewanee, Tn, where my Dad once taught and Rob was the
recipient of the Sewanee award for first time novelists. On that trip, we sat in the cemetery where confederate soldiers lay. As usual, we talked about our favorite
authors. One of my heroes is Sewanee’s
own Walker Percy, whose novels the Moviegoer and Love
in the Ruins, and his accounts of a fallen Catholic, lapsed from god and
himself. His writings profoundly, influenced
my growing up. Walking through Oxford’s
historic streets and pubs, Rob and I made our way past Blackwell’s bookshop,
Radcliffe Camera, and the New Bedleian Library where my mom once studied
manuscripts for her dissertation. Our we
drank at the Turf Tavern, a 13th century ale house on Bath Place,
where we talked about the
politics of friendship, the subject of my recent writings and a possible
new manuscript. Rob suggested I look to Plato’s writings. We talked literary friendships as well as our
own on the way to the Bear Inn, the oldest pub in Oxford. And grabbed a nightcap at the Head of the
River on Folly Bridge.
Walking up to Mansfield
College where the conference was being held, I stumbled upon a billboard
with an image of kids playing basketball, declaring children have a right to
play. This should be a rightful part of
growing and learning, as the UN Declaration of the Rights of the Child notes:
Looking at those words, my mind traced back to the days when
I first interviewed for academic jobs. And few understood that play was a vehicle
for imagination and healthy expression.
Half the interview committees thought the topic of play was just too
frivolous.
Photo by James Rogers. |
At the conference I spoke on a panel with some of my favorite
theorists of play. Walking away from the
session, it felt like our time has come as researchers of play.
The rest of the
week, I listened to other talks as our conversation expanded into conversations
about play in relation to a world increasingly dominated by work and the way
people around the world are building communities and resisting controls with
their play.
Several in the
conference highlighted the work of Right to Play, an organization whose mission
is:
Yet, for these
children to have a space to play, we will need to create a world with less war,
violence, and pollution. A tall order,
but the politics of play must extend into a less restricted polluted geography.
There is more to play than play, just as there is more to sexuality than sex.
At night, other
friends came to talk. I limed with a few buddies from Trinidad. My buddy James and I met Matteo in London for
a night of carrying on and romping around Piccadilly Circus. Majestic London
felt like a global city, teeming in history, which we enjoyed as romped through
the West End.
And the next day,
I was back to New York for Bastille Day with the kids. Standing on the roof at the Met looking out
at the ring of trees sounding the museum in Central Park, and the buildings in
the distance, I was glad to be back.
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