Blog Tour: My Oxford Year by Julia Whelan
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Website: http://www.jmwhelan.com
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I hope you enjoy this little sneak peak inside the pages of Julia Whelan's My Oxford Year. Don't forget to leave a comment below if you've read the book and let me know what you thought.
Chat soon beautifuls,
A little peak inside the book:
CHAPTER 1
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England – now!
Home-Thoughts, from Abroad – Robert Browning, 1845
“Next!”
The
customs agent beckons the person in front of me and I approach the big red
line, absently toeing the curling tape, resting my hand on the gleaming
pipe railing. No adjustable ropes at Heathrow, apparently; these lines must
always be long if they require permanent demarcation.
My
phone rings. I glance down. I don’t know the number.
“Hello?”
I answer.
“Is
this Eleanor Durran?”
“Yes?”
“This
is Gavin Brookdale.”
My
first thought is that this is a prank call. Gavin Brookdale just stepped down
as White House Chief of Staff. He’s run every major political campaign of the
last 20 years. He’s a legend. He’s my idol. He’s calling me?
“Hello?”
“Sorry,
I-I’m here,” I stammer. “I’m just –
“Have
you heard of Janet Wilkes?”
Have
I heard of – Janet Wilkes is the junior senator from Florida and a dark horse
candidate for President. She’s 45, lost her husband twelve years ago in Afghanistan,
raised three kids on a teacher’s salary while somehow putting herself through
law school, and then ran the most impressive grassroots senatorial campaign
I’ve ever seen. She also has the hottest human-rights-attorney boyfriend I’ve
ever seen, but that’s beside the point. She’s a Gold Star wife who’s a
progressive firebrand on social issues. We’ve never seen anyone like her on the
national stage before. The first debate isn’t for another two weeks, on October
13, but voters seem to love her: she’s polling third in a field of twelve.
Candidate Number Two is not long for the race; a Case of the Jilted
Mistress(es). Number One, however, happens to be the current Vice-President,
George Hillerson, who Gavin Brookdale (if the Washington gossip mill is accurate)
loathes. Still, even the notoriously mercurial Brookdale wouldn’t back a losing
horse like Wilkes just to spite the presumptive nominee. If nothing else, Gavin
Brookdale likes to win. “Of course I’ve heard of her.”
“She
read your piece in The Atlantic. We both did. ‘The Art of Education and the
Death of the Thinking American Electorate.’ We were impressed.”
“Thank
you,” I gush. “It was something I felt was missing from the discourse –”
“What
you wrote was a philosophy. It wasn’t a policy.”
This
brings me up short. “I understand why you’d think that, but I –”
“Don’t
worry, I know you have the policy chops. I know you won Ohio for Janey Bennett.
The 138th for Carl Moseley. You’re a talented young lady, Eleanor.”
“Mr.
Brookdale –”
“Call
me Gavin.”
“Then
call me Ella. No one calls me Eleanor.”
“Alright,
Ella, would you like to be the education consultant for Wilkes’ campaign?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“Yes!”
I bleat. “Yes, of course! She’s incredible –”
“Great.
Come down to my office today and we’ll read you in.”
All
the breath leaves my body. I can’t seem to get it back. “So… here’s the thing.
I-I’m in England.”
“Fine,
when you get back.”
“… I
get back in June.”
Silence.
“Are
you consulting over there?”
“No,
I have a… I got a Rhodes and I’m doing a –”
Gavin
chortles. “I was a Rhodie.”
“I
know, Sir.”
“Gavin.”
“Gavin.”
“What
are you studying?”
“English
Language and Literature 1830 to 1914.”
Beat.
“Why?”
“Because
I want to?” Why does it come out as a question?
“You
don’t need it. Getting the Rhodes is what matters. Doing it is meaningless,
especially in Literature from 1830 to 19-whatever. The only reason you wanted
it was to help you get that life-changing political job, right? Well, I’m
giving that to you. So come home and let’s get down to business.”
“Next!”
A
customs agent – stone-faced, turbaned, impressive beard – waves me forward. I
take one step over the line, but hold a finger up to him. He’s not even looking
at me. “Gavin, can I call –”
“She’s
going to be the nominee, Ella. It’s going to be the fight of my life and I need
all hands – including yours – on deck, but we’re going to do it.”
He’s
delusional. But, my God, what if he’s right? A shiver of excitement snakes
through me. “Gavin –”
“Listen,
I’ve always backed the winning candidate, but I have never backed someone who I
personally, deeply, wanted to win.”
“Miss?”
Now the customs agent looks at me.
Gavin
chuckles at my silence. “I don’t want to have to convince you, if you don’t
feel –”
“I can work from here.” Before he can argue, I
continue, “I will make myself available at all hours. I will make Wilkes my
priority.” Behind me, a bloated, red-faced businessman reeking of gin, moves to
squeeze around me. I head him off, grabbing the railing, saying into the phone,
“I had two jobs in college while volunteering in field offices and coordinating
multiple city council runs. I worked two winning congressional campaigns last
year while helping to shape the education budget for Ohio. I can certainly consult
for you while reading books and writing about them occasionally.”
“Miss!”
the customs agent barks. “Hang up the phone or step aside.” I hold my finger up
higher (as if visibility is the problem) and widen my stance over the line.
“What’s
your date certain for coming home?” Gavin asks.
“June
11th. I already have a ticket. Seat 32A.”
“Miss!”
The customs agent and the man bark at me.
I
look down at the red line between my sprawled feet. “Gavin, I’m straddling the
North Atlantic right now. I literally have one foot in England and one in
America and if I don’t hang up they’ll –”
“I’ll
call you back.”
He
disconnects.
What
does that mean? What do I do? Numbly, I hurry to the immigration window, coming
face to face with the dour agent. I adopt my best beauty-pageant smile and
speak in the chagrined, gee-whiz tone I know he expects. “I am so sorry, Sir,
my sincerest apologies. My Mom’s –”
“Passport.”
He’s back to not looking at me. I’m getting the passive-aggressive treatment
now. I hand over my brand new passport with the crisp, un-stamped pages.
“Purpose of visit?”
“Study.”
“For
how long will you be in the country?”
I
pause. I glance down at the dark, unhelpful screen of my phone. “I… I don’t
know.”
Now
he looks up at me.
“A
year,” I say. Screw it. “An academic year.”
“Where?”
“Oxford.”
Saying the word out loud cuts through everything else. My smile becomes
genuine. He asks me more questions, and I suppose I answer, but all I can think
is:
I’m
here. This is actually happening. Everything has come together according to
plan.
He
stamps my passport, hands it back, lifts his hand to the line.
“Next!”
#
When
I was thirteen I read an article in Seventeen Magazine called, “My Once in a
Lifetime Experience,” and it was a personal account of an American girl’s year abroad
at Oxford. The classes, the students, the parks, the pubs, even the chip shop
(“pictured, bottom left”) seemed like another world. Like slipping through a
wormhole into a universe where things were ordered and people were dignified
and the buildings were older than my entire country. I suppose thirteen is an
important age in every girl’s life, but for me, growing up in the middle of
nowhere, with a family that had fallen apart? I needed something to hold onto.
I needed inspiration. I needed hope. The girl who wrote the article had been
transformed. Oxford had unlocked her life and I was convinced that it would be
the key to mine.
So I
made a plan: get to Oxford.
After
going through more customs checkpoints, I follow signs for The Central Bus
Terminal and find an automatic ticket kiosk. The “£” sign before the amount
looks so much better, more civilized, more historical than the American dollar
sign, which always seems overly suggestive to me. Like it should be flashing in
sequential neon lights above a strip club. $ - $ - $. Girls! Girls! Girls!
The
kiosk’s screen asks me if I want a discounted return ticket (I assume that
means round trip), and I pause. My flight back to Washington is on June 11th,
barely sixteen hours after the official end of Trinity term. I have no plans to
return to the states before then, instead staying here over the two long
vacations (in December and March) and traveling. In fact, I already have my
December itinerary all planned. I purchase the return ticket, then cross to a bench
to wait for the next bus.
My
phone dings and I look down. An email from The Rhodes Foundation reminding me
about the orientation tomorrow morning.
For
whatever reason, out of all the academic scholarships in the world, most people
seem to have heard of The Rhodes. It’s not the only prestigious scholarship to
be had, but it’s the one that I wanted. Every year, America sends 32 of its
most overachieving, uber-competitive, social-climbing, do-gooder nerds to
Oxford. It’s mostly associated with geniuses, power-players, global leaders.
Let me demystify this: to get a Rhodes, you have to be slightly unhinged. You
have to have a stellar GPA, excel in multiple courses of study, be socially
entrepreneurial, charity-minded, and athletically proficient (though the last
time I did anything remotely athletic I knocked out Jimmy Brighton’s front
tooth with a foul ball, so take that tenet with a grain of salt). I could have
gone after other scholarships. There’s the Marshal, the Fulbright, the Watson,
but the Rhodies are my people. They’re the planners.
The
other finalist selected from my district (a Math/Econ/Classics triple-major and
Olympic archer who had discovered that applying Game Theory to negotiations
with known terrorists makes the intel 147% more reliable) told me, “I’ve been
working toward getting a Rhodes since Freshman year.” To which I replied, “Me,
too.” He clarified, “Of high school.” To which I replied, “Me, too.”
While,
yes, the Rhodes is a golden ticket to Oxford, it’s also a built-in network and
the means to my political future. It ensures that people who would have
otherwise discounted me – this unconnected girl from the soybean fields of Ohio
– will take a second, serious look. People like Gavin Brookdale.
Going
after things the way I do, being who I am, has alienated my entire hometown and
most of my extended family. My mom hadn’t gone to college and my dad had
dropped out after two years because he’d thought it was more important to
change the world than learn about it, and there I was, this achievement machine
making everyone around it vaguely uncomfortable. She thinks she’s better
than everyone else.
Honestly,
I don’t. But I do think I’m better than what everyone, besides my dad, told me
I was.
#
I wake
up in a moment of panic when the bus I’d boarded back at Heathrow jerks to a
stop, sending the book on my lap to the floor. Hastily retrieving it, I force
my sleepy eyes to take in the view from the floor-to-ceiling window in front of
me. I chose the seat on the upper level at the very front, wanting to devour
every bit of English countryside on the way to Oxford. Then I slept through it.
Pushing
through the fog in my head, I peer outside. A dingy bus stop in front of a
generic cell phone store. I look for a street sign, trying to get my bearings.
My info packet from the college said to get off at the Queens Lane stop on High
Street. This can’t be it. I glance behind me and no one on the bus is moving to
get off, so I settle back into my seat.
The
bus starts up again, and I breathe deeply, trying to wake up. I jam the book
into my backpack. I’d wanted to finish it before my first class tomorrow, but I
can’t focus. I was too excited to eat or sleep on the plane. My empty stomach
and all-nighter is catching up to me. The time difference is catching up to me.
The last twelve years spent striving for this moment is catching up to me.
Inside
my jacket pocket, my phone vibrates. I pull it out and see the same number from
earlier. I take a deep breath and preemptively answer, “Gavin, listen, I was
thinking, let’s do a trial period of, say, a month, and if you feel that I need
to be there –”
“Not
necessary."
My
throat tightens. “Please, just give me thirty days to prove that –”
“It’s
fine. I made it work. Just remember who comes first.”
Elation
breaks through the fog. My fist clenches in victory and my smile reaches all
the way to my temples. “Absolutely,” I say in my most professional voice.
“Thank you so much for this opportunity. You won’t be disappointed.”
“I know
that. That’s why I hired you. What’s your fee? FYI: there’s no money.”
There’s
never any money. I tell him my fee anyway and we settle on something that I can
live with. The Rhodes is paying my tuition and lodging and I get a small
stipend for living expenses on top of that. I decide right then that what
Gavin’s going to pay me will go directly into my travel budget.
“Now,
go,” he says, “Have fun. You’ve clearly earned it. There’s a pub you should
visit in the center of town. The Turf. See where one of your fellow Rhodes
Scholars – a young William Jefferson Clinton – ‘didn’t’ inhale.”
“Ha,
got it. Will do.”
“Just
take your phone with you. Your phone is an appendage, not an accessory. Okay?”
I
nod even though he can’t see me. “Okay. It’s a plan.” Just as I say this, the
bus rounds a bend and there she is:
Oxford.
Beyond
a picturesque bridge, the narrow two-lane road continues into a bustling main
street, lined on each side by buildings with a hodge-podge of architectural
styles, no room to breathe between them. Like the crowd at the finish line of a
marathon, these buildings cheer me on, welcoming me to their city. Some are
topped with sloped, slate roofs, others with battlements. Some of the larger
buildings have huge wooden gates that look as if they were carved in place, a
fusion of timeless wood and stone that steals my breath. Maybe those doors lead
to some of the 38 individual Oxford colleges? Imagining it, dreaming of it all
these years, doesn’t do it justice.
I
look skyward. Punctuating the horizon are the tips of other ancient buildings,
high-points of stone bordering the city like beacons.
“The
City of Dreaming Spires,” I murmur to myself.
“Indeed
it is,” Gavin says in my ear. I’d forgotten he was still on the line.
That’s
what they call Oxford. A title well deserved. Because that means, before it was
my dream or Seventeen Magazine girl’s dream, it was someone else’s dream as
well.
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