Insomnia

Sleeping is one of my favorite pastimes. And contrary to many other things I like to do (and trust me, the Dutch person hiding inside of me hates saying this), I’m actuall pretty good at it. I mean, I can’t shoot a good game of pool if my life depended on it, in spite of the fact that my parents had a pooltable in our basement for years. Deep in my heart I also know I will never appear on Broadway (I keep myself happy by claiming that sometimes dreams do come true), and the saying “dance like no one is watching” was obviously written for me. However, when it comes to sleeping, I’m a natural. In fact, if sleeping were an Olympic Sport, I would be a medalist for sure. I’ve slept through the whine of airplane engines warming up less than half a mile away, smoke alarms do absolutely nothing for me, and I’ve also been known to incorporate whatever pesky sound my alarm makes into my dreams, thus sleeping on blissfully. When I’m tired, nothing can stop me. And I mean, nothing, not even the possibility of public embarrassement. I’ve slept pretty much anywhere, from a bus terminal tarmac in Poland, to airport lounges all over the world, to several complicated indie films at international film festivals (I used to joke I have paid possibly hundreds of dollars to fall asleep at world renown movies), to a boring business lecture, to a friend’s birthday party. And although I’m not proud of especially the last two “achievements” (although on my behalf, they both occurred a long time ago), you have to admit that my track record is not bad at all.

However, every once in a blue moon, and much to my chagrin, I won’t be able to sleep through the night. I’ll wake up sometime after midnight, and find myself unable to fall back asleep. I’ll toss and turn, and envy husband-dear snoring away quietly. Usually, I’ll fall asleep after about an hour or so of staring at the ceiling fan, but sometimes even that doesn’t happen, and I know I’m in for one of those nights. A night when sleep isn’t going to come until thirty minutes before the alarm goes off.

Last night was one of those nights. And as I laid in bed, positively jealous of husband-dear out cold at my side, and Zoe curled up at our feet making funny little dog sounds, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat elated at the fact that of all the places I could be lying awake in the middle of the night, I was in the US, the country that truly never sleeps. For those of you who have ever been wide awake in the middle of the night in Europe, you may know what I’m talking about. In Europe, your range of middle-of-the-night activities are severely restricted. Of course, you could read a book, but anything more exciting than that, and you’re, well, up a creek without a paddle. The radio will play nothing but depressingly sappy love songs that will render your already unstable being even more emotional. If you were to turn on the TV, you’re stuck watching an endless loop of some indescribably boring program (think gardening shows for old people, a rerun of a late night talk show, or a ten minute news broadcast), and don’t even think about going anywhere.

Here in the US, on the other hand, I have such a plethora of opportunities available to me in the middle of the night, just thinking about all of them made me tired. For starters, of course, there are the 100+ TV channels, with the syndication channels such as TVLand always playing cool old shows at two in the morning. Then there is the ever-reliable Walmart. What better time to shop for embarrassing feminine products, or buy that DVD you’ve been thinking about, or get those 300 pictures developed, than 3:30am? And if you don’t feel like perusing through the end-of-the-year sales, you can always opt for an early breakfast at Waffle House, or do some grocery shopping.

Now obviously, I have yet to do any of those things. The most exciting thing I have ever done when I couldn’t sleep was get up and put together a midterm exam. But usually I stay in bed, and happily consider all the things I could be doing, and then decide that they are all really too much trouble. Most of the time, when I think about putting on some clothes, getting my purse, and driving to Walmart, I’m asleep by the time I pull into the parking lot. But one of these days, I promise, I will go there. Just to tell you all what it’s like. And stock up on pantyliners of course.

Cold Turkey

“Saying goodbye, going away, seems like goodbye’s such a hard thing to say”
Scooter ~ The Muppets

After two weeks filled with family, quirky Dutch traditions, and endless conversations (in Dutch!) it was finally time to say goodbye to my parents, brother, and sister-in-law this Saturday. Now I am no good at saying goodbye. Absolutely no good. I always get upset, my stomach gets all queasy, and I cry. And when I cry, it’s not a pretty movie-cry, no, it involves a red face, red eyes, a mouth pulled into a funny-looking grimace, and lots of snot. It’s ugly. I always admire husband-dear who can just give someone a big bear hug, a pat on the back, and move on swiftly, simply reminiscing on the good times he just had.

I have always been horrific at saying goodbye. I’m not sure when my ability to say goodbye and move on disappeared, but one of my earliest memories includes a tearful car ride home from spending a few days at my grandparents. I remember being unable to stop (who wouldn’t after days of walking into the park and feeding the ducks, and being allowed to build forts up in the attic), and not calming down until I got to talk to grandma over the phone and she promised me I could come back anytime. I cried when I was eight and my first summer camp was over, I cried every time my cousin and I had spent a weekend together and it was time to go home, and I even cried when my parents, after years of bullying, moved me to a different elementary school, and I had to say goodbye to my classmates on the last day of school. Moving fourteen times or so, both across country and abroad didn’t really help either. Not only did I probably have to say goodbye a lot more than most people, I also ended up making friends from all over the world, who would all eventually move away as well, which inevitably led to more crying.

Last Saturday, it was no different. While the love of my life hugged everyone, smiling and joking, I desperately tried not to cry. It’s funny how the excitement of seeing your family for the first time fades every time you visit, but how the heartache of saying goodbye lingers. This time, though, I managed to hold most of it in until I got home and saw the eggnog I kept forgetting to offer to them.

But I’m much better now. There’s no more crying, just a slight “cold turkey” sensation. I went from tour guide, daughter, sister, sister-in-law, and obvious foreigner, to plain old me. No one can tell I’m a foreigner anymore, there are lists of chores to be done, no one to entertain the dog while I shower, and SpongeBob once again rules our living room. And the worst part? I ate almost all of the “dropjes” , and read most of the magazines they brought me. I guess it’s almost time for another trip to Holland!

D'r kan nog meer bij!

Er kan inderdaad nog meer bij. Naast mijn ouders hebben gisteren namelijk ook mijn broer en schoonzus de gelederen in huize Dixiechick versterkt. Het is een beetje passen en meten, maar er passen ook veel niet-makke schapen in een hok. Zoe heeft de tijd van haar leven met al die nieuwe mensen, de kinderen zijn zo opgewonden dat het lijkt alsof we er honderd hebben in plaats van twee, er is een minivan gehuurd, en ik heb mijn "touguide"hoedje maar weer eens opgezet.

Mensen die bij ons op bezoek zijn geweest concluderen altijd dat er hier "niet zo heel veel te doen is". En alhoewel ik het daar in grote lijnen mee eens moet zijn, kon ik het toch niet over mij hart verkrijgen om deze streek zo makkelijk af te schrijven, en dus ben ik de laatste maanden naarstig op zoek gegaan naar cultureel verantwoorde uitjes. En tot mijn grote plezier valt het nog best wel mee met het "dooie boel" gehalte van onze omgeving. Meerdere steden hebben een oud (pre-1860) centrum, compleet met oude huizen, restaurantjes, en oude treindepots. Er zijn een aantal mooie oude plantage huizen in de buurt, en we hebben zelfs een aantal theaters en alternatieve filmhuizen ontdekt (ok, het is er 1, maar toch).

Dus toen ik er achter kwam dat mijn schoonzus nog nooit in de VS was geweest, ben ik meteen druk aan het plannen gegaan. Een dagje naar dat oude centrum, een lunch in het oude en nostalgische "Grits Cafe", een tripje naar een lokale plantage, en natuurlijk een dagje Savannah. Wat schetst mijn verbazing vanochtend, toen ik vroeg wat de groep wilde doen? De Nederlanders in het gezelschap wilden naar Wal*mart. En Target. Naar Wal*mart?! Wie gaat er nou vrijwillig naar de Wal*mart? De kinderen die helemaal dol zijn op Wally's World (van wie ze het hebben, ik heb geen idee), vlogen zowat tegen het plafond op van blijdschap, maar ik kan niet zeggen dat ik nou stond te springen. Wal*mart is een winkel die ik vooral gebruik voor de praktische inkopen (kerstlichtjes, sokken, lampen), en daarnaast zoveel mogelijk probeer te vermijden. Maar nee, ze willen naar Wal*mart. En dan maar klagen dat hier zo weinig cultuur is.
En dat Amerikanen zulke cultuurbararen zijn....tssss....

Maar goed, ik moet weg, naar Wal*mart.....

Christmas Cheer

Christmas has definitely arrived at Dixiechick's home. The tree is up, the lights are on, and the stockings (including opa's and oma's) have been hung from the mantle. We are all ready for some holiday cheer, and I thought I would share some impressions with all of you.

The living room (complete with the new loveseat).



Our library area where my chair has had to make way for the Christmas tree. Zoe has already staked out her favorite spot.



Carnival de Noel!

Love Actually

Although husband dear and I could never seem to agree on whether or not the movie with the same title as this post was actually worthwhile, there was one aspect that we both really enjoyed equally: the airport greeting scenes that ran under the credits. Anyone with ample travel experience knows that intense feeling of anticipation and joy when you're waiting at the airport to meet a loved one, a feeling that is only further augmented as the time spent apart increases.

This past weekend I had the opportunity to create a very personal "Love Actually"moment. My parents flew into Atlanta just yesterday, and after seven months of separation, I had spent days, and possibly even weeks, living up to this moment. The Atlanta airport is renown for its crowds, and the incredible amount of time it can take people to make it from the actual airplane to the arrival terminal. The latter is not just due to the fact that Atlanta is, I believe, the busiest airport in the US at this time, but also because the airport consists of a bewildering terminal system, which forces international travelers to check their bags again right after pick up, then ride a tiny little train for a good twenty minutes, and then work their way through a most confusing arrivals area, to spend another twenty minutes waiting for their luggage to arrive.

So when picking people up, I always allow myself ample time. The first time my family flew into Georgia (last March), I arrived at the same time as their plane, and then spent close to ninety minutes looking for familiar faces among the hordes of people swarming into the tiny arrival terminal. So yesterday I decided to arrive a little late. And five minutes after I had taken up post a few feet away from the actual entry point, and only twenty minutes after their plane had landed, I noticed two people waving at me. I looked, and decided it could not possible be my parents. Then I realized the lady was wearing the same turquoise sweatshirt my mother has. And that the man had gray bushy hair just like my dad. So I squinted, and my heart jumped as I realized that these people were indeed my parents. And there was my Love Actually moment. I scooted under the little rope, probably ran over at least two unassuming travelers, managed to barely mumble "excuse me" before I hugged my mom.

Seeing someone that close to you after such a long period of separation is interesting. It's familiar yet strange, and it seems like you were never apart and as though you've been gone for years at the same time. It's always amazing to find that people still look, smell, and talk the same, yet it always seems to take a few moments to truly realize they are really there looking at you.

We've spent today catching up, running errands, celebrating husband-dear's birthday. It's been great, wonderful, strange, exhilarating all at once. Long live air travel!

Stormy weather

Based on the stories I write here, some of you may be under the impression that Georgia is a conservative and relatively predictable place. People always say hello and wish you a great day, lots of time is spent drinking tea on the porch, everyone goes to church on Sundays and eats barbecue chicken, and the cotton always blooms in the fall. And it is true – Georgia is a very mellow, easy-going state, where very little happens that is truly exciting or innovative. However, the one exception to this conclusion has got to be the weather.

Georgia weather is probably the most unpredictable, surprising, and thus potentially annoying facets of life down here. Of course, winters in Maine are much harsher, and the wildfires in California aren’t exactly a laughing matter either, but both can somewhat be predicted. When you live in Maine, you know it will be cold, freezing cold, from October to April. And in California, people know when the Santa Ana winds are coming, and thus know when the wildfires will start up again. Even I, who live thousands of miles away from both states, can pretty much predict both at this point. And although people living in Holland complain about their unpredictable summers, and winters, I think “unpredictable” is really not the right term to use over there. See, the Netherlands has a temperate climate, which means it will have wet and moderately warm summers, and wet and moderately cold winters. The problem with the Dutch is that they think that Holland should have warm summer sand snowy winters, and then when that doesn’t happen, they are absolutely flabbergasted. And, amazingly enough, this feeling of surprise and unfairness (“why can’t we ever have a decent summer/winter?!”) returns every year.

If you want to talk about surprising weather, you obviously need to come spend some time in Georgia. Admittedly, summers in Georgia are fairly boring. They always start late April, end Early October, and are hot and humid. But when I say Georgia weather is unpredictable, I’m talking about those six months between summers. For there is no telling what they will bring.

Take last week for instance. Over the weekend, our part of Georgia was still in the firm grip of what newscasters called a “deep freeze”. Now I’m not sure if night time temperatures of around 25F (-4C) qualify as a deep freeze, but it sure was cold. Our heater worked over time, husband-dear had to scrape car windows every single morning, and it was just parka-gloves-hat cold. Then out of blue, on Sunday and Monday, the weather turned positively subtropical. Temperatures soared into the low 70s (approx 22C), and we found ourselves walking the dog in jeans and t-shirts. Then on Tuesday, whoever is in charge of local weather, decided that was enough, and sunk middle Georgia into a storm almost as intense as hurricane Ike, which passed over our region a few months ago. Tornado watches and warnings were in effect all over the state, lakes and rivers flooded, and driving on the interstate meant navigating at least four inches of water with a visibility of no more than thirty feet. Being Dutch, I’m used to rain, obviously. But when it rains in Georgia, it pours. There’s no such thing as drizzle in the southeast, and so within hours, windows start to condensate on the inside, gutters start to overflow, and driving becomes a real hazard. Then this morning, after two days of a continuous downpour, one so bad that I had started to crack my usual “let’s go and build an ark” jokes, the rain was gone. Instead we saw clear blue skies, a bright sun, and serious wind gusts. Although everything is better than rain, I now had to struggle to keep my car on the road from time to time, and I’m not sure our wreaths will still be on our windows when I come home tonight. And guess what? Tonight they’ve predicted another “deep freeze”, while next week it is going to be in the 70s. You have got to love Georgia winters.

Canteen Tales

“Why should I care? I don’t care, what d’you have for lunch today?”
Rod ~ Avenue Q

Today, as I surveyed my lunch before starting on my first snack of the day, I realized how much my lunch-eating habits have changed after moving to Georgia. Funnily, in spite of the wide array of food available for all three meals, what I eat for breakfast and dinner is still very much the same. In all honesty, after running out of Brinta, I have been forced to eat cereal, but seeing how it’s still made with milk, put in a bowl, and eaten with a spoon, I will argue that it is fairly similar. After all, it's not as though I'm suddenly gorging myself on pancakes, eggo waffles, or hashbrowns. Dinner also hasn’t changed all that much. Thanks to the wide supply of European foods at the commissary, the grocery store on base, we can still eat “rode kool”, “zuurkool”, and other more exotic dishes such as curries, and pastas.

Lunch however, has never been the same since we moved. Maybe I was just an old-fashioned (and predictable) Dutch person, but when I lived in Holland I would always eat the pretty much same thing for lunch: a glass of milk, a few sandwiches with a variety of toppings, some fruit, and a Liga’s evergreen. When I met the love of my life, I was always amazed by his choice of lunches. I think we can honestly say that he eats anything for lunch but sandwiches. I’m not sure if this is the result a childhood spent eating too many sandwiches, or just a hearty dislike for the product, but the fact is that my husband will eat soups, leftovers, salads, quesadillas, freshly-made mini-pasta dishes, and even chili for lunch. So when we first met, he would have his, in my eyes, huge lunch, while I would “snack” (his words) on my very minimalist meal.

Then when we moved to Georgia, I was faced with a serious problem regarding my lunch preferences: the lack of good, healthy bread. Somehow on previous moves to the US, I had always managed to locate a good bakery, but so far I have had no luck here in my neck of the woods. The bread is white, tasteless, and although I’m sure it does a great job serving as fish bait, it’s obviously not made not to fit my more critical palate. Liga Evergreen is obviously also not available outside of Europe, and I have yet to locate the small bottles of milk I used to buy.

So what’s a predictable old-fashioned Dutch person to do? It’s very simple, and yet strangely familiar: I compromise. Again. From time to time I will take leftovers to work with me. Sometimes I’ll even bring some of husband-dear’s delicious quesadillas, although I don’t come near his chili or his soups. I’ve also been known to take his famous blue-cheese-walnut-raisin salad, but most of the time my lunch is an interesting mix of little bites. In the place of milk, I have taken to drinking orange juice for the vitamins, and Diet Coke for the caffeine (desperate times call for desperate measures). Then I will usually bring raisins, or maybe some carrots, a cheese rolly-polly, or some sort of cheese snack, a granola bar, an apple, a banana, and some yogurt. That’s it. My co-workers always express amazement at how little I eat, but I don’t think that that is an area where I could integrate, even if I wanted to.

So now please excuse me while I go and nibble on my raisins.

Lichtjes

Als iemand mij een paar jaar geleden had verteld dat ik me druk zou maken of dat wij dit jaar de enigen in de straat zouden zijn met kerstverlichting buiten, had ik waarschijnlijk hartelijk gelachen. Alhoewel kerst altijd een van mijn favoriete jaargetijden is geweest, en ik altijd met heel veel plezier mijn eigen huisje versierde, was buitenverlichting niet mijn ding. Ik vond al die verlichte rendieren, kerstmannen, knipperende lampjes, en flikkerende sterren maar helemaal niks. Simpel en natuurlijk, dat was mijn motto

De nadruk ligt hier op “was”, want alhoewel we nog geen rendieren en kerstmannen in de tuin hebben, is ons huis sinds vorige week, net als vorig jaar, een festival van gezellige kleurtjes. De Indian Hawthornes en mini-palmboompjes voor het huis zijn bedekt met rijden kleurige lichtjes, er hangen verlichte ijspegels aan de veranda, en om beide pilaren is een streng gekleurde lichtjes gewikkeld. De jongens vinden het geweldig, manlief is er ook helemaal mee in zijn nopjes, en ik ben er tot mijn grote verbazing eigenlijk ook best wel tevreden over.

Vorig jaar was dat wel anders. Onze eerst kerst na ons vertrek uit Duitsland, en vooral ik moest erg wennen aan de Amerikaanse uitbundigheid. In Duitsland leek de buitenversiering niet verder te komen dan kerstmannetjes die op laddertjes uit ramen en van balkonnen hingen, en een eventuele spar of den waar men wat witte lampjes om heen gewikkeld had. Ondanks dat ik me van de vorige verblijven in Texas en New England het enorme carnaval aan lichtjes nog goed kon herinneren, kwam de hoeveelheid versiering toch weer als een verrassing. Want ook al begint het buitenversiering-fenomeen in Nederland ook steeds meer op te komen, ik kan me niet voorstellen dat mensen daar bereid zijn hun leven wagen om een levensgrote verlichte slee met kerstman en rendieren op het dak te platsen, of om honderden dollars aan electriciteit kwijt zijn zodat ze de hele dakrand, alle kozijnen, en alle deurposten van lampjes kunnen voorzien, of om de hele buurt te verblijden met een groots verlichte religieuze boodschap.

Maar goed, alhoewel ik dus nog niet zo veramerikaanst ben, was ik vorige week toch best wel teleurgesteld dat nog niemand op onze “cirkel” zijn huis had versierd. Sommige mensen hadden de beschaafde kransen en slingers die ik altijd gebruikte, maar niemand had nog lichtjes. In onze oude buurt waren wij een van de laatsten met onze lichtjes vorig jaar, dus ik begon me een beetje druk te maken dat wij in deze buurt, ondanks al mijn pogingen te integreren, straks de “lichtjes-paria’s” zouden zijn. Weet je wel, dan heb je een nette buurt, met allemaal sjieke versieringen, en dan staat er een zo’n Flodder-huis tussen; dat van ons dus. Dus het was een pak van mijn hart toen ik vrijdag een buurman zijn veranda ook zag versieren met verlichte slingers, en toen een andere buurman gisteren helemaal losging met een verlichte dakrand, verlichte kozijnen, en een rij van verlichte ijspegels over het hek, wist ik dat we goed zaten. Een derde en een vierde buurman zijn nu ook overstag (ook al moet ik nummer vier toch maar eens vertellen dat rode lichtjes echt niet kunnen), en ik heb goede hoop voor de rest van de buurt.

Kerstmis, we zijn er klaar voor!

Boulevard of (broken) dreams

“If passion drives you, let reason hold the reigns”
Benjamin Franklin

Although I spent many years sweating blood and tears (and little carrots, according the Dutch saying) to obtain my PhD, the past few weeks I have honestly begun to feel as though a degree in counseling, as well as one in early childhood education would have been more applicable. Don’t get me wrong, I really like my students. They inspire me (and this blog), they keep me on my toes, and they make me laugh every day, but there are days when I really want to just, to use another Dutch saying, “glue them behind the wallpaper”.

This past week has been the infamous “week before finals”, in other words, the week in which all the final projects are due, students have to present their production work in front of a jury, and seniors have to not only present their portfolios, but also defend the work they carried out for the senior capstone course. Although this week is renowned for its drama, this year absolutely took the cake. Students have lost it because they got a C a project they thought warranted at least an A, or because they forgot their defense time, hence did not show up, and subsequently failed the course. We’ve had students screaming at each other out in the hallway because of missing camera equipment, lay down and cry in the middle of the same hallway because they were just too worn out, and come in dancing and praising God because their project had earned a B. It has been, to put it succinctly, a complete mess.

Of course it’s completely unfair to compare these students to the student I’ve taught in Europe. More so because the universities I worked at before did not include a production track, and therefore did not attract the more creative students we have here. But I can’t help but wonder if it’s this bad at, say, the Dutch Film Academy. I’ve never had Dutch students get this personally involved in everything that goes on in school. The worst disagreement I ever had when I was in college involved a team mate in a group research project, whom I told in no uncertain terms that if she wasn’t going to shape up, she would no longer be a part of our group. It was very quiet, and involved neither yelling nor tears.

Now the students I teach here in Georgia are infinitely more passionate than any Dutch student I have ever met. They could honestly sell water to a fish and convince my grandmother to go clubbing with them. Whereas the students here see college as a way of life, most of my Dutch students treated college as just another thing that they needed to get done, and never got really excited about anything, except those rare occasions when the Dutch national soccer team did really well at the world championships. On the other hand, my current students view life as one big adventure, and are the embodiment of the idea that a life not lived is no life at all. And possibly the combination of passion and living life to the max is what makes the last weeks of the semester, when push comes to shove such a drama. Perhaps in order to make it through unscathed, my students need to somehow become a little more Dutch, and care just a little less. It is, after all, only school. But don’t tell anyone I said that.

Sinterklaas and his "six to eight black men"

Every year, as December 5 approaches, the day on which Dutch people celebrate their traditional "Sinterklaas feest", I find myself struggling to find a way to explain the whole event to people who did not grow up with "de roe", "pepernoten", and the concept of a saint coming from Spain on a steamboat. How do you explain, when you work at a university where 95% of the students are African American, that although Sinterklaas' helper "zwarte piet" does resemble the blackface actors of the early 20th century, his presence is not meant to be perceived as racist?

Now I have been considering this, and I have the feeling that humor might be the only way out. A few years ago, I discovered a very funny article on Sinterklaas written by David Sedaris. If you have no clue what Sinterklaas entails, and even if you do, perhaps this article will help shed some new light on the whole concept.

"In France and Germany, gifts are exchanged on Christmas Eve, while in Holland the children receive presents on December 5, in celebration of Saint Nicholas Day. It sounded sort of quaint until I spoke to a man named Oscar, who filled me in on a few of the details as we walked from my hotel to the Amsterdam train station.
Unlike the jolly, obese American Santa, Saint Nicholas is painfully thin and dresses not unlike the pope, topping his robes with a tall hat resembling an embroidered tea cozy. The outfit, I was told, is a carryover from his former career, when he served as a bishop in Turkey.
One doesn't want to be too much of a cultural chauvinist, but this seemed completely wrong to me. For starters, Santa didn't used to do anything. He's not retired, and, more important, he has nothing to do with Turkey. The climate's all wrong, and people wouldn't appreciate him. When asked how he got from Turkey to the North Pole, Oscar told me with complete conviction that Saint Nicholas currently resides in Spain, which again is simply not true. While he could probably live wherever he wanted, Santa chose the North Pole specifically because it is harsh and isolated. No one can spy on him, and he doesn't have to worry about people coming to the door. Anyone can come to the door in Spain, and in that outfit, he'd most certainly be recognized. On top of that, aside from a few pleasantries, Santa doesn't speak Spanish. He knows enough to get by, but he's not fluent, and he certainly doesn't eat tapas.
While our Santa flies on a sled, Saint Nicholas arrives by boat and then transfers to a white horse. The event is televised, and great crowds gather at the waterfront to greet him. I'm not sure if there's a set date, but he generally docks in late November and spends a few weeks hanging out and asking people what they want.
"Is it just him alone?" I asked. "Or does he come with backup?"
Oscar's English was close to perfect, but he seemed thrown by a term normally reserved for police reinforcement.
"Helpers," I said. "Does he have any elves?"
Maybe I'm just overly sensitive, but I couldn't help but feel personally insulted when Oscar denounced the very idea as grotesque and unrealistic.
"Elves," he said. "They're just so silly."
The words silly and unrealistic were redefined when I learned that Saint Nicholas travels with what was consistently described as "six to eight black men." I asked several Dutch people to narrow it down, but none of them could give me an exact number. It was always "six to eight," which seems strange, seeing as they've had hundreds of years to get a decent count.
The six to eight black men were characterized as personal slaves until the mid-fifties, when the political climate changed and it was decided that instead of being slaves they were just good friends. I think history has proven that something usually comes between slavery and friendship, a period of time marked not by cookies and quiet times beside the fire but by bloodshed and mutual hostility. They have such violence in Holland, but rather than duking it out among themselves, Santa and his former slaves decided to take it out on the public. In the early years, if a child was naughty, Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men would beat him with what Oscar described as "the small branch of a tree."
"A switch?"
"Yes," he said. "That's it. They'd kick him and beat him with a switch. Then, if the youngster was really bad, they'd put him in a sack and take him back to Spain."
"Saint Nicholas would kick you?"
"Well, not anymore," Oscar said. "Now he just pretends to kick you."
"And the six to eight black men?"
"Them, too."
He considered this to be progressive, but in a way I think it's almost more perverse than the original punishment. "I'm going to hurt you, but not really." How many times have we fallen for that line? The fake slap invariably makes contact, adding the elements of shock and betrayal to what had previously been plain, old-fashioned fear. What kind of Santa spends his time pretending to kick people before stuffing them into a canvas sack? Then, of course, you've got the six to eight former slaves who could potentially go off at any moment. This, I think, is the greatest difference between us and the Dutch. While a certain segment of our population might be perfectly happy with the arrangement, if you told the average white American that six to eight nameless black men would be sneaking into his house in the middle of the night, he would barricade the doors and arm himself with whatever he could get his hands on.
"Six to eight, did you say?"
In the years before central heating, Dutch children would leave their shoes by the fireplace, the promise being that unless they planned to beat you, kick you, or stuff you into a sack, Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men would fill your clogs with presents. Aside from the threats of violence and kidnapping, it's not much different from hanging your stockings from the mantel. Now that so few people have a working fireplace, Dutch children are instructed to leave their shoes beside the radiator, furnace, or space heater. Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men arrive on horses, which jump from the yard onto the roof. At this point, I guess, they either jump back down and use the door, or they stay put and vaporize through the pipes and electrical wires. Oscar wasn't too clear about the particulars, but, really, who can blame him? We have the same problem with our Santa. He's supposed to use the chimney, but if you don't have one, he still manages to come through. It's best not to think about it too hard.
While eight flying reindeer are a hard pill to swallow, our Christmas story remains relatively simple. Santa lives with his wife in a remote polar village and spends one night a year traveling around the world. If you're bad, he leaves you coal. If you're good and live in America, he'll give you just about anything you want. We tell our children to be good and send them off to bed, where they lie awake, anticipating their great bounty. A Dutch parent has a decidedly hairier story to relate, telling his children, "Listen, you might want to pack a few of your things together before you go to bed. The former bishop from Turkey will be coming along with six to eight black men. They might put some candy in your shoes, they might stuff you in a sack and take you to Spain, or they might just pretend to kick you. We don't know for sure, but we want you to be prepared."
Oscar finished his story just as we arrived at the station. He was a polite and interesting guy-very good company-but when he offered to wait until my train arrived, I begged off, saying I had some calls to make. Sitting alone in the vast terminal, surrounded by other polite, seemingly interesting Dutch people, I couldn't help but feel second-rate. Yes, it was a small country, but it had six to eight black men and a really good bedtime story." (source: http://people.cornell.edu/pages/bs16/Christmas/6_to_8_black_men.txt)

Toddler truths

"We hold these truths to be self-evident..."
Declaration of Independence

As I was considering another episode in the sporadically erupting Dutch-American conflict (this one now affectionately known as “tree-gate”), I came to the realization that we could all really get along, if only we became aware of our “toddler truths”. No, I don’t mean we should have all been hugged more when we were kids, although I’m sure that’s true too. I’m talking about those ideas, behaviors, and attitudes that come so natural, and are so self-evident to us that we don’t ever stop to think about them. A toddler truth for me would be that you do your dishes right after dinner. Before you say “well, yeah, doesn’t everyone do that?”, think about the millions of people (several of whom I roomed with) who leave their dishes until after the news, or right before bed, or the next day (or never). Another toddler truth in our family is that, if it’s feasible, you pay for your child’s education, regardless of their major. I never realized this was not a given for everyone, until a friend of mine expressed absolute horror at the idea that we would shell out thousands of dollars for, say, an art degree. And if you want to get completely tree-huggy-bleeding-heart, imagine what would happen if all the people fighting in the world realized that what they thought to be true (this is my land, these people are inferior, and so on) is really just true for them. Would they all stop fighting? Probably not, but they sure would understand themselves a whole lot better.

But I don’t want to talk about saving the world today. What’s interesting to me is that most people go through life completely unaware of their toddler truths. They learned things and acquired behavior when they were little, and that was that. And yes, to some extent, I used to be, and still am, like that too. I say to some extent because growing up in countries besides your own has a funny way of making you realize that your way is not necessarily “the” way. Living in France, for instance, taught me that eating your dinner after seven does not make you fat or sick, timeliness is relative, and that dents in your car are really not a big deal. On the other hand, living in Germany I learned that all of that is not true, while my time in Texas taught me that roaches really aren't scary.

Marriage to a foreigner though is the one sure-fire way to guarantee that all your toddler truths will eventually be revealed. The catch to that is because they are so self-evident to you, that it takes a clash between you and your loved one to make you aware of those pesky little truths. So it took a Saturday morning spat a long time ago for my husband to realize that leaving windows open when you are gone is not considered safe by everyone around you (namely me). And it took a discussion that would have made professional negotiators proud, for me to realize that not everyone thinks that ornaments made by the kids can just go into a box after a few years. The tricky part is that although it helps to know that something is a toddler truth, it doesn’t do anything to solve the problem. So after window-gate, and tree-gate, there is always the need for peace negotiations, which usually involves the mother of all nuisances, a compromise. We compromised on the windows, we compromised on summer vacations, we compromised on cleanliness, and we have (somewhat) compromised on the tree-discussion, and we’ll probably compromise on a million other little things. And eventually we’ll developed our own personalized toddler-truths, to then pass on to our children, who, I’m sure, will be less than grateful for that a few years from now. Oh well. That’s a parent’s prerogative. And that is not a toddler truth:)

Guy Smiley

Thanksgiving betekent in onze familie een vijf-uur durende road trip naar de schoonfamilie. En met twee kinderen betekent dat ook zorgen voor vermaak. Zonder luxe DVD syteem, en met de weet dat het radio aanbod, naarmate we verder de boondocks van Alabama en Florida inrijden, gereduceerd wordt tot Country, Classic Country, en Old School Country, is het vermaken van de kinderen een soort familie-sport geworden. Toen wij vroeger op verre reizen gingen, konden we ons nog vermaken met het tellen van Nederlandse auto’s, of een bepaald soort merk auto, maar hier komen we zo weinig verkeer, en bebouwing tegen, dat de kinderen daar na vijf minuten klaar mee zijn. En dus zijn we aangewezen op onze eigen creativiteit.

Ons grootste succes is nog steeds manliefs imitatie van Guy Smiley, de beroemde televisie presentator uit Sesame Street (zie ook hier). Met een bijna identitieke stem, presenteert manlief soms urenlang hele programma’s die altijd beginnen met “This is Guy Smiley, reporting live from the inside of this car!”. Daarna volgt dan altijd iets in de trant van “And today I have with me two baboons in the backseat!” of “And today I will be talking to the first man who laid a turd (gelach van de achterbank) bigger than his face! So tell me, what did your face think about that?”. Soms word ik ook “gevraagd” om mee te doen, en zo heb ik al Dolly Parton mogen spelen, Miss Piggy, en “The crazy woman from an even crazier country”.

Wat het ook altijd goed doet is meezingen met de muziek op de radio, maar dan met zelfverzonnen teksten. Zo werd gisteren een liedje van een flinke schreeuw-en harde-gitaar-band veranderd in een tekst over een jongen met een fout kapsel; “I had a really bad day, cause I couldn’t get my hair to stay, and when I went outside, I looked so bad people thought I died, but I was only freezing, and so then I couldn’t stop sneezing”. De jongens worden daar ook steeds bekwamer in, en de oudste verzint sinds kort bij elk liedje van een bepaalde band een hele saga omtrent zijn leven “in a box in Mississippi”. Bij muziek van Drowning Pool wordt er altijd een soort mini-moshpit in de achterbank gehouden, en bij alle banjo en gitaar muziek kan de airguitar natuurlijk niet achterwege blijven. Het is al meerdere keren voorgekomen dat we bijna in de berm belanden om manlief het niet kon laten om even mee te tokkelen met een of andere foute 80s rockband.

Woordspelletjes zijn ook altijd populair. Zo zijn de “knock knock” grapjes nog steeds niet saai, en lag ik gisteren helemaal in een deuk om de lang-vergeten “Why is six afraid of seven? Cause seven eight (ate) nine!”. En recentelijk hebben de kinderen recentelijk “That’s what she said” uitgevonden. Dus toen manlief en ik de truck aan het inladen waren, en ik vroeg of hij het van de voor of achterkant wilde doen, riepen de kinderen triomfantelijk vanuit de cab; “That’s what she said!”. Gepast? Nee. Leuk? Jazeker.

En uiteraard krijgen we ook steeds meer diepzinnige vragen. Zoals waarom er Motel 6’s zijn, Motel 8’s, maar geen Motel 7’s. En waarom sommige boeren een wit hek hebben en anderen een zwart. En hoe katoen nu eigenlijk geplukt wordt. En ga zo maar door. Het is in ieder geval nooit saai bij ons in de auto. Maar als iemand nog tips of ideetjes heeft, dan zijn deze van harte welkom!

Thanksgiving 2008

Sweet potatoes, corn, turkey dressing, giblet gravy, rolls, corn casserole, green bean casserole, deviled eggs, assorted beans, candied yams, chicken and dumplings, honey-glazed spiral-cut ham, mashed potatoes, and two turkeys, one smoked and one baked.

And that wasn't all. For desert we had:
pecan pie, pumpkin pie, cherry pie, carrot cake, apple raisin walnut pie, mince meat pie, lemon meringue pie, chocolate ice box pie, and ice cream.

And of course this being my "country" relatives, we had beer and paintball too.

The "perfect" Thanksgiving. Now someone roll me home please.

National Day of Listening

Yesterday, as I was sitting in the studio of our student-run radio station, taping a segment of a talk show, I suddenly realized how much people talk and how little they listen. For the first time that day, I found myself really making a conscious effort to listen to what our guest had to say, without thinking about what I could say to make the conversation more interesting, funny, or enjoyable.

Now I don’t want all of you to think that I’m one of those people who pretends to listen and then doesn’t. I don’t do that. Well, except maybe when my husband is talking about his wild plans to purchase a boat again. Or when a student comes in with an excuse. Or when my co-worker Steve wants to talk about assigning square footage in the new building again. In those cases I nod and smile and then forget all about it. But in most other cases, I listen. I do. Just not all the time.

However, living in a part of the world where asking how someone is and then not waiting for the answer is perfectly normal, I have begun to wonder how often we, or I, actually listen to people. How often have you said “How are you?”, “That’s just great!”, or “I’m so sorry” today, while you were really thinking about something else? If you live in the south, I will bet my husband’s yet to be bought boat that it was at least once. It seems as though conversations down here are about establishing the feel of a relationship so much more than they are about actually getting to know people. And the social scientist in me thinks that is a missed opportunity.

As I’ve mentioned before, I spend at least two hours each day listening to NPR. Without wanting to go into my unparalleled adoration for NPR once again, I do want to point out how much I enjoy just listening to their content. NPR is different in that it doesn’t just present quick snippets of news, but it also airs segments on very mundane topics such “Life in a town where the textile industry shut down”, or “Dating among Hindustani in the US”. Segments which provide a brief glimpse into people’s daily lives, and allows listeners to hear their voices and walk in their shoes for just a few minutes. One my favorite segments is something called “StoryCorps”, a series where each week a regular person talks about a special event or struggle in their life.

Every time I hear a new StoryCorps fragment, I realize how important it is to listen while you still can. My maternal grandmother, Truus, lived through the second world war, and was never given an opportunity to talk about the trauma she lived through. The horrors of evacuation, of losing her home, not knowing if her family was alright, of spending three years in another part of the country with people she did not know and whose religion she did not share. She would always drop snippets of memories here and there, but no one ever truly listened. And then one summer, right after college graduation, I, a newly minted social scientist, told my grandmother I would bring in a tape recorder and she could tell me her entire life story. My grandmother seemed so excited. But it never happened. I got a job, went to work, forgot all about my promise, and three months later my grandmother died. And no one ever got to listen to her story.

This Friday has been proclaimed the National Day of Listening. A day in which people are encouraged to truly listen to those they love, and maybe even those they don’t know that well. I’m a little embarrassed to think of all those times I have thought of people who just jabbered on as a nuisance. I guess all they wanted was someone to listen to them. So this Thanksgiving holiday, I am going to make a conscious effort to really listen. And yes, Steve, next time you come in with building plans, I promise I will listen to you too.

Over hardlopen

Ik baal. Ik baal omdat gisteren tijdens het hardlopen mijn linkerknie het heeft begeven. Ik weet het, dit gaat niet over wonen in Amerika, het heeft niks te maken met het werken op een Amerikaanse universiteit, en zegt ook al helemaal niks over de ups en downs van een multicultureel huwelijk. Maar “write what you know” is mijn motto, dus vandaar dat ik het vandaag dus even over mijn linkerknie wil hebben. Een klaarblijkelijk te vaak genegeerd lichaamsdeel.

Sinds het begin van mijn promotietraject is fanatiek sporten mijn passie. Ik kwam er vrij snel achter dat zonder een grote passie naast mijn werk ik binnen de korste keren overwerkt achter de geraniums zou zitten, en dus werd sporten hobby nummer 1. Het begon met fitness, maar de prijzen van de sportschool en steeds dezelfde oefeningen doen begon al snel te vervelen. Toen ontdekte ik karate. Heerlijk twee a drie keer per week tekeer gaan in een veel te koude ruimte onder het gekreet van een ogenschijnlijke superlieve Japanse opa, die echter binnen een mum van tijd de grootste lummel van de dojo op de vloer kon krijgen. En enkele jaren later ontdekte ik hardlopen. Manlief is altijd een fanatiek hardloper geweest, dus toen wij elkaar leerden kennen was het niet lang voordat we samen gingen hardlopen.

Aangezien ik sinds onze terugkeer naar de VS nog geen echt fanatieke dojo heb kunnen vinden, ben ik sinds anderhalf jaar een “one sport athlete”. Maar hardlopen is meer dan een sport, het is, zoals een t-shirt dat ik laatst zag zei “my therapy”. Het is mijn zen-moment, mijn comfort zone, mijn “walk and talk with God”, mijn even-lekker-met-mezelf-alleen uurtje. En ik vind het heerlijk om te kijken hoe ver ik kan gaan. Liep ik eerst alleen 5k races, dit jaar ben ik meer op afstanden gaan trainen. Zo heb ik in April de 15k in de kersenbloesem gelopen, en terwijl ik in Nederland was deze zomer heb ik er even een 10k doorgejaagd. En nu ben ik dus aan het trainen voor een halve marathon. Dat houdt in dat ik elke zondag een lange loop doe, en door de week een korte (5k) en een middellange afstand (8-10k).

Gisteren zou ik dus voor de tweede week op rij 11 mijl lopen. Maar na 4 mijl besloot mijn knie dat dat toch echt niet zou gaan gebeuren deze week. Het begon met een onschuldige “ache”. Even voor de duidelijkheid; hardlopen betekent het hebben van “aches”, of pijntjes. Je kleine teennagel snijdt in de ernaast liggende teen, je kuitspier is “tight”, je schouders zijn stijf, het hoort er allemaal bij. En dus loop je (ik, we) door deze pijntjes heen. Maar deze keer was het geen pijntje. De buitenkant van knie leek wel in brand te staan, en dus moest ik na een mijl van toch nog proberen, vloeken en verbijten het toch echt opgeven en omdraaien. En de vier mijl terug naar huis lopen.

Stiekem hoopte ik dat het vandaag over zou zijn. Maar helaas pindakaas. Ik ben met de lift naar mijn kantoor gegaan omdat ik geen trap opkan, en vrees het ergste. Online lees ik allemaal enge dingen over ITB en ontstekingen en, het allerergste, rusthouden. Niet hardlopen?! Wat moet ik dan? Het klinkt raar, ik weet het. Maar manlief verwoorde het gisteren perfect; “When you’re always out and about, and doing things for other people, running is really all you have.”

Ik weet het. Er is niks aan te doen. Ik moet luisteren naar mijn lichaam. Mijn lijft heeft rust nodig. Hebben we nog meer platitudes? Oh ja, het gaat echt wel weer over. Het is allemaal waar. Maar ik kan jullie verzekeren dat ik, bij de gedachte dat ik nu dus vanavond maar moet gaan –fietsen-, nu al verschrikkelijk chagrijnig word. Het is een beetje als die hele oude Nederlandse reclame: “Weet waar je NL voor staat? Juist! Niet Lopen!”. Inderdaad.

Here's your sign: you're busy!

You know you’re really too busy when:

You start to talk in terms of minutes; “I’ll have that for you in a minute”, “Give me fifteen seconds and I will be ready”, “I am going to be with you in under thirty seconds”.

You hear a message from a student just asking you to call them back, and you hit
“7” (delete) before they’re finished telling you their number. You figure that if it’s really important, they’ll take out the time to come and see you.

You start to consider putting up signs on your office door that say things like “Grading. Do not disturb. If you do, your grade may be the one to suffer”, and “Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part”.

You have not had a proper phone conversation with a loved on for a week straight. This in spite of the fact that they do call at least once a day.

When a co-worker tells to you to read the third line the last paragraph of a paper, your mind is so preoccupied with ten other things, you end up reading the last line in the third paragraph, and wondering why he’s so worked about it.

You see a student come into your office from the corner of your eye, use your head to gesture for them to have a seat since you’re on the phone with another student and typing up an email.

You wonder why your stomach is growling, and then realize it’s almost 3, and you still haven’t had your lunch yet.

You start saying “no” to students and leave it at that.

You then don’t even care about the “deer in the headlights” look that students will give you.

You won’t let yourself watch TV at night, because there are far better things to do, like grading papers or preparing final exams.

You haven’t seen daylight hit your bedroom in at least four days.

And finally:
You can’t even bother to write a proper post for your blog!

Little puppies...

...don't stay little nearly long enough!

when I finally got our first pictures of Zoe developed last week, I was amazed at how much she has grown. Although she's still very much a puppy, she's definitely no longer the tiny little thing we brought home in August. Her visit to the vet confirmed this; on our first visit, Zoe weighed all of six pounds, and last week she was up to thirty! It's no wonder I have a hard time carrying her around these days. Our little girl is growing up fast; we haven't had an accident inside the house in weeks (watch her mess up tonight), she has been sleeping through the night for the longest time now, and two weeks ago, successfully went through puppy graduation. Time just goes by way too fast.

But just because she's getting bigger, doesn't mean she's not lovable, or we're not proud of her anymore. And to underline that, I've enclosed some pictures below.


If I hide under this pillow, they can't see me here, and I won't get in trouble for sitting on the bed!


Right, and I'm wearing this annoying cap why again?

Authenticity

Political correctness is getting on my nerves. There. I know it’s blunt, and politically incorrect, but it’s the truth. And although I did think about saying it nicely, or perhaps in less blatant terms, I decided that was too much work. And I honestly am tired of having to worry about how I phrase every other concept. Admittedly, I’m sure the original intentions of political correctness were great. But lately, however, I really feel like it’s gotten out of hand. I mean, when “overweight” has become rude, and phrases like “blind” or “a lazy student” are considered unacceptable, what are we doing to ourselves?

Now I understand that when it comes to sensitive issues such as race, religion, or even health, it’s important to take people’s feelings into account. Obviously, it’s not cool to use words like “colored” for African Americans, since words like that hold far too many negative connotations. And I think we can all see why calling gay people “queer” if you’re not gay yourself is offensive. And despite my blunt honesty, I am all about making sure I don’t hurt anyone’s feelings. After all, I don’t like to be called a “bleeding-hart tree-hugger” either (although you are all free to call me short and skinny).

My main beef with political correctness is that it can make addressing important issues feel like verbal acrobatics. How can you address race relations if you don’t know whether your black counterpart prefers “African American” or “black”? How can you talk about gay marriage when you’re not sure if your friend is a gay woman or a lesbian? I’ve come to the point now where I say both and ask the people I’m talking to which they prefer. I was actually thinking that the perfect solution would be to, prior to each conversation, hand out a little questionnaire where people can check which phrase they prefer you use. That way you can be sure you won’t feel like you’re offending anyone. Seriously, sometimes it seems as though we’re more worried about how we phrase things than what we actually say. And how conducive is that to our society?

I have to tell you though that the proverbial straw for me was the ongoing brouhaha over “Merry Christmas”. Apparently some organizations, people, and even corporations decided that since not all of their customers are Christian, “Happy Holidays” would be more suitable. Honestly, that’s fine by me, although I do wonder if they thought of those groups who don’t believe in any kind of holidays, such as the Jehova’s Witnesses. But since nobody asked me, I’m not going to complain. However, when people started to suggest that it might be better to not wish others a Merry Christmas, since I’m not always aware of everyone’s religious preferences and thus might offend them, I decided I had had enough with the whole political correctness thing. I mean, I celebrate Christmas, why can’t I wish that spirit on other people? And seriously, I can use all the good wishes that are out there, so if an atheist were to wish me a wonderful December filled with pointless fairytale beliefs, I would probably be happy with that too.

So I thought about it, and here is my solution: let’s all just be who we are. Be authentic. If you’re a Christian, wish everyone Merry Christmas, but be prepared to have people tell you they don’t do Christmas, and then be cool about it. If you talk about a sensitive issue, do your best to use the term you think works best, but don’t agonize about the million and one ways in which you may offend someone. If you do your best to be sensitive to people’s needs and hurts, that should be good enough for everyone.

It's raining, it's pouring

To say that I used to hate rain when I lived in Holland would be a true understatement. I didn’t just dislike rain, I detested it. Those endless days of grey skies with never-ending drizzle that would soak you right through the bone would always have me wishing for a life on a sunny beach, in the snowy mountains, on a frozen fjord, heck, even on the tornado-filled plains, anywhere but in the rain.

Of course, I didn’t mind an occasional rainy Sunday. You know, one of those days where you don’t have anywhere to be, you can stay in bed and listen to the rain pattering on the roof, or sit on the couch, light some candles, and enjoy the coziness of being inside where it’s nice and warm. However, there is no such thing as “an occasional rainy Sunday” in Holland. A rainy Sunday will almost always translate into a rainy Monday, probably will also entail a rainy Tuesday, and may even extend into Wednesday. If you’re lucky, the rain will persist all the way through the next Sunday, only to clear up in time for you to go to work. Honestly, when we lived in Holland (and in Germany too actually), there would be days and days without even a ray of sunshine. You would be surrounded by heavy grey clouds and outbursts of rain for weeks on end. Sure, the countryside was nice and green as a result, but eventually, even the happiest people were ready to migrate to sunnier places.

Now if you’ve ever lived in Holland or Germany, you know that the main problem is not so much the dreariness of all the rain, although admittedly, it doesn’t exactly help the whole situation. The reason why people there dislike rain with such intensity is the fact that daily life is set up in such a way that when it rains, you will get wet. And probably very much so, and very often too. Now, in a way, I blame the Dutch themselves for this. People in Holland, as I’ve mentioned before, love their bicycles. They will ride them everywhere, albeit sometimes out of sheer necessity, because there may not be any parking where they work, or because traffic is simply too bad. But that means that when it rains, and you have to go to work, you will get soaked. Some people get smart about this, and make sure they have a rainproof jacket on at all times, and a pair of rainproof pants with them when they’re on their bikes. In spite of all those precautions though, there is no guarantee the rain won’t seep through your shoes, or your hood won’t blow off your head, and you’ll get wet anyway. And then there are some people who aren’t that lucky (or well-prepared, depending on your perspective), and will thus have to endure wet pants, wet hair, wet shoes, and wet socks at work. I can’t count the number of times I saw very important deans and professors walk into the department looking more like a drowned cat than an important public figure. If you’ve ever wondered why Dutch women don’t sport the beautiful hairdos often favored by women down here, think bicycling to work in the rain. Fortunately, everybody does dry eventually, and usually right in time to discover that it’s still raining when it’s time to go home.

Now let’s say you are one of the lucky ones, and you take your car to work. Congratulations, you won’t walk into work looking a drowned animal. However, since Holland is not known for its spacious parking lots with enough room for everyone inside the building they are serving, and these lots are usually placed in a strategic position where they don’t interfere with the aesthetics of the building (read: really far away), you will still not be able to escape the continual rain. Yes, that is adding insult to injury, but there you have it.

Ever since I moved to Georgia, I don’t mind rain anymore. Obviously, it doesn’t rain far as often as it does in Holland, and there’s also no need to ever really get wet. As I mentioned a few months ago, only homeless people, people without a license, and crazy Dutch women use their bikes to actually go places, most everyone else uses their car to get around. So when it does rain, like today, I just walk into our garage, hop in the car, drive to my destination warm and dry, and once I get there, take a few quick steps and find myself in a nice and dry building. It’s wonderful.

I have to admit though that rain in Georgia is a whole ‘nother experience. Rain usually equals mugginess, you know, the real southern humidity. The kind that feels like you’ve just stepped into a Turkish steambath with all your clothes on. So this morning when we woke up, there was a fog-like mist everywhere. It wasn’t actual fog, it was just steam coming from the wet ground that really had no place to go, because it was so humid already. The window in my office is all covered in condensation this morning, and I don’t think one of my wing mirrors ever de-fogged. Like I said; it’s interesting. But you know what, for a change I’m not complaining. I know that the sun will be very likely to shine again tomorrow, and I will take all the humidity in the world for that.

Soms...

Soms lopen dagen niet zoals je het graag zou hebben. Soms is het allemaal niet zo makkelijk, of leuk, of gezellig. Normaal loop ik rond als de optimist zelve, klaar voor een gezellig praatje, of een geintje, klaar om een vastgelopen student verder te helpen, of een luie student vooruit te prikkelen. Maar, zoals een bekende Nederlandse reclame ooit zei; "Nu even niet!"

Met twee semesters achter de rug, weet ik ondertussen dat dit soort mindere dagen vaak exponentieel toenemen naarmate het einde van het semester in zicht komt. En het lijkt erop alsof dit keerpunt deze week is bereikt. Deze week is het namelijk advisement week; de week waarin studenten hun vakken voor volgend jaar kiezen. Voor de eerste-en tweedejaars is dit een vrij simpele procedure. Zij zitten vast aan een bepaalde rotation, en behalve als ze gezakt zijn voor bepaalde basisvakken, dan stromen ze makkelijk door in de meer geavanceerde vakken. Voor de juniors (3e jaars) en seniors (4e jaars) ligt dit vaak anders. Deze studenten hebben vaak al een afstudeerdatum op het oog, wat betekent dat ze zich aan een strak regime van vakken moeten houden om die datum te halen. Helaas blijkt regelmatig dat deze studenten, ondanks hun enthousiasme, niet alles gedaan hebben zoals het hoort, en dus een, of soms zelfs twee, semesters langer op de universiteit moeten blijven. Als ze zelf hun optel –en uitrekeningsommetjes goed zouden doen zouden ze hier ook zelf achter kunen komen, maar helaas is het vaak de adviser die hen met de vervelende waarheid moet confronteren. Voeg hier aan toe dat het semester op het einde loopt, en alle grote opdrachten tussen nu en twee weken binnen moeten zijn, en het wordt al snel duidelijk dat de sfeer onder de studenten soms verre van ideaal is.

Dit is niet is dat alleen voorbehouden is aan Amerikaanse studenten. Ook Nederlandse studenten kunnen heel goed mopperen en klagen over alles wat er mis is met de opleiding. Het grote verschil is dat je als docent op een Nederlandse universiteit lang niet zoveel interactie hebt met je studenten als hier. Zo kan ik me niet herinneren dat studenten in Nederland op elk moment van de dag je kantoor binnenlopen met problemen die uiteenlopen van vragen over vakken en opdrachten, opmerkingen over de aanwezigheid van andere docenten, vragen over mogen gebruiken van mijn printer/telefoon/internet, of het lenen van plakband, nietmachine, en kauwgum, tot aan vragen over relaties, ouders, en huisgenoten toe. Door deze hoge mate van student-docent interactie wordt je hier dus ook veel meer geconfronteerd met de (on)vrede van de studenten.

Zo heb ik vandaag mogen vernemen dat ik niet alleen veel te streng ben, maar ook onaardig, en gemeen. Daarnaast ben ik ook nog eens verschrikkelijk oneerlijk omdat studenten van mij allemaal extra vakken moeten doen die ze, volgens hen, eigenlijk niet nodig hebben. Volgens een student was ik veel te kieskeurig met het nakijken van zijn werk, en volgens een ander zag ik er veel te netjes gekleed uit. Op zulke momenten kan ik niet meer doen dan heel erg diep zuchten. En bedenken dat het allemaal wel weer over gaat. En nog maar eens diep zuchten. En me realiseren dat de Amerikanen goed weten waar ze het over hebben als ze weer eens opmerken dat “you can’t win ‘em all”.

En op dagen zoals dit kan een beetje humor, zoals hier van Paula Poundstone, helemaal geen kwaad!

Dreamers

I don’t know if it’s just our students, our university, or my becoming an old cynic, but the students I teach these days are possibly the most amazing dreamers I have ever run across in my life. And they dream big. They want to be the programming director of a major radio station, the next Christiane Amanpour, the next Oprah Winfrey, a music producer, a researcher on a par with George Gerbner, and the biggest DJ ever known to the entire US. I love nothing more than meeting our sophomores for the first time in Comm 2001, and having them tell me about what they will do with their degree. But as our students move up through our program, sometimes all their dreaming worries me. Now I’m not saying you shouldn’t dream. It’s cool to dream. You should live, eat, and sleep your dreams. By all means, dream away. But at one point you have got to start getting real, and starting making plans about how to realize that particular dream. And that’s where I’m not so sure about some of our students.

Our students here have all the opportunities imaginable to start building a pathway to a successful career in media, or media research. We have a television station, a radio station, a student newspaper, and endless opportunities for student research. Yet very few students seem to take advantage of all this. Many of our students don’t seem to take the time to go out and shoot a packet for the news broadcast, or write a good clean news article, or produce a weekly radio show. Yet these same students, when asked about their dreams in class, will voice grand ideals about a career in media.

And it’s not that we don’t tell them about what it takes to be successful. We do. Endlessly. We talk about the need for a reel if you want to go into television, the need for an awesome portfolio if you want to be a journalist, the need for research experience if you’re looking into graduate school. We tell them that only lots of hard work will get them close to where they want to be. We remind them constantly that the real world is only a few years away. But with some students, it doesn’t seem to hit home. They prefer to dream.

Now in my world, dreaming is just the first step on the road to success. If you don’t get past the dreaming-stage, you will most likely never get anywhere beyond a “Would you like fries with that?” Just yesterday I told a student who is about to graduate that “success has nothing to do with talent, and everything to do with determination.” It’s all about the work you put in. “Could-a, would-a, should-a” never brought anyone success.

The problem is that in order to truly be successful, you need to be intrinsically motivated. You need to want something from your smallest toe to the top of your head. Only then will you have the dedication to fight your way to wherever you are headed. And I’m not sure if many of our students really want what they say they dream about. I think many of them have been told that success and a famous name is what they want so often, they have started to believe it themselves. Many of them may have also been told that this is what they want because it’s possible. After all, many of my students have parents and grandparents who distinctly remember all the things they couldn’t be and do. Now that this generation has all that within reach, why shouldn’t they want it?

By the time our students get to college, they have been exposed to so many motivational speakers telling them to believe in themselves, to dream the unthinkable, to believe in their dreams, to not let anyone bring them down, that perhaps our students have forgotten to look deep inside themselves to figure out what it is that they want. And us professors, we can talk all we want, but if there’s not a little fire lit inside that tells you to do whatever it takes, there is little we can do. I like to compare it to running. Almost everyone can run a 5k on adrenaline, the crowds cheering them on, and the inspiring speeches before the race starts. But if you want to finish a 15k or even a half marathon, those outside factors won’t make a single difference. Your desire to finish needs to come from deep inside of you. And you know what, I don't think attaining success is a 5k race.

So then the question remains; should I be just another motivational speaker telling my students what is they want, or should I let them flounder and discover for themselves whether or not they have that little fire pushing them forward?

A small new leaf

“The truth shall set you free…”

Just when I had resigned myself to living in a world where “sure” means “no”, saying “that sucks” leads to at least a gasp and a “oh my”, “crap” is considered a cutting-edge cuss word, and no matter how many times people ask you how they are, they still don’t really care, I shared a completely eye-opening truth-filled moment with a friend this weekend.

It started because we both attended a social on Saturday where I spent the better part of two hours feeling slightly awkward. Although the women there were really friendly, and the food was great, I still could not help but feeling like an anthropologist on her first field trip. It started when a lady new to town (and dear to me already) said “Well that just pissed me off” and had at least two other ladies in absolute shock. It got worse when I heard one woman ask another how she was. The second lady apparently decided to throw all Georgia etiquette in the wind, and said; “Well, it’s okay”, which is the southern equivalent of saying that you are just about ready to throw in the towel. Instead of asking what was wrong; we were, after all, at a church, the first women smiled, said; “Okay”, and moved on. And I knew this wasn’t going to be my party when a third woman told me her husband’s return from his first deployment had been postponed indefinitely, but that that was “really fine, oh yeah, I mean, I’m having a great time! ”.

Now imagine my complete relief, total surprise, and absolute delight when we got home and my friend turned to me and asked; “Wow, did you find that as awkward as I did?” It was a total epiphany to find that someone, who in my eyes was, and is, the perfect southern lady (I mean she’s nice, polite, knows how to get along with everyone, and is a great cook to boot), felt the exact same way I did.

It got even better when I mumbled something like; “And this whole cussing thing gets on my nerves. Sometimes I feel so repressed, I just want to run off my mouth like a sailor, and she replied; “I know! Me too!”
“You do not swear.” I said unbelieving.
“Hell yeah I swear. You should hear me at home sometimes.”

It felt like rediscovering my friend all over again. Suddenly we both just opened up, and found that we both get so tired of the lack of authenticity, the people who pretend to care but don’t, the judging, the pressure, the competition, and all the other things that have been bothering me for the past year. So during our run we decided we were going to do things differently from now on. No more pretending, no more playing along with the “my kids/husband/family/home/career/faith” is better than you game, no more hypocrisy. We were just going to be real. Hallelujah, life is going to get a whole lot better now!

“…and thank God Almighty I’m free at last!”

Letting go

Just for the record, I get attached to things. Now although I’m not one of those scary people whose house is so full of coasters, empty soda bottles and used USPS boxes, that they make it on Oprah, it can get a tad annoying for both myself and the people around me. This is mainly because the things I get attached to are, at times, a little out of the ordinary. Odd things that you wouldn’t expect, like handkerchiefs, old school planners, little notes people wrote me in bygone days, an ancient field hockey skirt, and all of my racing bibs.

Apparently, bank accounts now belong to this group of oddities too. See, I have two Dutch bank accounts. When I was a little five-year old, my parents opened up a savings account for me at one bank, and then when I went to college, the free gift and checking offer induced me to open a second account at another bank. So pretty much for as long as I have had a semi-steady income, I have had these same two bank accounts. Now that I don’t live in the Netherlands anymore, however, the need for two accounts has pretty much disappeared. Calculate in the fact that both still charge me a quarterly fee, and you see why I really should close at least one bank account. So last night, as I was trying to fix an address change gone awry with one of the two banks, I realized it was time to let go of the least active bank account. I made up my mind, and went to bed happy. But this morning, all sorts of thoughts have begun to run through my head, and I started to doubt last night’s decision all over again. I mean, the account I hardly ever use is the one my parents opened for me when I was five. I’ve had that account for decades; do I really need to close it now? Plus the people at that bank are really much nicer than the people at the other bank. Maybe I should just transfer some money from the other account and start using this one more often. But somewhere in the back of my head, a little voice is saying; It’s a bank account for crying out loud! It’s not your first shoes, your first doll, or even your swimming diploma, it’s a series of numbers! And so the battle continues inside my head.

Trust me, this is nothing new for me. When I had to give up my Dutch driver’s license to obtain a Georgia one, I cried. And not just in the car, I cried inside the DMV. I cringe when I think about it; I mean, I sniffled over a pink piece of paper that never fit in my wallet, and was torn and scruffy from years of use. But you see, as I explained to my husband, it was the driver’s license I had worked my but off for. It was the driver’s license that I actually had to earn. I mean, no offense to American drivers here, but when you can obtain your license at 16, after having driven around with your dad, and taking a 15-mins spin around a parking lot, you haven’t truly earned it. And, most importantly, that ugly oblong piece of paper felt like one of my last ties to Holland.

And I feel the same way about that second bank account, the old bookcase that we really should get rid of, some of my clothes, and the content of at least three boxes up in the attic. They all come from Holland, or even France or Germany. All places I’ve called home, and that I will probably never again see like that again. Now when I said I’m not a packrat, I did mean that. I can and do limit myself to the kind of stuff I can hold on to. Once a year I will force myself to go through all of my things and do some seriously cleaning up. Sometimes I wonder though if all that does is make me more attached to the odds and ends I do decide to hang on to.

And, honestly people, how much room does a bank account take up? Could I please just not keep it and then maybe reconsider next year? Please…?

Driving to work - James Joyce style *

Thank heavens I’m off the interstate. I really hate that last part with all the concrete barriers on either side and trucks racing by you like there is speed limit, I swear one day I’m going to get hit from behind while trying to exit. Well at least it’s light out now although that probably won’t last long either and then I’ll be driving to and from home in the dark. The dark just makes me sleepy when I drive, is there any tea left in this thing, I better not drink too much or I’ll have to stop to go to the bathroom, wow it’s foggy here too I can barely see that semi up ahead and it’s not that far away, I hope everyone remembers to turn their lights on or I will have an accident. Oh, another deer on the side of the road… aaawwww… well at least it’s still in one piece and doesn’t have its body parts all strewn across the road, maybe I should stop and pick it up and get it stuffed and be really southern. Yeah. Oh man, if there’s a deer crossing the road right now I am so dead, I can’t see a thing in this pea soup… ooooh… but those woods sure look pretty with the fog swirling between the trees. And look at those cotton fields, it’s almost like a fairy tale with the sun lighting up the fog and the endless fields of brown bushes, hhmm.. why I can’t see the cotton as well now as I can in the evening and afternoon, I wonder if cotton closes up at night like flowers, I should find out about that because that would be really neat…ooh...look at that shack over there it is really starting to fall apart, maybe I should stop and take a few pictures to put on my blog, the fog makes everything looks so surreal. I always say I’m going to stop and then I never do, and then the next thing I know the shack will be gone and I’ll be all like, ooh, I wish I had taken a picture of that Dude if you pull out in front of me I am going to be up your butt like nobody’s business. Good you decided not to, sheesh, idiot. Dang, this bridge sucks all my windows always fog up around this lake I wonder why. Oh, Bryce’s BBQ shack I really need to stop there one day and pick up some ribs for D he loves ribs, maybe I should call him later today and ask him if he would like me to do that on Friday. “And I will try to collect all the pieces you left I will carry them all and let you forget”, that song is so sad. What if my parents got Alzheimer and wouldn’t remember me or my youth then what would be left of me? I don’t even live in the place I come from, well, I don’t really have one place I come from anyway, but still who would remember me as a child, that is really sad… hhmm…but who I am is also who I was when I was little so don’t you always carry that around with you regardless of who remembers? I can’t wait for my parents to get here I wish they lived a lot closer so we could just stop by for tea. Time goes by too fast, I can’t believe M doesn’t fit the jeans we bought him at the beginning of the school year anymore, why can’t they just stay little a little while longer? Whoa…did they just say “Transsiberian orchestra”? They sure did something about them giving a large tip, how is that news, you can tell the election is over, because the news is starting to get weird again. Look at that church all shrouded in the fog over there in the middle of the fields it’s so pretty. I wonder why they lock their parking lot with a gate though there is nothing around who would park there? Hmmm..shrouded is a pretty word kind of like pickle relish that sh sound is really neat. Sssh..ssshh..now I sound like Bjork, let’s see if I can pick up the university station here oh yeah, I like that jazz I hope can catch some of the morning show..whoa is that school bus stopping? Oh no, it’s just using its blinker, sheesh, it’s like a Christmas tree, well at least you can see it in this fog. Oh, why is that semi stopping? Oh, it’s the traffic light. Huh, did you know that you don’t see a light for about 80 miles on this trip, that is so weird. You do know you think way too much on your drives, yes you do. I wonder if I can remember all this when I get to work.

* For those who are wondering if I have lost my mind, or my ability to use proper punctuation, rest assured, I haven't. If you want to know more about James Joyce and his "stream of consciousness" technique, please check out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stream_of_consciousness_writing

Ik ben d'r klaar voor!

Na twintig maanden van praten, weken van heftige spotjes en telefoontjes ben ik er helemaal klaar voor. Ik zit aan de buis gekluisterd, laptop, drinken, snacks, en een deken (voor het geval het afkoelt en ik niet helemaal naar de thermostaat wil lopen) binnen handbereik, en van mij mag het eindelijk beginnen: de uitslagen van de Amerikaanse presidentsverkiezingen.

Tijdens de primaries dacht ik dat we het ergste wel gezien hadden, maar alle campagne activiteiten van de laatste weken hebben heel duidelijk gemaakt dat het altijd "higher, better, faster" kan. Elk reclame blok werd gevuld met minstens twee politieke advertenties, en we werden minstens een keer per dag gebeld door het kantoor van een of andere kandidaat. Nu is er op zich niks mis met goed campage voeren. Als je eenmaal leert hoe hoog je moet springen om niet over alle advertentiebordjes in de berm te struikelen, kan zo'n intensieve manier van campagne voeren zelfs nog wel eens leerzaam zijn. Maar het politieke circus van de laatste tijd was de fase van echt educatief ver voorbij. De negativiteit van alle reclames voor de lokale verkiezingen hier was bijvoorbeeld zo erg dat manlief en een gegeven moment had bedacht dat hij misschien wel op geen van beide Senaats-kandidaten wilde stemmen. De zogenaamde "robo-calls" hielpen ook niet echt om het positieve gevoel in stand te houden, en de eindeloze discussies op de radio en de televisie over wat er zou gebeuren als kandidaat A of B verkozen zou worden maakten dat wij bijna de behoefte gingen voelen om dagen te tellen tot D-day. Of nou ja, E-day.

We horen het elke dag hier, maar het kan eigenlijk niet vaak genoeg gezegd worden; met een vrouwelijke vice-presidentskandidaat, en een African-american kandidaat voor President is dit wel een hele bijzondere verkiezing. Mijn studenten zijn al maanden in alle staten, en toen vandaag een student per ongeluk liet vallen dat ze niet kon stemmen omdat er iets mis gegaan was met een absentee ballot was de verontwaardiging bijna tastbaar. Alhoewel ik het feit dat mijn studenten, meer dan ik ooit ergens heb meegemaakt, zich echt interesseren voor de politiek natuurlijk prachtig vind, is het ondertussen wel genoeg geweest. De boog is nu al zolang gespannen, het is hoog tijd dat er een einde aan gebreid wordt. Zo zijn de emoties zijn onder de verschillende bevolkingsgroepen ondertussen al zo hoog opgelopen dat de burgermeesters van sommige steden in Georgia de bevolking vanochtend al opriepen tot kalmte.

Het wordt hoog tijd om weer over te gaan tot de orde van de dag. De politieke bordjes mogen de tuinen wel uit, en vervangen worden door kerstversieringen, het nieuws moet weer gewoon aandacht gaan besteden aan honden die vastzitten in putten en politie-achtervolgingen, en de woorden "trooper-gate", "my friends", en "Joe the plumber" moeten maar weer gauw in de vergetelheid raken. Om het op een goede southern manier te brengen: "Let's git 'r done!". Voor de niet-southerners verwijs ik graag naar het orakel der wijze uitspraken, de aloude Spongebob Squarepants, die lang geleden al heel wijselijk zei: "Ik ben d'r klaar voor! Ik ben d'r klaar voor! Ik ben d'r klaar voor!"

Here's your sign

Four signs that you are adapting to life in the south (possibly even a little more than you are comfortable with):

1. You start using really interesting grammatical constructions.
I guess that hearing people say “He done gone to town last week” and “She be doing that right now” has finally caught up with me, because on Friday I brought entire family to a standstill, when I said; “Look at what you done now” when husband-dear threw a ball across the room for Zoe and it hit a lamp. Actually, it may have also been “You be doing what?!", or “You done did what?!”. My actual response caused such a whoop and a holler from my assorted family members, and such embarrassment on my part, that I think my brain blocked out exactly what it was that I said. The point is that in spite of having been a copy editor for years, on insisting on using proper grammar in the briefest of emails, and endlessly correcting students’ papers, southern grammar has apparently even caught up with me.

2. Roadkill doesn’t phase you anymore. At all.
And when I say at all, I mean it. The other day I was out running, and found myself in that wonderful place runners call “the zone”. It’s when you don’t really feel any pain or discomfort, you don’t really have any thoughts going through your head, you’re just in your happy running place. Now a year ago, any kind of roadkill was enough to catapult of out of any zone, and send me flying to the other side of the road. Not anymore. Not only did I not notice the squished squirrel on the side of road, I didn’t even realize I was running over it until my feet hit the asphalt again, and I wondered what the soft furry thing was I had stepped on. And the worst part? When I looked around and realized I had just stepped on a dead furry animal, I merely shrugged and went on my way. Yeah. Wow.

3. You think going to Zaxby’s is a treat.
Allow me to clarify that although it tries to pretend otherwise, Zaxby’s is nothing more than an upscale McDonald’s or Chick-Fil-A. You still have to pick up your very greasy order of chicken and fries at a counter, you still are responsible for throwing your own food away and getting your own refills. The difference is that the ambiance is a little nicer and your food is not served in paper wrappers, but on plastic plates. A year ago I would have preferred anything to Zaxby’s. A bowl of soup at home would have seemed more enjoyable (and just for the record: I am not a soup lover). But this weekend, after having run another idiotic distance, I was so famished for something hot and greasy, that Zaxby’s sounded absolutely wonderful. And I really enjoyed the funky roadsigns they had used for the walls, as well as the chicken fingers and fries. It’s a long ways away from dinners at Michelin-star restaurants, and the scary part is that it felt good.

4. You start putting metallic ribbons on your car.
I know I wrote about those slightly scathingly only a few months ago, yet now I have become one of the crowd too. Just recently I purchased an apple-red ribbon that reads “proud owner of an adopted pet”, which was sold in support of our local animal shelter. The color matches my car, I do very much love my rescue puppy, and wish everyone else would adopt a pet too, and I think supporting your local shelter is a very worthy cause. So have I been taken in by the ribbon-mania? Probably. Do I care? Not really.

Thank goodness the confederate flag draped over someone’s mailbox that I saw yesterday still sent me into a five-minute rant on intolerance, otherwise I would have really considered myself a lost cause.