Midterm madness

Midterms are a lot like giving birth; it's painful, takes far too long, and somehow you forget how horrible it was right after it's over.
Obviously I'm not in the middle of labor right now, but I sure am in the middle of midterms. Once again I'm wondering how on earth I survived this in previous semesters, why I felt the need to assign major papers in three of my classes, and why I thought having students do presentations this week was such a good idea. Between midterms and playing nurse, I have had about ten minutes to sit down in the past five days, have slowly felt my friendliness eroding, and haven't even had a chance to update my blog. It's a complete disgrace. I know.
Now I need to go teach a class, tell a student that they can come back during office hours, grade various papers, and deal with late assignments. I will be back (hopefully anyway).

Florence Nightingale

I am not a Florence Nightingale. I admire people who have the ability to care for sick people, but it´s not for me. And this is funny thing, if you consider that up until about tenth grade, I wanted to be a doctor. Not one of those oddball “PhD”s, but a real medical doctor. I decided against it when I became aware of the practical limitations of that career choice. As I grew older, I realized that moving to different countries, as I had been doing up to that point, and wanted to do, well, pretty much for the rest of my life, meant going back to school to get a different license every time my residence changed. And although I loved school, I wasn’t quite sure if I was ready for that kind of educational commitment. At the same time, I also figured out that once I had decided to be say an oncologist, that is what I would be for the rest of my life. Since I could barely envision myself living anywhere, or doing the same thing for more than four years, this did seem like a good choice. When I ended up rooming with several med students in college, who were always talking about horrible attendings, annoying interns, and ornery patients, I definitely knew I did the right thing. And learned how to develop an iron stomach as a result of my roommates’ tendency to share their medical experiences over dinner.

However, with a husband, two kids, a dog, and a guinneapig, I, from time to time, have no choice but to play nurse (and hopefully do a better job than Florence Nightingale allegedly did). Fortunately, people in my family rarely get sick. As I mentioned this summer when I got sick, that was the first time in twelve years, and I can’t remember the last time husband-dear was laid up. I honestly believe I’ve spent more time dealing with sick pets than I have with sick people. If you ever need advice on how to feed a guinneapig using a syringe, or how to make a dog eat a pill, do let me know.

Today and yesterday, however, I hit the jackpot. Not only was Zoe due for her mandatory spaying, but husband-dear had to have minor surgery. Now I do have to admit that dealing with sick people, and animals, here in the US is a lot easier than it is in Europe. If there is something wrong with you here, a doctor will immediately suggest a solution. In the Netherlands, if you take a sick child to the doctor, they will, nine times out of ten, tell you to “wait and see”for a little while (“laten we het nog even aanzien”). Even if you, as a sick adult, go see a doctor with say a fever and a sore throat, they will most likely barely look at you, and tell you to go home and see how it develops on its own. Now I’m not arguing that we need to medicate every patient that comes in, but it’s nice to at least feel as though your doctor takes your issue seriously. Plus over here, you simply can’t afford to stay at home and see how it develops. I have ten sick days, and I refuse to spend them sitting around the house “seeing how it goes”, when I could be better in a day. But I digress.

Another thing I absolutely love about medical care in the US is the understanding that 1) sometimes you hurt, and 2) making the hurt go away is not a sin. I can still remember my mother’s doctor telling her that a slipped disc didn’t require additional pain medication, and the poor woman was sent home with ibuprofen. Again, I’m not about just drugging people up to the eyeballs, but why should women suffer through childbirth, sometimes for more than 24 hours, without someone suggesting a pain killer? Even the vets here seem to understand that. So when we took Zoe in yesterday morning, the vet recommended giving her an extra pain shot after the surgery. Great! Instead of a dog dragging butt, and whining, our puppy is as good as gold, chewing and playing as though she doesn’t have four sutures in her stomach. And husband-dear was not sent home with a batch of ibuprofen, nope, he was given some serious bona fide painkiller. He’s barely been using it, but it’s nice to know we have it.

In spite of all this though, at the end of the day, I’m still playing Florence Nightingale. I still have to make sure both patients are fed and watered, telling one not to lick their stitches, and ensuring the other one has taken their antibiotics (you decide who’s who). So I took a personal day yesterday and today, mainly because husband-dear is still too wobbly after having been out for several hours to be on his own, and someone had to pick the puppy up from the animal hospital. I spent the whole day preparing meals, making lemonade, fielding calls from friends and family, helping husband-dear put clean clothes on, keeping the dog from running around too much, making sure my husband is still comfortable. I have to say, I admire people who do this for a living. I mean, I love my family, but I can’t imagine doing this for people I don’t know. So kudos to all nurses, and let’s all pray and hope everyone is back on their feet soon!

De DMV

De DMV

Zo op het oog bekeken is Amerika echt een vrij land. De gemiddelde Nederlandse milieustraat heeft meer regels dan de county waarin wij wonen. Amerika kent geen burgerlijke stand, en ook kent Georgia amper regels over wat je wel en niet aan je huis mag verbouwen. En ondanks dat zijn sommige aspecten van het leven zo verschrikkelijk bureaucratisch dat een Nederlandse gemeente er nog een puntje aan zou kunenn zuigen. De DMV, of het Department of Motor Vehicles, is, in ieder geval in Georgia, zo’n prachtig Kafkaesque fenomeen. Het is een organisatie die de meeste mensen zoveel mogelijk proberen te vermijden, maar soms kun je niet anders. En voor was dat vandaag, vanwege een adres wijziging, helaas het geval. Gelukkig biedt een bezoekje aan de DMV wel altijd uren gespreksstof, en dus ook het perfecte onderwerp voor een post!

De DMV in Georgia staat voornamelijk bekend om de vreemde regels. Zo hebben ze hier bedacht dat elke keer als een buitenlander iets aan zijn of haar rijbewijs wil laten veranderen, ze in persoon bij de DMV langs moeten komen om te bewijzen dat hun immigratiestatus nog courant is. Het lijkt op zich logisch. Uiteindelijk kan je verblijfsvergunning in de tussentijd verlopen zijn. Het zou ook een heel zinnig idee zijn, ware het niet dat de verloopdatum van je rijbewijs aan dat van je verblijfsvergunning is gekoppeld. Dus als je verblijfstatus afloopt, is ook je rijbewijs verlopen. Maar nee, dat telt blijkbaar niet. En dus moet arme non-citizens elke keer weer in de auto naar de DMV, terwijl hun Amerikaanse counterparts alles lekker achter de PC kunnen doen.

Maar goed, ik ben de beroerdste niet (en ik heb eigenlijk gewoon geen keuze), en dus ga ik elke keer braaf. Ik leg aan mijn baas uit waarom ik eerder weg moet, en bereid me met een auto vol met papierwerk voor op minstens twee uur vertier. Want “even” naar de DMV, dat is er hier niet bij. Er staat je daar namelijk ook nog een hele papierwinkel te wachten. Zo moet je als green card houder, wiens verblijf gebaseerd is op je huwelijk elke keer je huwelijkscertificaat laten zien. Het maakt niet uit dat je die groene kaart al helemaal nooit had gekregen zonder huwelijk. Het maakt ook niet uit dat je huwelijk al helemaal is doorgelicht en goedgekeurd door de immigratiedienst voordat je uberhaupt toe bent aan een rijbewijs. En het maakt al helemaal niet uit of al je andere identificatie bewijzen, van paspoorten tot militaire identificatie, tot oude rijbewijzen je getrouwde naam of “echtgenote van”aangeven, je moet dat huwelijkscertificaat kunnen overhandigen. En ik zou er niks over te klagen hebben, als ze je dit ergens vertellen. Op hun uitgebreide website. Of in het boekje dat je krijgt. Of desnoods in een aanplakbiljet op de deur. Maar dat doen ze dus niet. Je komt er pas achter als je na een uur wachten door een norse mevrouw vertelt wordt dat ze “absolutely cannot process your case”.

En die laatste opmerking is toch eigenlijk wel het meest verbazingwekkende; de mensen bij de DMV (in onze plaats in ieder geval) zijn total, absoluut, 100% niet aardig. Tegen niemand. De een na de ander wordt afgeblaft of weggestuurd. Of je nou lief bent, of niet, jong, of oud, in uniform of als hippie, het maakt allemaal niks uit. Het is zelfs zo erg dat vrienden van ons expres naar een DMV 20 mijl verderop rijden om de allerergste mevrouw te vermijden. En dat voor een staat waar iedereen erop staat dat je een “great day”hebt is dit wel erg ongewoon.

Maar op zich zou ik hier ook nog wel tegen kunnen. Ik heb ten slotte in Nederland, Duitsland, en Frankrijk gewoond, en ben dus wel wat gewend wat betreft slechte klantenservice. Maar het meest vervelende aan onze locale DMV is dat ze het heel vaak verkeerd hebben. Dan blaffen ze je af voor iets, en als je dan even voet bij stuk houdt, of naar een manager vraagt, dan blijken ze ongelijk te hebben. Zo zou manlief niet met een LES (een soort loonstrook) kunnen bewijzen dat hij in Georgia gestationeerd zou zijn. Manlief werd, ondanks dat hij in uniform daar stond, als een klein kind verteld dat hij dan vast iets verkeerd gelezen had. In een gebied waar EDIAFAD (every day is air force appreciation day) een soort lokale slogan is, kon dit bijna in de krant. Maar gelukkig laat manlief zich geen kaas van het brood eten, en hield voet bij stuk. Toen er eindelijk een manager bijkwam, moest deze inderdaad toegeven dat zijn ondergeschikte ongelijk had. Mijn oma zou gezegd hebben: “Het is toch schandalig?”

Maar ja, wat doe je eraan? Zij zijn de baas over de rijbewijzen (en in een hele apart organisatorisch besluit, het voters registration process), en dus doe je maar wat ze zeggen. Uiteindelijk blijf je toch een beleefde southerner. Maar “have a great day!”zullen ze van mij niet echt vaak horen.

Midterms

Midterms are almost upon us, therefore frustrations are running high, among, well, pretty much everyone. So it's high time for one of Dixiechick's dreaded lists to guaranteed student success!

And today's it: Things a professor never wants to hear her students say (and what she’s really thinking):

1. I missed the test because my car broke down (yes, and dogs ate your homework), and I don’t have time to retake it right now because I have an appearance as Ms. Kappa Alpha Kappa (what?), but is it alright if I stop by tomorrow say at 3? (And you’re in college why?)

2.I really should have gotten an A on that paper (shoulda, coulda, woulda). You should know how hard I worked (you mean in the three hours before it was due). And you’re a hard professor (And that’s an excuse how?). Everyone says so! I mean, c’mon! I met all the requirements, and you said yourself I tried really hard! (Yes, and right now, I’m playing the world’s tiniest violin, just for you!)

3. OK, so have you heard the latest about Anthony and Renee? Apparently they were seen with half their clothes off during a study session by one of Renee’s roommates (Wow, I did not need to know all that). Oh yeah, and it was a study session for one of your classes (Great! Well, at least they're studying I guess). And you know Anthony is dating Claire, and she is scary. I can’t wait to see what happens when she finds out! (I guess I must have misread my application, and I now work at Dallas University)

4.So what’s your husband’s name? And your kids? How old are they? Is your husband nice to you? How did you two meet anyway? (How did I end up on 20 questions?)You look like a really cute couple. I bet your husband was really happy when he found you. He’s not that bad-looking himself actually! (Should I take our picture down from our desk?)

5. You don’t understand. If I get a C in your class, my mom will kill me (you're 21 and you pay for your ow tuition. Explain). Look, I’m only three lousy points away from a B. Why can’t you just give me those four extra points for good behavior or something? I mean, I was always nice to you in class, so pleeeaaase. (Can I have some cheese with that wine?). I mean, I really am not a C student.(Guess what, you are)

6. Why did I get a zero? You know I would never plagiarize on purpose (that really makes no difference, really). It was an accident, I promise, I didn’t know, and I always pay attention (Well, I mentioned it every other class, so you were asleep during only half of my classes then, lovely). Please don’t put me on probation, it will so ruin my scholarship (…)

7. Where is Dr so and so? Do you know where Mr. J is? Have you seen my roommate/the work study student in the lab/ the dean? (I am not a secretary!)

And the absolute, all-time no-no:

8. Look, I know it's not your office hours right now (no, it's ten minutes before my next class), but I really need to speak to you about that grade I got on that paper (Someone rescue me, please).

Madison Avenue

Do you know how sometimes the funniest conversations occur when you don’t expect them? And then when you think back, you’re not sure if they’re really that humorous at all? Well, that happened to me this morning, during our Sunday morning long run. Husband-dear and I shared the following, maybe not so funny now, but hilarious at the moment little exchange:

Please note that we’re at the 6 mile mark (out of an 8.5 mile run), husband-dear has been biking a lot lately instead of running, and I really want to finish the run in under 80 minutes.

H(husband-dear): Wow, I’m really dragging butt. I’m going to get behind you and let you set the pace, OK?
W (wife = me): Sure. Can you tell me the time and exact mileage please?
So husband-dear uses his Garmin to tell me where we’re at, and I decide I need speed things up a little bit.
H: Wow, you’re really picking it up fast
W: I am? I didn’t think it was that much
H: Yeah it is. But that’s good. You’ve got to find your rhythm, find the pace that works for you, find your breathing..
W (as I jump over some squished roadkill: Find a dead squirrel
H: Lovely. Oh! That would be a great commercial!
W: What?
H: Well, you know, they could show a man and wife (yes he did say that!) running together and they could be having the conversation we’re having right now, you know, with me saying you have to find your rhythm and your pace and all, and you saying you find a dead squirrel. And then the camera zooms in on your face, and you have tears in your eyes. So then the husband asks if you are OK, and you’re like, not really. And then the slogan could pop up: Running, it’s not for everyone.”
W: What?! Are you serious? They should do it the other way around you mean..you’re pacing off of me right now!
H: Yeah, but women are more likely to cry over a dead animal
W: Well, I didn’t, and I’m running faster than you.
H: But still, a man isn’t going to cry over a dead animal in the road, and a woman might.
W: I married a male chauvinist pig, didn’t I?
H: No you didn’t, it would just be funny
W: No, you know what would be funny?
H: What?
W: If they were to use this whole little scene as the commercial. You know, you needing my help to make it, but then playing the macho, when everyone knows it’s the other way around.
H: I still think mine would be funnier
W: Sure.
Silence for a little bit
W: Would you like me to make you an ice bath when we get home?
H: That would be really sweet, thanks.

Running: It takes real balls to do it!

The Office: The American version

When a co-worker asked when my next blog was going to go up, I, after succinctly pointing out that the Internet had been down since 7:30 this morning, thought for a moment. Then I answered, much to his dismay: “You”. So, Steve this one is for you.

Anyway, I don’t really want to write about Steve. He’s a self-proclaimed smart-Alec who comes in late, says he stays late (but no one really knows for sure), votes Democrat, does not go to church, and basically embodies everything that a good academic should be. Although admittedly, I’ve only seen him in sandals over Christmas break (it's that dang dress code). As he and I were shooting the breeze in between classes, I got to thinking (and talking) about the differences between co-worker interaction in Europe and in the US. And you know what, I can’t really say that I have found that many.

I have had people tell me that Americans don’t socialize as much outside of work as they do in Europe. I’ve also heard that American co-workers are less open about their lives, more competitive and secretive, and less likely to take the time to just have fun. But honestly, I can’t say that I’ve encountered any of that. Perhaps it’s the academic environment which is probably very similar across the world, or maybe Europeans and Americans don’t differ that much in this respect.

The infamous end-of-year “let’s go out and celebrate” socials, for instance, are common on both sides of the pond. Just as the “let’s go out for no reason” celebrations. Sure, in the Netherlands you may not be as likely to share a pitcher of frozen margheritas as you are here, and there really aren’t any “bruine kroegen” (brown cafes I guess) around here to go to, but the gist is still the same. Academics here still sit around and complain about their workloads, rejoice in the success (and thus departure) of some of the graduating seniors, and compare wild (and unrealistic) research plans for the break. People will share way too much personal information, and come away knowing their co-workers possibly a little more than they would have wanted to.

And who said that it was “all work and no play” in the US? That’s not where I work. Sharing banter and generally acting silly with the people on your floor is also as common here in Georgia as it was over in the Netherlands. I would venture that academics simply know how to work hard and play hard. Just yesterday, Steve took a picture of me making an extremely ridiculous and unflattering face, then photo shopped the words “Hi! I’m Dutch!” on the picture, and threatened to hang it on my door. It’s very reminiscent of that time in Holland when two much larger co-workers decided it would be fun to push me around the department while sitting in my desk chair. And I take just as much pleasure in picking on my atheist colleague by emailing all the religious forwards I get from my students as I did from buying “support our troops” paraphernalia for my pacifist co-worker in Holland. We let each other know (quite vocally sometimes) when our days are not quite proceeding according to plan, and we will voice our personal opinion about silly emails from the administration by yelling it across the hallway. In fact, I don’t know if this is an academic thing, but both in Holland and Georgia, people are all about staying in their seats and simply yelling questions out their open door. In Holland I might have yelled; “Hey, what’s the best syntax command to use for merging two datasets!?” at my neighbor, while here, Steve just called out in exasperation ”Because of those dang students texting me, I now have a $270 phone bill. Would believe that?!” and then followed up in a softer tone of voice: "It's a good thing my wife no longer gets these bills". Students sometimes stand and listen in wonder. It’s great.

I’ve always heard that having fun co-workers is maybe more important than having a fun job. I must have hit the jackpot, because I have both. Now excuse me while I go and harass Steve about why he still hasn’t bought French vanilla-flavored coffee creamer like I requested last week.

It is what it is.

But is it, really?

Euphemism is a concept any mass communication scholar learns about early on their career. It is, after all, one of the main devices used by persuasive communication. A euphemism can be defined as a word that is used to make an unpleasant reality seem more acceptable. The perfect example is describing civilian deaths as “collateral damage” or to speak of “friendly fire” when a soldier gets shot by his own troops.

In my class on persuasive communication, I teach my students that euphemisms aren’t necessarily a bad thing. After all, we all say someone “passed away” instead of the more blunt “they died”. In daily conversation it’s a social custom that softens up the sometimes harsh reality. And that’s great. Although I value honesty as much as the next person, I also firmly believe there’s no need to be blunt about it. However, propagandists and other persuaders often use these word tricks to deceive or mislead people. Euphemisms will leave people with a positive feeling - doesn’t collateral damage sound like an unavoidable necessity to you too? - while the reality of the situation is far less positive. And that is a problem. No one wants to be deceived, but it’s hard to detect deception when it’s cloaked in such commonly used terms as casualties (deaths?), pre-emptive strikes (attacks?), and spin control (manipulating the news).

As I was discussing euphemisms with my students last week, we discovered another interesting feat: the American discourse is full of them. People, and especially southerners, use these sugarcoating terms so often, they have a hard time a) recognizing them, and b) understanding what’s wrong with them.

When Janet Jackson’s breast was exposed, did we call it that? No, it was best known as a “wardrobe malfunction”. Now call me silly, but when someone rips off a piece of your clothing, does that qualify as a “malfunction”? It’s not like your clothes broke down. And what about this incredible fear of being against anything? No one is anti-abortion or against the belief in global warming, no, people are pro-life, and believe in global climate change. It means the same thing, but sounds a lot nicer. People here don’t buy used cars either, like I used to when I was a poor student. My students all have “pre-owned vehicles”. And instead of being given practical advice about "relations" as it's called down here, students in schools are told to "take precaution". Using the c-o-n-d-o-m word alone is enough to send my adult, and usually mature, students into a five-minute tizz. And then when someone is pregnant, and especially when they’re a little younger than one might like, they’re “expecting”, or “in the family way”. And should you, like me, be inconsiderate and use the “p-word”, people will do that funny southern thing: they will flap their hands in front of their face and breathe “oh my”.

My students tried to convince me that using all these words simply meant you were being polite or politically correct. And having been at the short end of that stick for years, they really appreciate people being sensitive about cultural and racial issues. Of course, sensitivity is key. I don’t want people calling me cracker or honkey either. Just like there is no need to be rude. But that is still not the same as simply not facing the truth because it’s too painful. Aren’t people who are “pro-choice” (a euphemism for thinking abortion should be legal) also as much in favor of life as those people who call themselves “pro-life” (but think abortion should be illegal). Isn’t a 15-year old “with child” just as pregnant as a 30-year old? And let’s just be honest and say it: Justin Timberlake wanted the world to see Janet’s boob. There.

Here in the south, we have become experts at avoiding the truth. We don’t talk about important aspects such as life, death, and pro-creation. In fact, we are so afraid of them that we have created an entire discourse of euphemisms surrounding these issues. And honestly, because we don’t address things for what they really are, we have spun this web of “as long as you don’t talk about, I don’t care what you do”. We have created our very own culture of propaganda; intricate, devious, but wonderfully inept, besides the hand-flapping, at handling the situation when these real issues do pop up in real life.

So is it what it is? Well, sort of.

De puppy cursus

Zoe gaat sinds twee weken naar een “puppy class”, een cursus voor, jawel, puppies tot 5 maanden oud. Mevrouw heeft het hard nodig ook, want er is tegenwoordig geen schoen, plant, of hand meer veilig voor haar geknaag.

Toen manlief en ik bedachten dat het goed zou zijn om ons hondje op cursus te sturen zag ik het al helemaal voor me. Nu ben ik in Nederland nooit met een hond op cursus geweest, maar had genoeg meegekregen aan de zijlijn om er een beeld van te vormen. En dus zag ik mezelf al elke zaterdag ochtend om zeven uur ’s ochtends samenkomen met mensen wiens honden allemaal namen hadden als “Brutus” en “Wodan”. Het liefst zouden we elkaar dan treffen op zo’n afgelegen oud-voetbalveldje bedekt met bevroren dauw, onder begeleiding van een man met een half-juten pak aan en een hele harde stem. Onze honden zouden leren, nou ja LEREN!, hoe ze over muurtjes moesten springen, enge mannen moesten aanvallen (vandaar het juten pak), en ze zouden nuttige commandos herkennen als DOODLIGGEN!, STIL!, en PAK!. Juist. Misschien is het tegenwoordig helemaal veranderd in Nederland, maar ik kan me nog goed herinneren dat ik een keer op een verlaten zaterdag ochtend als negen-jarige scout gillend door het bos ben weggerend omdat er een, in mijn ogen, hele enge valse hond een man aanviel. Of die keer dat ik te paard langs een hondentraining reed, en het paard zo schrok van het BLIJVEN ZITTEN BRUTUS NU!, dat ik met moeite in het zadel kon blijven.

Hier in de Verenigde Staten gaat dat gelukkig allemaal heel anders. Sowieso zijn er in de wijde omgeving geen met bevroren dauw bedekte veldjes te vinden op dit moment, en heb ik zo’n vermoeden dat “Brutus” waarschijnlijk niet ‘de’ naam is voor de grote hond. En misschien zou dit eens niet een cursus zijn die om zeven uur ’s ochtends begon.

Nee hoor. Wij gaan tegenwoordig heel gezellig elke zaterdagochtend om elf uur met onze Zoe naar de lokale PetSmart voor de hondentraining. We zitten daar letterlijk midden in de winkel, in een cirkel van stoeltjes met wat attributen. De cirkel is begrenst met een knie-hoog ondoorzichtig scherm zodat de honden niet teveel worden afgeleid, maar verder krijgen ze alles mee wat er in de winkel gebeurd. Van de jankende Deense Dog die voorbij komt, tot de aankondigingen over de uitverkoop. Zo leren we onder begeleiding van een allerliefste en superenthousiaste Ruth hoe we onze hond het bijten afleren, hoe we haar zover krijgen dat ze “sit” op commando, en het hele belangrijk “relax” wordt ook niet vergeten. Er wordt niet geschreeuwd, het hardste geluid komt van de “clickers”, er zijn geen mannen in juten pakken, en afgelopen zaterdag week hebben we zelfs een prijs voor “beste relax/settle” gewonnen.

Nu kan het best zo zijn dat puppy cursussen in Nederland ondertussen helemaal veranderd zijn. Ook kan ik me voorstellen dat sommige mensen misschien vreemd opkijken bij het idee van les krijgen in een winkel. Maar ik ben erg blij dat we niet in de wind, regen, zon, en sneeuw met onze hond naar een enge man met een luide stem hoeven om te leren hoe we ons hondje moet omtoveren in de volgende Lassie.

Up where we belong

“Is this home?”
Belle ~ Beauty and The Beast

I haven’t been very good at feeling at home since we moved to Georgia. I know it’s blunt, but I’m not among southerners, so there you have it. Don’t get me wrong, I love our house. I love my job. But I don’t get a warm fuzzy feeling when I drive into town. Yet anyway. And I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in this. It’s a feeling I share with many other military spouses. At least the younger, more liberal ones. We may live in this community, but we’re not really a part of it. After all, the choice to come here wasn’t ours to make. It was made for us. And maybe if you end up at a cool base, like say Lackland AFB in San Antonio, or Bolling AFB near Washington DC, feeling a part of the community may not be so hard. But if you’re stuck where we’re at, it’s a whole different ballgame. Sure, as my husband always points out, it could be worse. We could be at McConnell in Kansas, the place where the only elevation comes from highway ramps. Or somewhere up in the Dakotas. But still our town is far from perfect. Or, as I say when I’m in a particular crabby mood, it’s a cultural vortex. I joke to out of town friends that our local residents seem to do nothing but shop for new cars, go to church, frequent gentlemen’s clubs, eat at chains with names that consist of days of the week, and buy stuff at Walmart. It’s depressing.

And of course it doesn’t help that I have a few additional barriers to overcome: I mean, I am definitely different. Not just different than the local women, no, I mean really different. Different to the point where even some military wives will raise their eyebrows. For not only am I a foreigner who talks about far-away places and drives a tiny European-style fuel-efficient car, but I work at a university, one of them scary liberal places. And I’m not something safe like a secretary or an assistant, no, I am a professor. One of those people who liked going to school, and who have a very stubborn mind of their own. Not only that, but I am a liberal who is pro-choice, against the death penalty, believes in universal health care, and who doesn’t believe in dressing up to go to church (although the fact that I do go is, I’m sure, a redeeming factor). And, get this, she speaks up about it too. Wow. The hard part is that at work it’s not much different. There I’m the military lady who uses odd acronyms and talks about her husband’s deployments. Having a military ID makes me as close to the Antichrist as possible in some people’s eyes. Teaching at an HBCU also means I’m one of the few white people around. It’s a great opportunity to learn and grow, but sometimes it’s just plain hard work. After all, I am someone who can’t relate to stories about racism or discrimination, no matter how empathic I may be.

So for the past year or so I have been struggling to fit in. And that brings me to what I really wanted to write about; because there have been three major breakthroughs in the past week. First, there was Zoe’s puppy class. I took our little doggy-dog to her first class this Saturday, and for the first time since I got here, no one asked me anything beyond my name. No one inquired about my job, my husband, or where I was from. They were far more interested in our little mutt and how to get her to stop chewing on everything in sight. We all simply enjoyed ourselves trying to get our dogs to recognize their own names, and "leave" their treats on command. In short, I was elated. I came home, exclaiming to my husband that I finally felt like I belonged somewhere. Even if it was a puppy class in the middle of the local PetSmart. And then on Monday a co-worker and I had a little coming out when we both realized (he is from the north), that we have a hard time feeling accepted down here. It was great to know I found a partner in crime. Now we can be miserable together. And then today, as I was waiting at a light, a semi from the town where I live pulled up next to me. The driver rolled down his window, and after asking if he could merge in front of me since he was in the wrong lane, he said; “I see you’re from *** county too, I figured you would let me, since we both come such a long way.” We exchanged opinions about some of the local news (an accident at a local school), and went on our merry ways. It was great. I had actually been treated as though I belonged somewhere!

So although I’m sure I’ll have lots more to complain about in the coming months, I do see an itty bitty light at the end of the tunnel now. It may take me a while, but I have the feeling I’ll find my niche sooner or later. Now excuse me while I go and celebrate .

AFSpeak

Being in the military has its odd moments. Suddenly you find blousing straps all over the house, wedged inside a book, or inside a crock pot, at times the amount of black shirts and socks in the laundry will make you feel like you married a goth, and you learn to think nothing of phone calls in the middle of the night. But the most intriguing aspect is probably the lingo. The military has a language all of its own, which mainly consists of acronyms. My husband likes to call it the alphabet soup, and that’s exactly what it is.

So a friend of mine and I may have a conversation that goes something like this:
“Hi, it’s Kay, any news on your friend’s PCS yet?”
“No. Her husband is still TDY, but she ran into his CO the other day, and he said no PCS date had been set yet.”
“Wow, that is weird. Maybe it’s different when you’re PCSing in CONUS? When we came back from overseas, our DEROS was pretty much carved in stone”
“Yeah, when Brandon finished OTS, we pretty much knew where we were headed.”

Translation: A friend, whose husband is deployed, is supposed to move, but she still doesn’t know when. Her move is within the US, and perhaps that makes the difference, because when you’re stationed overseas, you always know when you’re coming back, and the same applies to people who have just completed officer’s school.

Or another friend of mine and I may complain in the following manner:
“I can’t believe you’re moving to this ritzy beach town”
“Yeah well, you should see the housing prices. Thank goodness for BAH”
“I know. Wait until you go overseas. Moving back here was such a shock; not only did our BAH pretty much disappear, but we lost our COLA too.”
“But at least you have Walmart here. Not just the crummy BX.”
“Well yeah, but you should have seen the BX at the KMC. It was enormous, and we had two to choose from. I mean, AAFES actually meant something over there.”

Translation: Without their housing allowance, military families would probably be living in boxes. Overseas, this allowance is augmented with additional funds to compensate for higher local prices. Each base has its own department store, but the one on base here isn't that impressive, while the military service provider constructed a much larger department store at an overseas base.

My first spouse’s club meeting included a long whining session about DEERS, the scary lady at MPF, and the IAACS system. These are all things you need to know about and do something with in order to get into “the system” and on base. At church we offer to take left-over food to the LES desk, not the police headquarters, and we call summer camp VBS. Your children, if they’re very little, attend the CDC, your spouse wears BDUs or ABUs if he’s more up to date, you know not to talk about too much because that would not be in line with OPSEC, and you may be elligeble to enter in the STAP program, and if you’re not, well, that would be a SNAFU.

Wow? Yes, wow! I have never quite understood the need for the enormous amount of acronyms the air force uses. Why we can’t just say “police” or “department store” is beyond me. Although I have to admit that it does help when you’re overseas and slightly lost in a foreign town, and you suddenly hear someone say “BX” or "AAFES"; you know you’ve just been saved.

In the end it all boils down to the fact that you say tomato, and I say MRE.

Running in America

Goggles or sunglasses, bugspray or sunscreen, claretin, and a reflective belt. These are not the tools for a night surviving out in the wild American woods. No, they’re what a runner needs to make it through a run in the Georgian summer.

I used to think running was an easy sport. All you had to do was bring shoes and semi-appropriate attire, and you were good to go. Well, this was when I still lived in a slightly civilized part of the world. One where your greatest concern was whether or not it might start drizzling while you were out on your run. And running in wintertime here is not much different; all you really have to wonder is whether you need to bring a jacket or not. It’s summertime (which incidentally runs from mid-April to the end of September down here) that makes running a few miles not much different from going on a “survival camping trip” in, say, the Ardennes.

The first and most obvious issue is, of course, the heat. Between June 1 and now you really shouldn’t be outside exercising after nine in the morning, and if you want to run at night, it’s best to wait until about 7:30pm. Any exercise in between those hours will inadvertently leave you not only severely dehydrated and very unhappy, it will probably also leave you with a nasty sunburn (yes, the sweat will make the sunscreen simply evaporate off your body), and a pounding headache at best. So during the dogdays of July and August, I would find myself getting up impossible hours on my days off just to get my run in. I would postpone running long distances until the end of summer, since there was simply no way I was willing to get up at 4:30 in the morning to put in an 8-mile run. But, fortunately, that has gotten better now. You’re still best to stay away from exercising in the middle of the day, but you can actually sleep in until, oh, seven, before you really should get out there and do your thing.

And when you're out running here in the dark, you immediately notice one huge difference between Georgia and the rest of world; the lack of streetlights. We have very few streetlights in our area. A feat I usually applaud, as it allows me to look at the stars, but when I trip over another loose piece of concrete for the third time during one run, I can't help but curse the county commissioner, or the city counselor, or whoever is in charge of lights. This doesn't only mean that you can't really see where you're going, it also means cars won't see you. Not even if you're dressed in all white with reflectors on your shoes. Nope. People here are so completely utterly not used to seeing another person on the road who is not in a car, you will scare the living daylights out of them when they see you. If they do. Hence the reflective belt. And if you're taking a dog, put one on her too.

So why the claretin, the bugspray, and the goggles? Well, one word: bugs. Nasty ones. Big musquitoes and yellow flies that leave welts the size of quarters. And gnats. Nasty little hard-shelled bugs that fly into your mouth, eyes, and nostrils. And do so especially whenever you’re near trees, or when running at night. So if you want shade, or want to run when it’s cool, you need to be prepared to run with the bugs. Now I don’t mind a few bugs here and there, but when it got to the point where I found myself swallowing more bugs than I could count, I decided it was time fors ome serious action. Claretin. Claretin (or Equate, since we like to use the cheaper version) will dry up your nostrils, and allow you to breathe through your nose even when the pollen is at its worst. And this means no more bugs down your throat. And trust me, bugs up your nostrils is not half as bad.

The goggles are a recent discovery. Just last week, I was running along my merry old way when a bug flew into my eye. And this wasn´t your usually squishy little bitty fly. This was a tough little bugger, one that made me feel as though someone had just poured bleach into my eye, forcing me to run home with one eye closed, and left me with an eye infection I´m still on medication for. Lovely. So now I´ve taken to looking like a running fashion victim during the day when I wear sunglasses, while at night I, according to my boys, resemble a bug lady in my goggles.

But running in the summer is not all bad. I´ve been running, on and off, for several decades now, and I have to tell you that nowhere have I had this much response. I´ve had cars honk their horns at me, people yelling out windows, and people slowing down to wave. And to be honest, I´m not sure why. When I run, I look more like a hobo than anything else, and I´m usually red and sweaty; far from attractive. I’ve also noticed that people tend to honk at me more often when I’m running away from the car (so they see me from behind), than when I’m running towards them. However, this seems to have changed once I started wearing glasses. So either I’m what my students would call a “tip drill”, or we have some very odd bug-o-philes here in Georgia.

So if someone ever tells you running is boring, they’ve obviously never been down here. It’s running for rednecks!

Terpetine

Soms zijn er dagen dat ik me echt afvraag of het niet beter is als ik een baan zou zoeken op de basis, 8 mijl van huis. Of van mijn part bij de lokale Taco Bell. Niet omdat mijn werk zo erg is, maar omdat de afstand eigenlijk niet te doen is. Vorige week dinsdag was duidelijk zo'n moment. Een tornado die zich recht boven ons huis dreigt te vormen zet je namelijk toch wel aan het denken. En gisteren was ook zo’n dag.

Ik zat gisteren om zes uur in de auto naar huis, toen ik een lichtelijk bezorgd telefoontje van manlief kreeg. Hij wilde weten wat er in het potje zat dat op de grond van de garage stond waar de verfkwasten in stonden uit te lekken. Met diezelfde verfkwasten had ik van het weekend het kozijn van de nieuwe stormdeur geverfd, en deze moesten schoongemaakt worden voordat ze terug de kast in konden. Dus stonden ze al een paar dagen in een potje met terpetine. Manlief had me gevraagd het op te ruimen, maar ik was er niet aan toegekomen.

En dan sta je dus op de parkeerplaats van je college, en hoor je manlief ergens ver weg zeggen dat Zoe per ongeluk het halve potje terpetine heeft leeggedronken. Manlief was heel even omgedraaid om de sprinkler uit te zetten, en onze kleine ukkie-puppy was zo op het potje afgestapt. Manlief, die dacht dat het gewoon water was schrok enorm, en zou subiet de dierenarts bellen.

Ik had nog negentig mijl voor de boeg, en dacht, misschien uit een soort zelf-bescherming, dat het nog wel mee zou vallen. Maar bij afslag 9, met nog zo’n 45 mijl te gaan, ging mijn telefoon. Het was manlief, en hij was net terug van de dierenarts. Zoe was, na drie spuiten, eindelijk opgehouden met overgegeven, maar de dierenarts kon niet zeggen hoeveel schade de terpetine had aangericht. We moesten er ernstig rekening mee houden dat ze het wel eens niet zou kunnen halen.

Dan is 45 mijl heel erg ver van huis.

Ik heb volgens mij alle snelheidslimieten ruim verbroken terwijl ik tussen de semi’s door naar huis vloog. Thuis aangekomen lag Zoe als een hoopje hond in haar crate. Ze kon haar ogen bijna niet openhouden, en ze probeerde me te begroeten maar zakte steeds door haar pootjes. Manlief vertelde me dat hij haar al schuimbekkend en draai-ogend naar de dierenarts had gebracht, en dat we nu niks meer konden doen, behalve wachten.

En dan zit je daar, met zijn allen voor de crate. Met tranen in mijn ogen gaf ik mezelf de schuld van het terpetine incident, terwijl manlief hetzelfde aan het doen was. Zoe leek te slapen, maar elke paar minuten gingen we toch even kijken of ze nog ademde. We wilden niet gaan slapen, maar op een gegeven moment zijn we toch in slaap gevallen. Hopend en biddend dat ze het tot de volgende ochtend zou redden.

Om half vier werden we allebei wakker omdat Zoe aan het janken was. Eerst dachten we het ergste, maar toen ze bijna parmantig de kooi uit kwam lopen en naar de slaapkamer deur liep, waar ze ongeduldig naar ons keek wanneer we haar nu eindelijk eens uit zouden laten, wisten we dat het misschien nog wel eens goed zou komen. En ik ben nog nooit zo blij geweest als toen ze, terwijlik haar afdroogde, met de handdoek probeerde te worstelen.

En vanochtend leek Zoe weer helemaal de oude. Ze sprong in het rond, wilde op bed, en keek ons verontwaardigd aan toen duidelijk werd dat we, op dokter´s orders, haar geen eten zouden geven. Puppy was duidelijk moe, en afgevallen, maar ze heeft waarschijnlijk de crisis overleefd. Een feit dat ook door de dierenarts bevestigd werd. Helemaal zeker weten doen we het pas over een paar dagen, maar we hebben goede hoop.

En wat betreft die baan dichterbij….sja..dat weet ik nog niet zo net.

Maar nu moeten we naar bed; mevrouw ligt al een kwartier in haar mand in de slaapkamer terwijl ze zo nu en dan ongeduldig komt kijken waar we nu toch blijven.


Een teken dat het de goede kant op gaat met Zoe; stiekem kauwen op schoenen terwijl je denkt dat niemand het ziet.

Labor Day

Sometimes we all have to eat our words. I don’t think many people like it, at least I don’t. With “stubborn as a mule” as a middle name, admitting I’m wrong is painful. Fortunately, practice makes perfect, and this Labor Day offered me another perfect opportunity to practice eating humble pie. And it’s all our house’s fault.

In order to explain this, I need to go back several years to my my first year as a doctoral candidate in graduate school. I had just completed my master’s, and thought the worst was over. And there is yet another example of having to eat my own words. Because when I arrived at my Texan university, the workload didn’t just hit me in the face, it pretty much swept me off my feet. I was working nights, weekends, evenings, working while I was eating and showering , and still I was barely getting things done (you try reading three books at the same time, writing a critical essay on each of them, carrying out three independent research projects, preparing class presentations and working on your research proposal. All in one week). Anyway, I was so desperately looking forward to having Labor Day off, that when I realized I would have to work the whole weekend to meet a deadline, I almost cried. Well, actually, I did cry. And I promised myself that I would never ever again work during those few federal holidays that Americans get.

And you know what, I have kept that promise. I may have worked through summer breaks, winter breaks, spring breaks, birthdays and Christmas, but whenever we would have one of those single-day holidays, I would kick back and relax. Husband-dear and I would spend Labor Day shopping at the antiques bazaar on base, we have spent Memorial Day in Heidelberg, President’s Day in Trier, and have generally made an effort to make each of those Mondays off special.

Well, all that changed when we bought our current home. We did not kick back once this weekend, nope, we worked. On the house. And the funniest part is, we wanted to. We were actually looking forward to a few days of honey-do’s, and are already contemplating what to do on Columbus Day. I guess wanting to work while you have time off comes with the territority of being a home-owner. After all, it’s your home, and you want it to look the best it can. I remember my parents working on their home on Easter Monday and May 5th. So I guess this burning desire to spend your free time at work is a universal curse.

I think the difference between American and European home owners lie not so much in this ongoing urge to improve on one’s home, but in what exactly constitutes a honey-do. What do home owners across the Atlantic feel they need to do to their house when they have time off?

Well, window-washing appears to be huge in both the Netherlands and Germany. Especially Germans seem to be big on keeping their windows clean. You couldn’t turn your back in the street we lived on, or there would be another German hausfrau perched on a rickety ladder, running a shammy across the window in the freezing wind. We were the talk of the neighborhood because we never really cleaned our windows (apparently Windexing does not count). That and the fact that we never closed our Rolladen. Now maybe we currently live in a really unhygienic town, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone clean their windows. I know I haven’t since we moved here. But why bother when half your window is covered by a screen, and the other half is generally hidden from the elements by a porch or the eaves of the roof? Not to mention that getting the screen off is an exercise all by itself. Now my parents are coming for Christmas, so I know I'm going to have to give in sooner or later, but I'm OK waiting until later for now.

Another huge honey-do in Europe appears to be sweeping one’s front stoop. I can remember my parents spending countless hours sweeping the driveway, the stoop, the patio. And of course all the men on our German street would, after they had washed their cars, sweep out the driveway on Saturday. Again, maybe we have a severe shortage of leaves, or very little wind, or maybe we all just don't care, but the only time I see people sweep here is after they’ve mowed the yard, and a really big storm. There was no sweeping on Labor Day.

Now we did see a lot of yard work though. In fact, most of our, and our neighbors’, honey-do’s consisted of yard work. And not like in Holland, where you will spend days weeding the endless flowerbeds. No, none of that. Although we may have beds here, there are no flowers to be seen anywhere, and we use this nifty little thing called landscaping sheets, mulch, and/or lava rocks to keep the weed out. So weeding is not an issue. Thank Goodness. No, we spent two days planting a wide variety of shrubs and trees I had never heard of before moving here: crepe myrtles, Indian Hawthorns, some plant called Pizzaz, and have a Blazing Maple and a Leland something bush on hold at the nursery. And just because that wasn’t enough, we also installed a storm door, and in a touch of Dutchness, my husband set up a laundry line for me in the backyard.

And in spite of having to eat my words, it was a good Labor Day. Maybe we can screen in our back porch next time we have Monday off.

Proud momma

I know I like to drop little hints now and then about how much work goes into teaching college students. And even though it is hard work, and I am, as I write this, in the middle of a day that started at 6 this morning and will end sometime after 7 tonight, there are times when you are made very aware of why you go through it all.

Last semester, I taught a class on philosophy and ethics; a tough feat in a school where the majority of the students are Christians. Besides trying to explain the concept of statistical significance to a 9am class, it was probably the hardest course I have ever had to teach. At times I wasn’t even sure I would ever get them to grasp the basics of all philosophy, the idea that all beliefs are relative, and wondered if “public school” meant the same thing in the bible belt as it did everywhere else. But even then, there were moments when I realized that all my struggles were not for naught. One of my students wrote an absolutely brilliant essay on the concept of religion, and with his permission, I am copying an excerpt from to share with you:

“Now everyone knows that religion is a very controversial topic. There have been debates about religion for many years. The controversy still exists today and has even been recognized in the current presidential debate. Hypothetically, existentialist, John Paul Sartre, would have been one to probably lead a debate regarding the existence of God. He would have most likely protested that there is no real truth and we all are responsible for our own actions and choices. On the other end of the debate would have stood Benedict Spinoza, a philosopher who believed in pantheism; i.e., everything is one and the same as God.
Although neither might have agreed with one another, several topics might have raised eyebrows of those listening to the debate. Satre might have argued that, "The world is not systematic, not organized, and there is no predetermined role. There is no reality in truth. If so, where is proof of it?"
Spinoza would have responded, "You need to go through my developmental phase. It would help if you gained some knowledge about Life. You are stuck in this inadequate stage, unaware that proof is shown through reason. Get yourself some adequate knowledge and then we can talk..."
Sartre might have replied, "Ha, reason does not help in determining "truths" about the world. Everyone has to live with there own choices and rules. Let me teach you a thing or two about individualism and radical subjectivism. There are no binding values. There is no God!"
Spinoza might have concluded, "Man, your an atheist, what do you know?! True enough as humans we have freedom to choose our actions, but we are subjected only to our desires. Reason is master of our passions. Everything is one and the same as God, Bottom Line!"

For a student who has grown up in the bible belt, who doesn’t just feel, but knows that the bible is true, this is an amazing achievement. When I read his essay last semester, I knew that all my sweat, my complaining to various coworkers and family members, and hours of wondering how I would ever get them to understand were worth it. Maybe he was the only one out of thirty students who “got it”, but it was well worth it.

When you pay attention to things, moments like that happen every day. The student who wrote the perfect column in my editorial and critical writing class just yesterday. Overhearing one student tell another that, no, you can’t do statistical research when you’re merely exploring a topic. Having a student ask you if it’s OK if they use MLA referencing as opposed to APA, but adding that if not, they will happily learn a whole new referencing system because they really don’t want to plagiarize. It’s awesome.

Sometimes I feel like the proud momma of over eighty students.