Happy Halloween

Halloween is upon us this day, and down here in Georgia, this means that the state temporarily turns orange. There are the carved pumpkins, the lavish Halloween decorations, the scramble for costumes, and of course planning of the trick-or-treating. But when it comes to Halloween, living in Georgia adds a whole new dimension.

Georgia has been called one of the most haunted states in the south. With old cities like Savannah and plenty of gruesome history, all the way from the civil war to the civil rights movement, there are enough ghost stories going around to last a lifetime. Ghost stories are such an integral part of daily life, that even serious news stations like NPR had an anchor from a Georgia station read out a “true” southern ghost story on Morning Edition today. Theirs featured the southern version of the bogeyman; the boo-daddy and the hoo-hag.

Now I wouldn’t be much of a cultural anthropologist if I didn’t share at least one good Georgia ghost story with you today. This one is called “The blue girl”, and although it should be read in a thick southern accent, I am going to leave that one up to your imagination.

“About forty miles north of Atlanta in rapidly growing Forsyth County is a pretty covered bridge known as Poole's Mill Bridge. It's one of the few covered bridges left in Georgia - or anywhere, for that matter. At one time the sagging old bridge was in such bad shape that it about fell into the creek below. But the county built a nearby park and restored the covered bridge to its original state. So now, as in years past, the bridge is a really nice spot to have a family picnic, or a romantic afternoon with your sweetheart, or just to stop by to enjoy a nice wade in the creek.
That's exactly what one young family did on a bright summer day back in the 1930s. At that time there was a grist mill operating near the bridge, which is how Poole's Mill got its name. The mill was first built in the early 1800s by a Cherokee named George Welch. But he was tragically forced out of Georgia by the government and sent out west along the notorious Trail of Tears. Even though another family took over the grist mill and ran it successfully for years, some say the area was forever cursed by the wrong done to Mr. Welch.
The young family I mentioned earlier included a Daddy, a Mama and their nine-year- old daughter. They were traveling through the area when they saw the pretty bridge and thought they'd stop for a picnic just upstream from the mill. Mama and Daddy spread a blanket on a tiny hill while their daughter ran down to the creek.
"Watch yourself down there!" yelled Mama after her daughter.
But the young girl didn't pay her any mind. It was hot as the devil's kitchen, and that cool water sure looked tempting. So the young girl kicked off her shoes and socks, hiked up her dress and jumped into that cool water. hat nobody knew that day was that recent rains had made the creek deeper and more trecherous than it seemed. In no time, the current suddenly swept the young girl away. Mama and Daddy heard her screams and ran down to the creek bank. Then they gazed in horror at what lay ahead.
Their daughter was floating downstream toward the grist mill.
Her daddy dove into the water and frantically swam after her. He was a strong swimmer, and with the help of the current he inched closer and closer to his screaming daughter. But she was being sucked toward the large water wheel that creaked and groaned in the rushing water like some wounded monster.
"Hold on sweetheart!" screamed Daddy, his mouth filling with the rushing water.
Daddy lunged for the big blue bow on the back of his daughter's dress, his fingertips mere inches from her. Then with one final, blood curdling scream, his daughter was sucked under the water wheel. The mill creaked to a halt, and Daddy knew with sickening certainty that his daughter was wedged under the wheel.
By this time the mill workers had heard her screams. They dove into the water to help save her. But by the time they pried her from the slimy wooden teeth of the water wheel, it was too late. The pretty young girl had drowned, her face as blue as the bow on her dress.
The story spread like wildfire through the community. Devastated, the young couple left the state with the body of their daughter and never returned. No one knew their names, but the young victim was forever known around town as the Blue Girl.
Several years later, the old grist mill mysteriously burned to the ground and the pretty bridge fell into neglect. Until the county built the nice new park I mentioned earlier, many an old timer wondered what was really happening out at the old Poole's Mill. Had the Blue Girl returned to avenge her death? Or was it the curse of the Cherokee George Welch…..?” (source: www.themoonlitroad.com)

Happy hauntings everyone!

Verdwaald

In het gebied in Georgia waar ik woon, wonen de meeste mensen in zogenaamde subdivisions. En subdivision is eigenlijk niets meer dan een wijk waarin de huizen door dezelfde builder gebouwd zijn, met een naam en een of meerere ingagen waar deze naam vermeld staat op vaak een monumentaal stenen bord, eentje waar meerdere oorlogsmonumenten in Europa nog iets van zouden kunnen leren.

De populariteit van de subdivision hier in het zuiden komt voornamelijk omdat dit gedeelte van Georgia tot zo’n vijftig jaar geleden niet zo heel veel voorstelde. Er waren wat boerderijen, en misschien een paar winkels, en niet veel meer. Met de uitvinding van de airconditioning en de komst van de luchtmachtbasis is dit in rap tempo veranderd. Er stroomden in een keer duizenden mensen het gebied binnen, die allemaal ergens moesten wonen. Dus kochten project ontwikkelaars grote stukken landbouwgrond op voor weinig, en begonnen hier hele wijken op te bouwen. De subdivisions dus. Wij wonen ook in zo’n subdivision, en om eerlijk te zijn weet ik nog niet zo heel goed wat ik er van moet vinden.

De meeste mensen die ik ken vinden het fijn om in een subdivision te wonen. Er rijden maar weinig auto’s, diegenen die voorbij komen moeten heel langzaam rijden, er zijn vaak stoepen (iets dat je aan een gewone straat hier niet zo vaak zal zien), de huizen zijn vaak vrij nieuw, en je woont in negen van de tien keer op een acceptabele afstand van scholen, winkels, en werk. Ik zie zeker het voordeel van een subdivision als je bedenkt dat wanneer je gewoon aan een straat woont die niet “subdivided” is, het best wel eens kan dat de county besluit de weg die voor je deur loopt te verbreden. Dan kun je als huiseigenaar hoog en laag sprinen, maar uiteindelijk wint de county en ben je doodleuk de helft, of meer, van je voortuin kwijt. Ook is het heel goed mogelijk dat het veld of bos naast je huis verkocht wordt, en dat daar een tankstation/mini-mall/kerk/subdivision op gebouwd wordt. En dat zit je daar, in je eens zo rustieke huis. En wederom is er vrij weinig tegen te beginnen. Denk overigens niet dat dit maar weinig zal gebeuren. In de bijna anderhalf jaar dat ik nu in dit gebied woon zijn al twee wegen van twee extra banen voorzien, en zijn er, bij mijn weten, minstens drie mega-kerken, een Publix, en een stripmall bijgebouwd. En wat dus eerst prachtige country homes in het bos waren, zijn nu, sja, prachtige country homes naast een oerlelijk gebouw met heel veel aanloop.

Maar als we heel eerlijk zijn, zouden wij het liefste ergens weggestopt in een bos wonen, zonder buren, en met nog net een verharde weg voor de deur. Een subdivision vinden wij toch net iets te netjes. En dat gevoel komt voornamelijk door het “cookie cutter” effect; het idee dat de huizen in zo’n wijk vaak enorm op elkaar lijken. We hebben nu het geluk dat in onze subdivision geen enkel model huis twee keer staat, en de huizen ook nog eens ver van elkaar af staan, maar dit is eerder de uitzondering dan de regel. Het huis dat wij vorig jaar huurden stond in een wijk waar er maar drie modellen waren. En ook al was elk huis anders wat betreft siding (vinyl of steen), kleur, en luiken, de wijk zag er toch uit als iets dat je uit een legodoos haalt. Dit soort subdivisions herken je ook vaak aan de eindeloze rij witte brievenbussen die als soldaten in het gelid langs de weg staan. Het is, in onze optiek dan, teveel van hetzelfde.

En dat subdivisions nog een ander bijkomend nadeel hebben heb ik gisteren aan den lijve mogen ondervinden. Wat een trainingsloopje van zes mijl (zo’n tien kilometer) moest worden, werd namelijk een lichte uitputtingsslag van acht mijl (dertien kilometer) omdat ik verdwaald raakte in een subdivision. Denk erbij dat het berekoud was gisteren, donker, en ik nog geen avondeten had gehad, en je kan je voorstellen dat ik even niet zo blij was het hele subdivision fenomeen. Op de heenweg ging het prima. Het was nog licht, en ik was blij een nieuwe route in een nieuwe wijk gevonden te hebben. Het was pas op de terugweg dat ik erachter kwam hoe verschrikkelijk de huizen op elkaar leken. Ze waren allemaal van donkerrode baksteen, hadden allemaal witte pilaren, en een dubbele garage. Er waren geen grote bomen om te gebruiken als herkenningspunt, de brievenbussen waren allemaal hetzelfde, en alle auto’s stonden in de garages. Na meerdere keren verkeerd gelopen te zijn (“nee, die grote opblaasbare en verlichte pompoen had ik echt wel onthouden”), en zelfs een paar keer in rondjes (“Goh, daar zie ik alweer die enorme pompoen!”), kwam ik uiteindelijk, hemelzijdank, uit op een grote provinciale weg die ik herkende. Maar ja, toen had ik er al zes mijl opzitten, en moest ik zeker nog twee mijl voor ik thuis zou zijn. Ondertussen was manlief ervan overtuigd dat ik een ongeluk had gehad, en stond al klaar om me te gaan zoeken toen ik om acht uur eindelijk de keuken binnen viel.

Ik kan niet wachten tot we echt in het bos wonen. Voor nu zie ik het maar als een “learning experience”, en heb al een kleine notitie gemaakt: Ga in Amerika nooit hardlopen in een subdivision in het donker.

p.s. For all the lovely Anglophiles: it's about subdivisions and getting lost while running:) I'm sure you'll hear the whole story sooner or later.

The Kingdom of Narnia

I don’t know if I’ll be able to blog today. Or at least for a very long time. You see, sitting at my computer means turning away from my space heater, which means that the 60-degree freeze that is our building hits me in full blast.

I have never ever given a second thought to office temperature. I have never had to. You see, up until last year, I have always worked in departments that were geared towards research. Wherever you looked, there were piles of questionnaires, students coding surveys, or conducting content analysis on a variety of media, people at computers analyzing data, struggling to write a killer of an opening paragraph, and trying to finish that perfect research grant. Because people spent most of their days sitting behind desks, with the maximum amount of movement coming from their fingers dancing across their keyboards, the buildings were always kept at cozy temperatures. Each office even had its own radiator, so that the occupant could easily adjust the temperature to their needs. Since conducting research is probably the least rewarding job in the world (although I will put keeping a McDonald’s restaurant clean in second place), we had everything at our disposal to make our stay as pleasant as possible. We had electric kettles in our offices for tea and coffee, cute little lamps over our desks, and those deskchairs that can be adjusted in every way possible, and that will even allow a brief nap if you so feel inclined.

But then last year I started work at a department where media production is a main focus. Besides meaning that all the money is funneled towards paying for new equipment and macs, and there are no funds for pretty deskchairs, cozy lamps, or electric kettles, it also has a profound effect on my daily comfort level. You see, equipment used in television, radio, and film needs to kept at around 60 degrees. If it’s stored at temperatures higher than that, it starts to break down. And when you pay around $3000 per handheld camera, that is something you cannot afford. Because our offices are surrounded by studios, control rooms, and storage rooms, the entire mass communication section of the building is kept at a spartan 62 degrees (16C). In summertime this is a little on the cool side, but it’s acceptable. There are tall windows everywhere which offer enough sunshine that most offices are still reasonable. But come wintertime, it’s, well, pardon the expression, hell on wheels. Last night we had one of the coldest October nights in Georgia at near-freezing, and today the temperature is not expected to get above the low 40s (4C). Combine that with a building temperature that barely squeaks over 62F, and you have one very unhappy DixieChick. It’s so cold my wedding ring is threatening to fall off my finger, and I can’t feel my right little toe anymore. And I would complain (you all know I would), but there’s really no point since I know no one’s doing this on purpose. Sometimes people down the hall, who are not in our department, but who do share our HVAC system, come and complain. In fact, some people get so upset, it has led to some interesting feuds, but there is really nothing we can do. Except be cold and frustrated. And buy a space heater. And drinks lots of really hot coffee. And write a blog about it.

So please excuse me. I really have to turn around and warm my hands before they’re really frozen.

CoinStar Magic

When talking about money and spending habits, many Europeans I know will bring up the inevitable: that all Americans apparently live off their credit cards. Now although I know this statement seems to belong in last week’s post on stereotypes, I thought that in light of the current economic crisis I would give it an entire post of its own.

My starting point, though, is going to be the same as last week: not all Americans live like that. Of course, I know some who live from surviving one credit card payment to the next, and even some who have gotten themselves in way over their heads. But I also know many Americans who are nothing like that. They live off what they earn, put away a little in savings each month, only use their credit cards sparingly, and when they do, pay them off immediately. My husband and I would be the prime example of such (Dutch) Americans.

Now I don’t think I would call myself or husband-dear stingy, or even frugal. Instead I like to think of us as economically efficient. We are the kind of who will fret over every large (read everything over $150) purchase. Endlessly. I mean in the sense that buying a new loveseat took two months. We are also the kind who will feel guilty when splurging on something frivolous such as new light fixtures when the old ones still work fine. In our very practical world the ugliness of something is never really an excuse to replace it, not even when your current lights look like something out of a 1930s French boudoir. So you can imagine my relief when the old (and quite hideous, in my opinion) couch, finally became too soft to make a comfortable seat. And finally, we are the type of people who will put off a lot of things for, well forever. We’re still debating on whether to get a ($60) Senseo machine, for instance, because having two coffeemakers seems so, well, decadent. Right. Now I don’t want to create the impression that we don’t enjoy life. We do. We just seem to have a certain Calvinistic attitude about it.

So this past weekend, with Christmas coming up, and a few expensive months behind us, we decided to keep it low-key. No trips to musicals in Atlanta (although Wicked was more than worth it), no more trips to La-Z-Boy to purchase new loveseats (it’s coming in two weeks!), and no crazy dining out at the best sushi restaurant in town. We decided to spend a weekend at home, enjoying all the comforts we already have; our dog, our bikes, the outdoors, the TV, and our large DVD collection, in no particular order.

So after a semi-lazy Saturday, in which we still managed to knock out some serious chores, a puppy class, a music lesson, laundry, and a run out of the way, husband-dear and I were hanging out in front of the TV, when we decided it would be fun to go out and do something. Anything really. But we had promised ourselves we wouldn’t splurge. So what does a frugal, excuse me, economically efficient, couple do at such a moment? Yes, we went for our loose change jar. My husband has a huge German steiner on his dresser, that we have, over the past year or so, managed to fill to the very top with all of our loose change. In a moment very much reminiscent of my days in college, we loaded ourselves and our jar into our car, and drove to the nearest Publix for their CoinStar machine.

The CoinStar machine is probably one of the better American inventions. It’s a machine that will take all of your change in a hole in the top, take off 8% (one of its lesser points), and present you with a receipt for the amount of money you can go pick up at customer service.

Now I have to say that if there is one thing I learned that day it’s that saving your change is definitely worth it. I had guessed our change jar held about $10, my husband, claiming I was way off, estimated we had about $20 in there. In the end, we walked away with $68 in cash. And because it really felt like money we had just found somewhere, we felt no qualms about splurging it all. So our low-key weekend turned out to be not so low-key after all. And I guarantee you all, I have already started saving all of our change again.

A rock and a mountainside

From a student’s paper:

“After World War I, everyone in Germany was suffering except the Jews. Hitler could not figure out how they were the only ones not going through a depression....In an attempt to do that (purify the world), he created a concentration camp. The concentration camp included those with Down syndrome, African Americans, and Jews”

After having ranted and raged at a co-worker about this fragment, written some very fierce comments in the margin, and brought up the apparent lack of a proper history curriculum in Georgia secondary education with my coordinator, I have nothing left but to be absolutely gobsmacked by the above paragraph.

So how did this come about? Well, I teach a class on propaganda, where one of the assignment is to watch a German propaganda movie and analyze it in terms of propaganda tactics. During the screening I got some very unexpected questions about the war. Questions such as when the second world war began, why it started, what the Jews had to do with it, and how Japan tied into it all. I diligently gave what I assumed to be a brief refresher course on the basics of the second world war. I assumed the students had learned all of this (my kids learned about the holocaust as early as second grade), and had merely forgotten the details among all the other important things they have to keep track of, such as who is dating whom, when the next kegger is, and which club is the hottest in town. But this paragraph really made me wonder if students, and this student in particular, truly understand the basics of one of the worst wars the world has ever seen.

I know that among my students, slavery, the civil war, segregation, and the civil rights movement has always held a primary position in their understanding of American history. After all, these developments defined who and where they are today. However, to state that the Jews were the only ones not suffering after the first world war is ignorant at best, and anti-semitic at worst. And to not understand that world war two was actually a battle where African Americans were not the victims, and to relegate the main victims of that war to a third place in a list where the other the one other target group was never as high high on the Germans’ list (people with Down’s Syndrome) is almost offensive.

I know the student meant no harm. I know this is probably the result of poor education. But part of me also realizes it’s a result of students simply not caring. In their world view, 1940 was a hundred years ago, and the present is far more interesting than something that has only been captured in grainy black-and-white film. And for me that attitude is almost impossible to swallow. The ignorance that fueled the second world war, was the same that allowed segregation, lynchings and racism to persist for so long. How is it that a few students, in spite of all of my explaining, lecturing, and ranting, don’t understand that?

When I visited Auschwitz a few years ago, I took many things away from it, but one lesson I will remember for the rest of my life: Everyone is capable of such atrocities. If you are taught all the wrong (or right I suppose) things, and are cut off from all alternative voices, you too could become programmed into believing some people are simply not human, and thus don’t deserve to be treated as such. And it all starts with ignorance. Not knowing the facts, and not caring about the facts. Only complete understanding of our past, and all of it, can help us prevent such horrors from ever occurring again.

Sometimes I feel like Sisyphus. With a very large rock and an endless mountainside.

Pride and prejudice

Did you know that people need stereotypes to function? I never did until a dozen and something years ago when a psychology professor taught us that people use “schemata”, i.e., standard interpretations, to make sense of the world around them. Apparently you simply don’t have the mental capacity to create a new definition of every single thing you see. So when some people see a blond, little woman (like myself), they really can’t help the fact that they will think “cheerleader turned soccer mom” as opposed to “professor”. Apparently stereotypes and prejudices are essential to prevent someone from completely losing their mind due to stimulation-overload. This, however, does not mean that people can’t adjust their schemata. Education and experience will confront people with situations that do not match their schemata so often, that people will have no choice but to alter their set interpretations.

Now when you live overseas, stereotypes really do become part of your daily life. There are your own stereotypes about Americans, people’s stereotypes about Dutch people, and then of course, Dutch friends’ stereotypes about Americans. And I have to admit that the latter bug me the most. Especially when people who have only visited the US sporadically, judge Americans as though they have spent their entire two-week vacation surveying a representative sample of all 300 million Americans about a wide variety of topics. So in light of that I thought I would address some of the stereotypes I hear the most often.

1. Americans are loud
This one is really true. But you know what, if everyone is loud, you really can’t tell. The American propensity to interact a little louder than say a group of demure British ladies from the home counties only becomes obvious when the Americans are no longer in their natural environment. And let’s be honest here, can’t we all point at some slightly embarrassing or annoying behavior exhibited by our own nationality that only becomes obvious when we’re among foreigners? I thought so.

2. Americans are either really overweight or look like Barbie dolls.
I first heard this one when we lived in France and attended an American school, and various American moms were always really dolled up, while several others were really obese. Admittedly, there are a lot of obese Americans. And it is true that there is a specific group of, mainly southern, women, who has made it their life goal, through the use of botox, eighties hairdos, lots of make-up, and fifties clothing, to resemble the more traditional Barbie dolls. But when I look around me, I see a lot of really just normal people. Some may have bigger butts, or hips, or a little belly, but I doubt that’s a trait reserved only for Americans. It’s true that Americans in the south spend maybe a little more time on their looks than Dutch people do, but most don’t even come close to a Barbie doll. And in all honestly, the last time I was in the Netherlands, I wasn’t exactly under the impression that it was a country full of lean, well-trained people either.

3. Everything in America is big.
You got me there. Houses, at least in my neck of the woods, are definitely bigger than they are in Holland. Grocery stores here make the Dutch Albert Heijn seem like a Chevron quick-mart, and just our local Target is big enough to house a soccer stadium. Roads are wider, parking spaces are bigger, glasses are taller, and serving sizes are enormous. And did you know that furniture is bigger than it is in Europe too? I heard that although Ikea may carry the same furniture here as it does in Holland, it’s all actually a few inches bigger than in Europe. The only change I’ve seen over the past few years is that American cars don’t seem that much bigger than their European counterparts anymore. I think this is in part because rising fuel prices over here have forced people to buy more economical cars, and in part because Europeans have begun to appreciate the luxury of American SUVs.

4. Americans are superficial.
This last stereotype really annoys me beyond belief. I hear it very often in conjunction with something like “We were on vacation and met a lot of Americans. They’re so nice, and they’ll always talk to you, even though they are, of course, very superficial”, or “Americans are nice, but they never get beyond the superficial”. Right, and so you’re telling me you expect strangers to forgo the “Where are you from” and “What do you do” and jump straight into questions such as “So would you say your relationship is fulfilling all your emotional and physical needs”? Because we all know that Dutch people, when seeing other Dutch people, will immediately drop everything they’re doing, walk over, greet you, and try to find out everything about you. People who come from a country where wishing strangers a “good morning” results in odd looks at best really shouldn’t comment on another country’s social habits.
I have been racking my brain, and I really can’t for the life of me figure out how Americans are superficial. I actually think it has nothing to do with Americans, and all to do with the Dutch. You see, the Dutch, when they first meet you, will adopt the “kat uit de boom kijken” approach, i.e., let’s wait and see. They’ll introduce themselves, say hello, and then they’ll retreat to observe whether or not they like you. Dutch people don’t do a lot of small talk, and they are only nice to people they really like, their friends and family. So when Americans are nice to them, even though they may have only just met, I’m guessing that Dutch people automatically look at them as friends, and thus expect a whole lot more than small talk.
Look, I really don’t know. I just made that up, obviously. All I know is that I think Americans are some of the nicest people I have met, and once they become your friends, you can have the most in-depth and profound conversations with them.

After listening all of these, I just realized I may have just developed my first real overseas stereotype about Dutch people: They like using stereotypes. Wait, I'm Dutch. We like using stereotypes!

Mail's up

Recently I have been forgetting to check our mail. I’ll be halfway to work, and realize that neither myself nor husband-dear remembered to look in our mailbox the day before. Or on a Saturday night we’ll discover that someone made a dumb mistake somewhere, while the piece of mail has been in our mailbox since Thursday. This last Sunday, for instance, we found out that the county tax commissioner’s office suddenly decided we own two plots of land in a neighboring town and now owe them $500 in taxes. Let me assure you that discovering slightly disconcerting facts like that on a day when you can’t reach anyone is not conducive for a relaxing morning (After deciding we would just sell the land and retire off the money we felt slightly better though).

Anyway, I blame our forgetfulness about our mail on our mailbox. You see, at our old house we had one of those standard mailboxes: white pole, white box with a flap that always stuck when you opened it, and a little red flag. Everyone in our street had the same one, in the same place at the end of their driveway. And when you came home from work, you drove right by the bright white mailbox, so it was easy to remember to check for mail. Well, now that we have moved to a larger house, in a neighborhood with larger lots, the architects seemingly felt that all-white mailboxes would be too tacky. A nice house apparently has to have a mailbox that matches. In fact, I’ve discovered that this is a commonly-held belief in Georgia; the fancier the house, the fancier, and bigger, the mailbox. So instead of simply little metal boxes on poles, all the houses on our circle have large brick columns with the mailbox set inside them. The previous owners planted a small palm tree on one side of our column, and some purple flowers on the other side and it looks lovely. So lovely in fact that I apparently forget we have a mailbox in there at all. Many times I will find myself looking out at the front yard, and thinking how lovely it looks to have a brick column surrounded by plants at the foot of the driveway.

Besides causing me to forget we even have a mailbox, these mailbox-column-contraptions have also created another problem, at least for my neighbors: where do you put the stickers betraying your social/political/collegiate affiliation? In our old neighborhood, people would adorn their mailboxes with a whole array of ornaments, from Georgia bulldog stickers to Virginia Tech banners to little slipcovers for each season. You can’t do that when you don’t have a metal mailbox. Fortunately, some lucky soul came up with a solution to that problem as well. So a few of our neighbors have little red flags in the color of their favorite football team, or with a little “T’ for the Tennessee Vols at the end. Other people put a cover on the flap of the mailbox, or drill a hook in the side of their column for banners and other contraptions. The prize for creativity, however, is won by a family a little down our street. They have a two columns one on either side of the driveway, and both are adorned with a little statuette of a bulldog wearing a red sweater. While at first I thought this was just an example of people’s love for animals gone slightly overboard, I quickly learned that the statuette was supposed to resemble Uga (pronounced as “uggah”) , the official University of Georgia at Athens (UGA) bulldog.

Being Dutch, and far too down to earth for any such expressions, I have left our mailbox alone. Personally, I still marvel at the magic of the little red flag. I mean, when you think about it, isn’t it amazing that in this country you don’t have to wonder for miles trying to find a mailbox that hasn’t been removed or destroyed? All you have to do is put your mail in your mailbox, turn up the flag, and the postal worker simply picks it up for you. And because someone in the US Post Office has yet to acquire a recent street map, we are considered a “rural mail area”, which means that every month we get a little envelop in our mailbox which allows us to order stamps, which the postal carrier then delivers to our mailbox a few days later. So I don’t need any decoration to make my mail-experience special. It’s a miracle all in itself (whenever I remember anyway).

Grote schoonmaak

In vergelijking met Europeanen zijn Amerikanen vriendelijker, gastvijer, en misschien zelfs avontuurlijker. Maar er is in ieder geval een ding waarvan ik vind dat Europeanen, en dan vooral Nederlanders en Duitsers, het eigenlijk beter doen dan de Amerikanen: schoonmaken.

Nu wil ik op geen enkele manier impliceren dat Amerikanen vies zijn, of hun huis niet proper houden. Maar ik ben er ondertussen wel van overtuigd dat het schoonhouden van een huis in (Noord-) Europese kringen een veel hogere prioriteit krijgt dan hier in de VS. Ik heb het bijvoorbeeld al een paar keer gehad over het feit dat Amerikanen niet heel braaf twee keer per jaar hun ramen lapen, en al helemaal niet op zaterdag ochtend hun auto wassen en daar hun stoepje een goede beurt geven. En ook ken ik hier niemand die, zoals in Nederland, een rooster heeft voor het schoonmaken van hun huis. Daarentegen ken ik meerdere Nederlanders, werkende en niet-werkende, die een duidelijke indeling hebben wat betreft het schoonmaken van de badkamers, de keuken, en bijvoorbeeld de caviakooi.

Laat ik vooropstellen dat Amerikaanse huizen vaak prima in order en netjes zijn. Maar je kan er waarschijnlijk niet met de witte handschoentjes langs de plinten; iets dat ik in Nederland bij meerdere kennissen met gemak kan doen. Aan de andere kant wordt er bij Amerikanen, in ieder geval diegene die ik ken, vaak veel minder moeilijk gedaan over modderige kinderschoenen, natte jassen, of over-enthousiaste honden. En waar in Nederland het huis vaak nog even “aan kant”wordt gemaakt voordat er gasten komen, hoor je hier regelmatig een excuus omdat er nog niet gestofzuigd is.

Deze culturele kloof komt zo nu en dan ook wel eens in huize DixieChick naar boven, vooral als ik vind dat iets schoongemaakt moet worden omdat het “al een week niet gedaan is”, en manlief dat totaal niet nodig vindt omdat het “totaal niet vies is”. Of wanneer ik de guest bathroom nog een keer onder handen wil nemen omdat er bezoek komt, terwijl manlief een doekje over de spiegel eigenlijk wel voldoende vindt.

Dit weekend was het weer eens tijd om deze culturele kloof verder onder de loep te nemen. Dit naar aanleiding van onze veranda achter het huis. Sinds Zoe de beruchte “Georgia red clay” heeft ontdekt, ziet deze veranda er namelijk uit, pardon my French, als een beest. Ik wilde dit al veel eerder schoonmaken, maar was er door mijn drukke rooster nog niet aan toegekomen. Zaterdagochtend vond ik het dus absolute noodzaak dat, in de twee uur tussen het opstaan en de puppycursus, naast het poetsen van de badkamers, het stoffen van het huis, het schoonmaken van de koelkast, ook de veranda geschrobt moest worden. Manlief, die nu het gras in winterslaap is mij helpt met de chores, zag dit wilde plan echter totaal niet zitten. Hij redeneerde dat we een hele drukke dag voor de boeg hadden, we allebei een hele drukke week hadden gehad, en we deze twee uur beter konden benutten om slechts het hoogst noodzakelijke te doen, en verder te relaxen. Laat ik volstaan met te zeggen dat deze suggestie bij mij niet helemaal in goede aarde viel. En dus werd het schoonmaken even op de lange baan geschoven terwijl we druk bezig gingen met het uitzoeken hoe we deze culturele kloof te overbruggen. Gelukkig zijn we eruit gekomen, en hadden we ook nog genoeg tijd om een badkamer te poetsen en de koelkast uit te mesten.

Het grote verschil in waarom Nederlanders veel meer aan een soort schoonmaakwoede lijden heeft, volgens mij, niks te maken met hygiene of properheid, maar met tijd. Als ik een ding kan zeggen over het leven hier, dan is dat het vele malen sneller en drukker is dan in Nederland. Natuurlijk ben ik, met mijn reistijd, geen standaard, maar dan nog denk ik echt dat mensen in de VS harder moeten lopen om hetzelfde als in Nederland te bereiken. Kijk alleen maar eens naar het concept “boodschappen doen”. In Nederland kun je in de meeste gevallen even tussen op de fiets naar een winkel om een vergeten boodschap op te halen. Hier, in ieder geval in onze stad, moet je meteen minstends ene kwartier in de auto zitten. En dat geldt ook voor de sportschool, de muziekles van de kinderen, en ga zo maar door. En hoe klein het ook lijkt, het scheelt wel. Ook denk ik dat je in Nederland veel makkelijker part-time werken, of zo nu en dan een vrije dag opnemen, zodat je even wat klusjes kan opknappen, je ramen kan lappen, of lekker kan uitrusten, waardoor je in het weekend makkelijk zin kan maken voor al dat schoonmaken. Hier in de VS ken ik eigenlijk niemand die uberhaupt part-time kan werken, en als je eindelijk eens vrij hebt, dan heb je geen zin om op die schaarse vrije dag je stoep te gaan schrobben.

Dit weekend heb ik dus moeten concluderen dat ik toch echt water bij de wijn moet doen. Een Nederlandse schoonmaakhouding is geweldig, als je in Nederland zit, op de fiets naar je werk kan, en dertig vrije dagen per jaar hebt. Die luxueuze positie heb ik helaas niet meer, en dus zal ik, als ik in ieder geval niet helemaal gek wil worden, me erbij neer moeten leggen dat je in mijn huis ook niet meer de witte handschoentjes langs de plinten kan. Makkelijk? Nee. Van alle culturele compromissen die manlief en ik hebben gesloten, was dit een van de lastige. Maar manlief heeft beloofd dat hij een bordje voor de front porch gaat maken: “Friends coming to see me can stop by anytime. Friends coming to see my house need to make an appointment first”.

En de veranda? Die heeft de oudste vanochtend geschrobt totdat het blonk.

Those days

I’m just going to have come out and say it: I don’t like Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’ve never been very fond of the days in the middle of the week anyway, but this past year, I’ve taken an active dislike to these particular two days. A dislike which can be solely attritbuted to the insanity that is my schedule on those two days. And I think the dislike shows. I’m not as patient with students, and I absolutely cannot stand it when people are late, or early, or have excuses for why they did not do what they were supposed to do. But, in all fairness, when you look at my schedule for those two days, it’s not a complete surprise.

4:45am: Hear NPR’s classical music session come on, and wonder why. Some days I even manage to incorporate it into my dreams.
4:46am: Realize it’s because there is work to do, places to go, people to see.
4:50am: Forced out of bed by puppy jumping up and down, trying to lick face, toes, hands, and anything else she can reach.
6:00-6:15am: Leave house after having made sure all family members including dog and guinneapig have had breakfast, had their lunches fixed, and are all set for another wonderful, glorious day.
7:45-8:00am: Arrive at work slightly stiff, with my ears ringing after having listened to NPR news for most of the way, and a desperate need to visit a restroom, after having consumed far too much tea while driving.
8:00-8:30am: Check e-mail, print out hand-outs, read through lesson plan
8:30-9:45am: Teach my heart out
9:45-11:00am: Prepare next week’s classes, put powerpoint slides together, create hand-outs and tests, grade papers, tests, or quizzes
11:00-12:20pm: Work on research projects, meetings with co-workers/deans/chairs/or whoever else needs to see me, run errands such as drop off book orders, pick up book orders, xerox things, pick up a text from the bookstore, eat lunch somewhere in between
12:30-1:55pm: Teach once again
1:55-2:05pm: Mad dash to my office to drop off one binder, pick up another, and if necessary, pick up or drop off projector and/or laptop
2:05-3:20pm: Teach some more
3:20-3:30pm: Mad dash back to office, where I usually realize I forgot to eat all of my lunch, which then gets wolfed down in between checking e-mail and preparing for the last class of the day.
3:30-5:00pm: Teach in this wonderful construction known as a seminar, which means students come see you one-on-one. It mainly entails making sure that students showing up early don’t get in the way of those showing up late, wondering why students whom you just saw don't show, but knowing you can't start anything else in case they may show up late, which they usually always do, and chiding kids for not handing in their set assignment.
5:00pm: Head home
6:40pm: Pull into driveway, and struggle to get out my car with a briefcase, a purse, a lunchbox, and a travelmug
6:45pm: Sit down at the dinner table, where, thank goodness, husband-dear has dinner ready and waiting
7:00-7:15pm: Dishes and clean-up
7:15-9:00pm: Nothing. Finally. Although, in all honesty, I usually manage to squeeze a load of laundry, a nice long run, or homework-help in here.
9:00pm: Head to bed so that I’m rested enough for another circus pretty much like this one the next day.

You know, I may just have to post this on my office door, just so that students will never, ever be able to say “You just don’t know what it’s like to be busy” again. Ever.

Georgia after dark

All these months, I’ve been talking about how different Georgia is, and what strikes me as practical, odd, or funny. But just today I realized I’ve always talked about Georgia during the daytime. I’ve referred to bright sunshine, blue skies, seeing miles of white cotton rippling in the breeze, and confederate flag bumper stickers, but I’ve only rarely mentioned the Georgia nights; its sounds, the orange reflective vests worn by early-morning deer hunters, or the dense darkness of a town without streetlights. And this is not doing justice to this part of the world, because, believe it or not, Georgia nights are far removed from any Dutch night I’ve stayed awake through.

The first thing I noticed about darkness in Georgia is its absoluteness. Our part of town does not have streetlights, and neither do the country roads that I drive on to get to work. This means that when it’s dark, it’s pitch black. Although this entails annoying things such as deer hopping across the roads anytime after dusk, it also means that on nights with clear skies, you can see hundreds and hundreds of stars. In Holland, even the smallest hamlets now have streetlights, much to my chagrin, and so stargazing has become next to impossible. Fortunately, that development has yet to make it into my neck of the woods, where lights are few and far between. Sometimes I like to just sit on our back porch and gaze at the stars (and throw a Frisbee across the yard to keep Zoe happy). And just this morning, I stopped while backing out of the driveway, to look at the stars I could see all across the black sky. I can still remember the first time I really saw a southern sky at night. We were at my in-laws, and had decided to walk towards the large pond on their property. We stood on the dock that juts about thirty feet out into water, and not only could we see thousands of bright twinkling stars above us, we also saw them reflected a hundredfold in the still waters of the pond around us. It was truly magical.

Living in a subtropical climate also means a different repertoire of nighttime sounds. When we lived in France, I used to love the crickets that chirped all through the night. Their constant, never-ending concert was so soothing, I wasn’t sure if I would even be able to sleep when we moved back to Holland. Fortunately, Georgia has crickets too. And owls. I have to admit that I do miss the sounds of heavy church bells chiming every hour, but the perfect silence we get here more than makes up for that. Here we have very few cars pass by at night, no sirens, and no loud people riding by on their bicycles. In fact, the loudest thing I ever heard at night was once again at my in-laws, when a raccoon dug through their trashcans, followed by an armadillo who decided to burrow underneath their porch.

Another interesting feature is that nights here last so much longer than they do in Holland. It’s usually dark by 7:30 or 8 at night, and the sun doesn’t come up until a full twelve hours later. I have to admit that I really do miss the short summer nights. Somehow, my brain has been programmed that when it’s dark, it’s nighty-night time, a notion that doesn’t really work when it gets dark an hour after you get home, and then remains dark until you’ve driven most of your ninety-mile commute. I’ve always blamed my crazy job for my fatigue, but maybe it’s just the lack of light during the day.

And the absolute best part about Georgia nights? They’re always nice and cool. If nothing else, they will be colder than the daytime, and except for the two months after Christmas, this is a true blessing. In fact, I can’t wait to go home, sit in the backyard while looking at the stars, then open my bedroom window, and enjoy a good night’s sleep in a nice and breezy bedroom.

Twitward Grumpypants

When it comes to nicknames, I think I can give pretty much everyone a run for their money. Over the years, I have a amassed an impressive collection of nicknames, some funny, some sad, and some downright strange. To be honest, many, far too many of my nicknames are the result of my, well, lack of popularity in school. For many years, I could not stand nicknames, and not only shied away from using them, but expressly forbade anyone from even shortening my name. Well, having recently dubbed a co-worker “Twitward Grumpypants” in honor of Spongebob Squarepants, I think I can easily conclude that this is another childhood trauma I have conquered.

It really started with my family. My mom had the weirdest nicknames for me, such as “kaatje mossel”, and “krullebol”, even though I have always had the straightest hair in the world. My brother has recently taken to calling me “moppentrommel”, and when he’s being particularly goofy, “mama lou”. Now granted, this is the same man who calls his dad "Pino", but still.

Admittedly, some of my nicknames in school were interesting to say the least. And I have to say that my American and other non-Dutch peers were always a little more creative than my Dutch classmates. When I was in elementary school and wore glasses, a few mean little Dutch girls used to call me “brillejood” or “brillekoker”. Then when we moved to France, I got called “Duckie”, because I moved my feet like a duck (think Charlie Chaplin). I still do, and although no one has called me Duckie in years, my husband did just the other day point out that the way I put my feet down is the reason I overpronate when I run. In the US, my track coach called me “cloggy”, and through a long convoluted narrative involving a sweater with a thumbtack on it, I also earned to nickname “punaise”. Interestingly, that the was name I thought of when creating this blog, hence the “thumbtack” reference. However, those were some of the nicer nicknames, and I was also known as “boring” (in high school, adjectives can become nouns), “fayotte” (French for teacher’s pet), “moron”, and the ever-popular “loser”, as well as some other extremely inappropriate names I really cannot repeat here.

So for the few years following high school graduation, I was adamant about what people called me. I was Judith. Period. No Judy, Juut, or Ju, nothing of the kind. But of course, time wore away at my resolve. It started when a friend saw my brown suede jacket and decided it make me look like a “magnum ijsje met nootjes”, and my new nick (magnum ijsje) was born. Then I somehow became “jujubean” to my roommates, and my Korean roommate decided to call me “Sue-min”, because “it sounded cute and little, just like you”. After that there was simply no stopping the tide. Co-workers in Holland started to call me “tulpenstruik” (tulip bush) in reference to my last name, a week at a dude ranch earned me the name “Tinkerbell”, a nickname that was so quickly adopted by everyone, that new guests assumes “Tink” was my real name, and I now have an impressive array of Tinkerbell memorabilia. A friend in Wales started to call me “karatechicka”, and my friend Summer will call me “Princess”, especially in times of distress. Getting married also added a whole host of nicknames to my repertoire. Of course, there is the standard “honey” and “sweetie”, but my husband also got creative on me. He will call me “Mrs. Monk” when I over-worry, and “freak” when I’m being adorably weird. I'm sure my students have nicknames for me too, although they have yet to admit to that (to me anyway). Although last week, one student did have the courage to go up to a co-worker and ask where "Dr. Big-booty-Judy" was. Hmm. After my co-worker chewed her out, I told her she was lucky I wasn't around to hear that in person. I mean, I'm as cool and hip as the next person (and am ware of my booty thank you very much), but even cool and hip people have to draw the line somewhere.

So anyway, I think I’m OK with the nickname-thing now. I no longer flinch when people serenade me with “Hey Jude”, and don’t even raise an eyebrow when someone calls me a freak. That’s just my badge of honor. What’s yours?

Jan Pelleboer

Toen ik naar Georgia verhuisde, wist ik zeker dat er een ding was waar ik nooit aan zou kunnen wennen: het weer. Toen wij hier in Juni vorig jaar aankwamen was het zo onbeschrijflijk, verschrikkelijk, ongelooflijk warm dat enige twijfels over de opwarming van de aarde meteen van tafel geveegd waren, en je zeker wist dat je hier nooit, maar dan ook nooit, aan zou kunnen wennen. Maar toen ik van de week om kwart voor vijf ’s ochtends Zoe naar buiten bracht, en ik het bij een temperatuur van 60 graden Fahrenheid (zo’n 15 graden Celcius) echt ijskoud vond, bedacht ik me dat dat eigenlijk best nog wel meeviel. Een kennis wist me te vertellen dat je lichaam zich aanpast aan de buitentemperatuur, en dat je daardoor na een poosje beter tegen extreme hitte of kou kan.

Ook al had ik dit een jaar geleden niet gelooft; ik vrees toch echt dat ze gelijk heeft. De laatste weken begint het hier namelijk af te koelen (van gemiddeld veertig graden naar zo’n achtentwintig graden celcius), en ik vind het maar bar koud. Zo was het gisteren vijfentwintig graden, en liep ik in rok, laarzen, blousje met korte mouwen en blazer rond. De perfecte combinatie voor dit weer, vond ik zelf. Ik heb ook al een keer panties aangehad toen het ergens onder in de twintig graden celcius was, want ik vond dat eigenlijk best wel kon. Vorig jaar waren de dagen dat ik een winterjas aanmoest op een hand te tellen, en lachte ik de mensen die in November al een jas aanhadden hartelijk uit. Hierbij wil ik mijn welgemeende excuses aanbieden, want ik denk dat het nog een paar weken is voordat ook ik toe ben aan een jas.

Dit is wel eens heel anders geweest. Misschien is mijn geheugen niet meer wat het wat is, maar het staat mij bij dat als het in Nederland boven de 25 graden werd, mensen klaagden dat het eigenlijk niet meer te doen was, werken in pak. En raakte het kwik de dertig graden, dan liep de helft van de vakgroep in zo min mogelijk kleding, terwijl de andere helft gewoon niet meer kwam opdraven vanwege de hitte. Nu draai ik daar mijn hand niet meer voor om. Aan de andere kant kan ik me niet echt meer voorstellen dat ik met 18 graden lekker heb liggen zonnen in het park. Of dat ik met vorst op de fiets sprong zonder enige bijwerkingen zoals een hartaanval.

Het meest frappante vind ik nog wel dat mijn idee over wat warm en koud is verschilt afhankelijk van in welke temperatuurschaal ik denk. Zo klinkt 85 graden Fahrenheit als lekker weer, niet te warm, niet te koud. Daarentegen denk ik bij dezelfde temperatuur in Celcius, 27 graden, aan een dampende hitte waarbij je het beste op het strand kan liggen, omdat het elders niet uit te houden is. En 18 graden celcius klinkt als een lekkere buiten-zijn temperatuur, terwijl als ik op de radio hoor dat het 63 graden Fahrenheit wordt, dan begin ik al te mopperen dat het toch echt niet veel kouder moet worden.

Dus moet ik mijn woorden terugnemen? Uiteraard. Alweer. Ik moet toegeven dat ik ondertussen al zover ben dat ik de dag vrees waarop we besluiten om in de winter terug naar Nederland te gaan. Geef mij maar de zoele warmte van Georgia. En dat bewijst nog maar een keer dat het weer onvoorspelbaar is, maar er in feite niets zo veranderlijk is als de mens zelf.

A bit of earth

"A bit of earth. She wants a little bit of earth to plant some seeds."
Archibald Craven ~ The Secret Garden

Yesterday I sat down on the edge of our back porch, right smack in a large pile of fire ants. It was an accident, and even though Zoe tried to warn me, I didn’t realize what was going on until I felt like my bare legs were, well, on fire. How is this relevant? Well, owning a house with a large yard in a relatively unfarmiliar part of the world means that there are a lot of things pertaining to gardening that you have no idea about until they happen to you.

Yesterday, for instance, husband-dear and I had a discussion about whether the crepe myrtles were going into hibernation, or just dying. This was followed by a discussion about our sprinkling schedule. Now I’ve never had a green thumb, and a conversation about dying plants would have, a year ago, sent me to get water, fertilizer, or in the worst case, to the nursery for new plants. But it’s different here. People generally stop watering their yards right around October, and let their grass and plants go into hibernation. In other words, they let them go brown and brittle. And no, they’re not dead, because come spring your entire yard will be green and in full bloom. It’s amazing. And you have to see it to believe it. At least, that’s how it worked for me. I was convinced, for several weeks at least, that my husband had killed our grass, and that he simply didn’t want to tell me. What’s cool about this hibernation period is that you really don’t need to do anything in the yard for several months. The downside is that your yard does look, well, dead, for all that time too.

And then there are the new and odd bugs you have to get used to. A few plants in our front yard are suffering from a scary-looking fungus I have never heard of. And yes, I have sprayed, but so far, it’s to no effect. And unfortunately, we don’t have real frosts to kill problems like that. So I'm guessing we'll be buying two new plants come spring. Then we have the omnipresent roaches (of course), the afore-mentioned fire ants, and a host of other bugs, from spiders to those creepy-crawlers that curl up when you touch them. And the other day I heard at the vet clinic that several people have spotted rattlesnakes (or some kind of poisonous snake) in our neighborhood. Lovely. But you know what, Americans don’t mess around when it comes to getting rid of pests. Got fire ants? Just dust some of this powder in the area, and they will be dead within minutes. And they are. Only you, your kids, and your pets are not allowed near the area for a number of hours, and if it does get on your skin, you need to rinse and call your doctor right away. Okay. And rattlesnakes aren’t a problem either. If you live out far enough, you just buy a gun and get rid of them yourselves. And if you do live in a built-up area, you call animal control, and they will do it for you. It’s definitely practical.

And then of course, the soil is different, the grass is different, and the plants are different. You’re, at least down here, only allowed to water your yard on set days due to water restrictions, and then you have to make sure you water at the right time. Apparently if you turn on your sprinklers too late in the day, the water on the grass will cause it to burn in the sun, while if you turn them on too early in the evening, well, I don’t remember. The sprinkler-man (a.k.a the love of my life) has it down to a science anyway.

The seasons are different too. We’re not allowed to plant our trees until the end of October (when fall “really” starts), and there is no problem with planting vegetables say in April. They’ll be up and full-grown in the summer. It’s amazing. And contrary to everything people do in their yards down here, I will be planting some tulips come spring time. I can't wait.

Inspiration, imagination, perspiration

I know that the tradition of using and creating positive quotes and slogans for every situation is catching on in the Netherlands as well, but to me it will always remain a typical American tradition. It seems like here you can’t pass by an office without seeing at least three inspirational quotes plastered to doors and walls. And even though I appreciate the positive attitude, sometimes my Dutch crankiness takes over. That’s when the blatant happiness and over-zealous “we can do it!” attitude makes me want to run for cover. And sometimes I can’t help but wonder if the makers really were such Sesame-street-sunny-day-Barney-I-love-everybody-zealots, or if they were really thinking something else. On days like that, I can waste precious time away by thinking up alternative meanings to all the hippie-love around me.

“In order to fly we have to have resistance” Even though we all know you are really kidding yourself, and there really is no way to make this work, we think it’s great that you just wasting energy trying and believing.

“Don’t stop believing.” Sure, but know when you gotta stop. Please. Or better yet, keep believing, but just start working on something else. For goodness’ sake.

“Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm.” Caveat: try and limit your enthusiasm to really achievable things. Please. And lay off the caffeine while you’re being enthusiastic. I’m only peeling you off the ceiling once.

“All great thoughts and all great deeds have a ridiculous beginning”. However, not all ridiculous thoughts warrant exploration. And just because you have on ridiculous idea after another, does not mean you are a great thinker.

“Imagination is more important than knowledge”. Absolutely. If you don’t study and fail my class, you’re still really smart as long as you have a wild imagination. Employers are dying for kids who know nothing about the broadcasting industry, but who know how to imagine themselves as successful producers.

“The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.” The future really belongs to those who work hard, study their butt off, and watch you believe in the beauty of those dreams of yours.

“Failure teaches success”. Failure teaches you that sometimes you have simply reached your limit, and you need to stop. And other times, you need to get and try again. And again. And again. Until it hurts.

I don’t mean to sound like a bitter old biddy, but sometimes I worry that all these positive platitudes do nothing to instill a sense of realism in our youth, or anyone else for that matter. In spite of that, though, I don’t like the Dutch Calvinist attitude that “you can’t do it and you never will” anymore than the next person. I appreciate the American tendency to be more upbeat about life. But I’m not sure about surrounding our, at times, struggling students, with empty words that don’t really reflect real life. I worry that all these empty words take away from what it’s really about: that you work really hard, don’t always succeed, and have a hard time even when you do.
And if you’re looking for truly inspirational quotes, please check out this, far more realistic website.

Volunteer, volunteered, voluntold

There are some things about a job that are the same regardless of where you live. Most jobs want you to be on time, cover up various body parts, and do what you’re told to. And then all the jobs I’ve had require you to engage in the somewhat irksome and annual task of listing your goals and objectives for the upcoming year. Just when you think they’ve forgotten you this year, the dreaded e-mail pops up in your inbox, requesting you to list your teaching, research, and professional goals.

It’s not that I don’t have any goals. I do. And I probably have too many. The problem is that I never quite know how to word them in a way that will make them measurable by the end of the year. I mean “I want to survive teaching six classes and one independent study without losing my mind” can hardly be passed off as a goal. You’re supposed to put things like “To create a significant improvement in my ability to stimulate my students’ critical thinking”. The worrisome part is that all teaching goals are measured using student questionnaires which are administered right after midterms, when half your students think you are the devil incarnate anyway. So much for a reliable measure.

But I can deal with all those things. Sure, I will complain and gripe about it, but I know what needs to be done. I’ve learned to write “To submit an article to..” as opposed to “To publish an article in…”, since you never know when your nemesis is one of your reviewers.

No, what struck me about the list of goals and objectives this year is that it included a new header “service”. Slightly alarmed, I asked a co-worker about its meaning, and it seems that we’re supposed to “give back to the community”now too. I thought educating unwilling mini-adults for a paltry salary was a service in itself, but I was wrong. The administration has decided we have to volunteer in the community, and thus create goals to that effect. So next to conducting research and teaching, we now have to develop goals like “coordinate the national turn off your TV week for the local schools”. At first, I thought I was all set. I volunteer on base, in several different capacities, but I quickly found out that the rules state you have to “give back” under your professional title. So I can’t be Mrs. A when I’m serving the community, I have to be Dr. R. So that rules out all the work I do on base.

But that is not the most interesting part. No. That would be when I heard that this service thing is not something we’re supposed to do during working hours. Nope. No talking to kids about media use during school hours. All volunteering has to be done outside of work. After all, work is meant for, well work.

Right. I won’t go into how hard I work. I also won’t talk about how many hours I put in each week, or the incredible bureaucracy I have to put with. All I have to say, and you can call me selfish if you want to, is that if I don’t get paid to do it, I don’t do goals and objectives. Volunteering is great. It’s very important, and I love doing it. But I’ll do it on my own terms thank you very much.

After not receiving a lot of sympathy from my co-workers on this matter, I talked to my husbad, hoping to find an ally there. Instead, the love of my life tried to convince me that American employers simply expect a higher level of commitment from their employees nowadays. In the Air Force, being “voluntold” to do something is apparently very common, especially once you’ve reached a certain rank. But you know, I can understand that. You join the military, they pretty much own you. They not only pay you, they feed, clothe, educate, and house you. So I figure that means they can pretty much tell you what to do when. I, on the other hand, just get a paycheck. I refuse to believe that Americans have this burning desire to spend their precious time off working (for free!). They may work harder than their European counterparts, but they’re still human.
After listening to my little rant, husband-dear sighed, and gave me the look he reserves especially for me “Maybe you just need to play the game.”

Yeah, no. I do play the game plenty. I stick to the dress code, I don’t call people by their first name, I fill out the same form ten times without complaining, and I go out of my way to accommodate our students than ever before. But it ends here. I will not spend my precious time off doing something to keep my employer happy. I will find a way around this. So bring it on I say!

Different eyes

I don’t think I have to explain why having friends and family over from overseas is generally a lot of fun. There’s the catching up, the ability to speak Dutch, the feeling that you’re hanging out with someone who knows you longer than pretty much everyone else in your life down here, and all the goodies that they always bring along for you. But what I never really realized until this week is that another added bonus of having people over from out of town is that you find yourself looking at your own home through different eyes. Suddenly, all those things that you no longer give a second thought to, become new, and out of the ordinary.

It has been a long time, for instance, that I have given any thought to the size of the parking spaces in the US. My car here is bigger than the car I had in Germany, so maybe that’s why I don’t notice that the spaces here are large enough to accommodate a small boat. But when I picked up my friend from the airport this week (who was here on her first visit to the US), the first thing she said when we walked out of the terminal and into the parking structure was “Wow, it’s huge!”. I first found myself looking around for a ridiculously large SUV, like the Nissan Armada or something, and when I only saw small compact cars and a few empty spaces, I had to ask her what on earth she was talking about. When she told me she was amazed by the size of the parking spaces, my first response was to deny that there was any difference between European and American parking spaces. My friend then quite smartly asked me how many times I usually had to back out and turn in to get the car to fit in between the lines. When I responded I could usually just turn in in one go, it all came back to me. Parking your car anywhere in Europe does involve a backing out, turning the car a little more, backing out again, finding yourself almost scraping up against the car next to you, carefully turning, pulling in again, finding you’re still unable to get out of your car, backing out again, turning your wheels a hair more, and on. And on. And on. So I guess my friend was right, and I had forgotten that the spaces in Europe are so small that parking a car is actually something you have to learn.

And I know I talk a lot about how nice people are down here, but my expectations as far as customer service go have apparently also increased exponentially since we moved. I give no thought to people wishing me a “great day”, asking me if I need help in a store, and generally just being nice. My friend, on the other hand, felt like she was making friends left and right; “Everybody here likes me!”. People would hear her accent, ask her where she was from, what she did for a living, how she liked it here, and my friend just blossomed under all the kindness showered on her. Apparently no one in Holland ever asks what she does for a living, even when they see her lugging a 6 ft tall harp down stairs and into elevators. And when they do, and she tells them she is a musician, the general response she gets is not the all-American “that’s so cool!”, but the more practical, “And you can make enough money with that to support yourself?”. I had forgotten how much the general kindness, whether it’s genuine or not, can make you feel better.

And then of course there’s all the daily things we take for granted: the back porch, the sprawling cotton fields, stores that are open all the time, free public restrooms, and, believe it or not, the low price of gas. My friend adored the sunny weather, the wide, open roads, and the variety of “exotic” animals (mainly squashed on the side of the road, but if you have never seen an armadillo or a possum before, even a dead one can be impressive).

Sometimes I get so caught up in the struggles of daily life that I forget that I am fortunate to live in a place where people are nice, and life is far more convenient than it is in Holland. It’s nice when all that is brought back to you, so that when things are not going as smoothly as you would like, you can tell yourself that at least you don’t have to squeeze into a tiny parking space, deal with rude salespeople, and get rained on at least three times a week.

What's in a name?

I’ll be honest here, when it comes to naming children, I’ve always had a preference for more traditional, or perhaps old-fashioned, names. And preferably names that work in multiple languages. Names like Matthew, Daniel, Sarah, Julie, Nicholas (Nick), and Madeleine. Since no one made me boss of all baby names, I obviously have no control over what everyone else names their children, and you know, if you like your kids’ names, I’m probably cool with them. I like a lot of names, and I’m not trying to argue here that everyone should name their children after biblical characters, or saints, or both. It’s just that sometimes I can’t help but wonder if half the world has lost its head with the names they are bestowing upon their offspring.

I mean, let’s just look at the names of the current Republican Vice-Presidential nominee: Willow, Bristol, Trig, and Track. We have a tree, a town in Wales, the abbreviation of “trigger”, and an oval circle of Astroturf used for running. Now, don’t get me wrong, anyone can name their kids what they want, but I can’t help but wonder at some of the choices parents make. Sure, if you’re really rich, or really famous (or both) you can probably get away with naming your children after towns (Paris, Lourdes), characters in Disney movies (Tiger Lily), Colleges (Emerson), and acid trips gone wrong (Dweezil, Moon Unit). After all, your children will a) never have to work a day in their lives, and so won’t face the embarrassment of having to wear a name tag with the name like Sage Moonblood on it, and b) will be popular by default, and so will never be picked on for having a name like Little Pixie.

I also wonder about the need to be cute and creative. I mean, let’s consider the Cacee and Calee drama. The mother (one of the two Ca’s) whose daughter (the other Ca) disappeared. Why would you call your daughter a name so similar to yours, it rhymes? I can guarantee you that I would be the relative who would always get the two names confused. And what on earth is wrong with spelling it like most people do: Kaylee (or Kailee, I’ll give you that one)?

And while we’re on the topic of spelling, it would be so nice if parents kept their kids’ future teachers and the concept of “class rosters” in mind when deciding how to spell their children’s names. I can’t tell you how many times I have made a fool of myself because I would have no clue how to pronounce someone’s name. Knarquamya, for instance, is pronounced “nar-kee-ma”. Right. I should have seen that one coming. And while “Tanika” is pronounced “Ta-nee-ka”, “Tamika” is pronounced “Ta-my-ka”. If we’re going to make up names, can we at least stick to some sort of pronunciation guide? Another notion that fascinates me is the tendency to replace vowels like “a” and “e” with wilder looking vowel combinations like “y” or “ai”. Why call your child “Jasmine” when “Jazzmayn” (pronounced the same way) looks so much cooler?
And since when did apostrophes become the norm? I know that when I was in elementary school, I thought those names looked absolutely cool. You know, inventions like Ne’Chelle and No’elani. But that was also the time when I I wished horses could talk, and I used to imagine that little pixies lives in my doll house. Again, I don’t care what people call their babes, but I can’t help but wonder how a name like that would look on a resume, or a sixty-year old grandmother.

OK, so possibly I’m just getting old and grumpy. I’m sure my grandmother could think of a hundred better ways to name her grandchildren too. Maybe I just need to swing with the times, and get over it already. So no more naming children after great-aunt Elizabeth, or great-grandpapa Gerardus. Maybe we should reconsider our naming strategy. So if we have another baby, what do you all think:“Le’novo” for a boy, and “Okaloosa” for a girl?