Insomnia

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

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

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

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

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

Cold Turkey

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

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

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

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

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

D'r kan nog meer bij!

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

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

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

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

Christmas Cheer

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

The living room (complete with the new loveseat).



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



Carnival de Noel!

Love Actually

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

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

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

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

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

Stormy weather

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

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

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

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

Canteen Tales

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lichtjes

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

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

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

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

Kerstmis, we zijn er klaar voor!

Boulevard of (broken) dreams

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

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

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

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

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

Sinterklaas and his "six to eight black men"

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

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

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

Toddler truths

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

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

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

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

Guy Smiley

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

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

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

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

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