Course evaluations

There are several times throughout the academic year, that every instructor can, and most likely, will lose sleep. Not the "I have to get my finals graded so I can't go to bed" times, no, the "I'm in bed tossing and turning" nights. Those would be the two times per year that students get an opportunity to evaluate their professors, and the annual academic assessment that is performed at the end of each academic year. Student evaluations are deemed especially important, as they reflect how one performs on one's core duty: teaching. The results from these evaluations are compared to other instructors, other colleges, and other universities, and kept on file pretty much forever. If you want to make any kind of promotion, or argue for a raise, or get tenured, your evaluations need to be nothing short of perfect. In short, they're a big deal.

Deep in my heart, I know I do my very best as an instructor to present the appropriate material in an understandable yet interesting manner. I try to keep my materials current and up-to-date (no outdated powerpoint slides from 1997 for me), I read numerous publications making sure I'm not missing anything, and I attempt to make it all entertaining for my students too. Call me the anecdote queen, but I struggle to find applicable, funny and at times self-deprecating stories for every difficult concept. Consequently, my students know probably far too much about my personal life or days in college. But it seems to work, and I am not one to shy from whatever works. But in spite of all of that, and the fact that I have received numerous favorable evaluations in the past few years, I still worry. Am I good enough? Am I covering everything I should? Do the students get it? Can I get them to care? Do they like it? Am I asking too much? Too little? So when the time for course evaluations rolls around, I get a little nervous.

Last year, my first year here, I wasn't even aware that this school had an evaluation system in place until I received four big fat envelopes in my mailbox. Instructors were asked to appoint a student proctor during one of the last classes before finals, leave the room, and then the idea was that all the students would fill out a paper survey right then and there. Although I had all but forgotten about the evaluations by the time another fat enveloped made its way into my mailbox a few months later, the students seemed to be very satisfied. The statistics looked very good, and a few students had even bothered to write out some comments. To this day, though, I'm still not sure if the "Very hot" comment referred to the topic of the class, my outfits, or the classroom temperature, but either way, I figure it's a good thing.

This year, the administration decided to change the system to an online evaluation. Because state law prohibits schools from forcing students to participate in the evaluation, I expected the worst. Because if there was no incentive of any kind to fill out the survey, who but the students who had a bone to pick, would go online and fill out a tedious questionnaire? How representative would the sample of students taking the survey be? In spite of complaints of this nature directed at the faculty senate, it was to no avail. Internet technology is the future, and thus evaluations, like everything else from grading to obtaining parking permits to changing your home address, had to be completed online.

I had pretty much forgotten about the evaluations, again, until I found a very slim envelope in my mailbox today. Very slim. Out of my seven classes, only two students had filled out the questionnaire. Two. So much for adequate feedback. I feel fortunate though; a co-worker of mine had one student take the time to review his class. What would happen if those two students absolutely hated your class? Would that count against you, or would the fact that thirty other students did not complain work in your favor? I'm not sure, and fortunately for me, I don't have to worry about that. These students were happy and satisfied. They even took the time out to write brief comments, which really made my day. Student one wrote; "She is the only teacher in our department who knows how to teach! It's a big difference from reading off a powerpoint...I think she is a wonderful teach and wish our department had more like her!". The second student put; "She is an amazing professor. I enjoy all of her classes even though they are difficult. I really feel like I'm getting my money's worth with her. I like that her classes are challenging which forces me to think critically."

What can I say? Dr. DixieChick is blushing and very happy. I must be doing something right somewhere. And I guess I'm going to be allowed to stay on for another semester!

Asjemenou!

Wie kent Loekie nog? Of beter, wie kent Loekie niet? Het rare leeuwtje dat vroeger tussen de reclames door kwam met allerlei kunsten, en dan altijd “asjemenou!” riep? Loekie was het toppunt van hoe jaren zeventig kunst-en vliegwerk toch heel schattig kon zijn. Volgens mij is Loekie de Leeuw al jarenlang van de Nederlandse televisie verdwenen, maar in mijn hoofd leeft hij verder. Het komt namelijk regelamtig voor dat ik hier kleine dingen hoor of zie waarbij ik alleen maar “asjemenou” (soms ook “sjonge, jonge, jonge”) kan denken. Dingetjes die net even anders gaan dan hoe ik het verwacht. Soms heel Amerikaans, soms heel Southern, en soms gewoon “bijzonder”.

Zo hoorde ik laatst een verhaal over een wel heel vreemde bekeuring voor rijden onder de invloed. Een van de airmen van een kennis van manlief had een feestje bij hem thuis, en was tijdens het feestje even naar zijn auto gelopen om een CD uit het dashboard kastje te halen. Terwijl hij, met de autosleutels in de hand, in een open bijrijdersdeur door het kastje staat te rommelen rijdt er een politie auto langs die prompt stopt. De politie agent wilde weten wat meneer daar aan het doen was, en of hij ook gedronken had. De airman legt uit dat hij een CD aan het zoeken was, en ja hij had gedronken, maar ja, hij was dan ook niet aan het autorijden. Maar helaas is de regel in Georgia dat als je teveel op hebt, en met je autosleutels in je hand bij je auto staat, dat als een overtreding geldt. Dus de airman moest blazen, en mocht mee naar het bureau, alwaar hij een boete opgelegd kreeg, zijn rijbewijs werd ingenomen, en zijn commandant werd geinformeerd. Nu ben ik helemaal voor streng straffen van rijden onder de invloed. Van mij mogen ze je rijbewijs afpakken, je auto, het maakt me niet uit, maar dan moet je, naar mijn bescheiden mening, wel aan het rijden zijn. De volgende keer dat ik tijdens een feestje iets uit mijn auto moet halen, dan doe ik denk ik maar mooi de garagedeur dicht zodat niemand mij ziet. Asjemenou.

Vrachtwagenchauffeurs krijgen trouwens ook vaak een “asjemenou”. Als er eentje weer eens een halfnaakte vrouw op zijn cabine heeft geschilderd bijvoorbeeld. Of een lichtgevend kruis op de grille heeft laten zetten. Of zijn wagen met allerlei creatieve spreuken heeft versierd, van "Get 'r done" tot "Truckin' ain't for sissies", of een of andere bijbelcitaat. Of, zoals ik nu al een paar keer heb gezien, een plastic variant van het “mannenkruis” achter aan de trailer heeft hangen.

Amerikaanse moeders kunnen bij mij trouwens ook regelmatig een “asjemenou” moment oproepen. Zo waren we vorig semester bij een bijeenkomst over de veranderingen in het math curriculum van de school van de kids. Georgia wil namelijk overschakelen van een systeem waarin alle math onderdelen los gegeven worden (Algebra, Geometry, etc), naar een “integrated math” principe. Vraagt een van die moeders, wiens uk niet ouder kon zijn dan tien; “How will that affect their ability to get into an ivy league school?”. Nu ben ik helemaal voor het stimuleren van je kinderen, maar bij een kind dat nog niet eens op middle school zit? Asjemenou!
En dan heb ik het nog niet eens over de semi-vriendelijke opmerkingen die wij soms krijgen omdat wij onze kinderen zonder helm op door de straat laten fietsen, en ze niet verplicht naar een of ander educatief summer camp sturen. Of over die moeders die bij de locale politiechef zijn gaan klagen omdat de groep van staatsgevangen die onder begeleiding van twee gewapende agenten de crepe myrtles op de grote weg hier in de buurt hebben staan toch wel twee mijl van de lagere school aan het werk waren. Misschien ben ik onderbezorgd, maar dat soort dingen kan ik mij toch echt niet druk om maken. En als ik dan zie hoeveel energie hieraan besteed wordt, dan kan ik maar een ding zeggen: Asjemenou

Locks and keys

I used to never misplace my keys. And I mean never. It was quite scary actually, especially considering I’ve always multiple sets of keys; one for the house, one for my bike, one for my car, one for the office, etc. I used to put my keys in the pocket of my pants, and I hated walking around with a big lump on my side, hence I split my keys up into separate sets. And in spite of that, I used to be able to keep perfect track of where they were; my office keys were in my workbag, my carkeys in my purse, my bike-keys on the table in the hallway, ad nauseam.

Ever since I moved to the US, all that has changed. Just this morning, I spent a good five minutes hunting down my keys, and yesterday morning I had no clue what I had done with them. And who’s to blame? Not me, no, obviously, America is at fault here.

First, there are those pesky automatic garagedoors. Ours can be opened using a little gadget inside my car, as well as a keypad outside the door, and hence we really only use the front door if we have company. The only time I use my keys is to drive my car and get into my office. Since I simply refuse to drive anywhere on weekends, instead preferring that the love of my life, the man with the 8-mile commute, play chauffeur, this means that when I’m not at work, there’s no need for me to know where my keys are at. So now imagine what happens when I come home from my last commute of the week. I come home, fling my arms around nearby family members and pets, toss my bags in my designated corner of the bedroom, and leave them there. Since our magical garage door means I won’t be needing my keys for another three days, I don’t usually pay attention where they end up. And that’s where things go south from time to time. I have seriously found my keys underneath my dresser on Monday morning. I know I should have a designated place for my keys, but there’s just not a special spot where they wouldn’t get moved again. I’m thinking the perfect solution would be a hallway table with a little dish for all our keys. The problem with that is that our house, according to true southern standards, does not have a hallway. It has an “entryway” instead; a little area that feels like a hallway but is open on all sides and can be seen from anywhere in the living room. The “entryway” has a little sideboard, but since that too is in full view, I really don’t think that would be an appropriate place for a dish full of keys and other odds and ends which will eventually spill over and end up everywhere. I know I could use the kitchen, but husband-dear, who truly has a knack for losing just about everything, has taken up that room with little organizer hooks and dishes, and I would hate to mess up his system.

The perfect place for my keys would, of course, be my purse. But that will not really work either, and makes for my second point. You see, when I lived in Holland, I did use to keep my keys in my purse. And it worked because that was when little purses where in fashion. I don’t know what’s hot back in the Low Lands right now, but out here, big purses are the thing right now. The bigger the better. And since I do like to carry a whole host of things around with me (from daily planners to cameras, to body lotion and deodorant), I too have quite a voluminous purse. It has different sections and a bunch of folds and creases. Now try and find a key in there. I’ve seriously given up on my keys, only to, after thirty minutes of intense searching, huffing and puffing, find them stuffed in the tiniest corner of a crease in my purse.

For someone who likes to know where everything is at all times, this is quite a bewildering and frustrating experience. The dresspants I wear to work nowadays don’t have room for a set of keys in their pockets, and I really feel the days of the lanyard are over. So what to do? Maybe I’ll see if the men in facilities will put in a fingerprint-keypad on my office door. And perhaps I can use voice recognition to start my car. We’re in the land of opportunity, so I don’t see why not. Out with the keys, in with the new!

Zoe-rific

Sometimes, I really think we have the worst dog in the world. Don’t get me wrong, Zoe is absolutely cute and adorable, but after another one of her antics, we sometimes really wish there was a military academy for dogs.

For one thing, we are convinced that Zoe will not be satisfied until the entire world, and I mean, the whole wide world, is covered in a thin layer of her saliva. Our not-so-little pup will lick everything within reach, absolutely everything. She will lick kitchen cabinets, the oven, the bottom part of our hutch, kitchen chairs, windowsills, windows, the stormdoor, the screendoor, your shoes and pants, and anything else she takes a fancy to. Sometimes when we allow her on our bed, she will lick our pillows or blanket until they are soaked through. Just the other day I was so concerned that maybe Zoe had had an accident on the bed that when husband-dear came into our bedroom he found me on the bed on my knees, bend sniffing out duvet cover, while Zoe was licking my head. Fortunately, it was just saliva, although we had no choice but to do another load of laundry. Zoe also absolutely loves licking the inside of our dishwasher too, cleaning off the plates until they look sparkling clean. We’re working on breaking her of that nasty habit, but pulling a 45 lbs pound dog with the tenacity of a bulldog off a dishwasher door is hard work, let me tell you that.

Zoe’s second favorite pastime is digging. Oh yes, and destroying plants. It doesn’t matter that her daddy has threatened to bury her in the holes she digs, or that we put her in her crate when we catch her, and tell her “no” excessively. For Zoe, this is her drug of choice, and nothing will get in her way. Personally, I’m not too concerned about the digging part. We have such a large lawn that a few holes more or less don’t bother me. However, since yard-care is not part of my house-maintenance-package, it is possible that I simply am unable to grasp the level of frustration husband-dear is experiencing. I do know that when we discovered that Zoe had destroyed one of our newly-planted and freshly-trimmed crepe myrtles just last week, I gave up on the “only punish when you catch them in the act” principle. And little miss priss knew what she had done wrong too – she even had the audacity to pick up on of the broken twigs and run around the yard with it in her mouth. It would have been really adorable if I hadn’t been so mad.

Now I don’t mean to make it sound as though Zoe is an unmanageable pest, because on the whole she isn’t. We have managed to get her to sit and stay while we’re eating, she’s stopped icking the couch (wiping crusty dried saliva off your new loveseat just gets old), she will sit, stay and lay down when asked, and even her walking has improved. We can´t seem to get her to stop “talking back” when we ask her to do something she doesn´t want to do, but then again, between her and our oldest running off his mouth, Zoe is actually cute.

Last week, though, we hit another little bump in the road to perfect doggiehood. I took her to the first class of the intermediate class at PetSmart, and was positively embarrassed by her behavior. Zoe behaved like an absolute banshee. She refused to listen, and only wanted to play with the other dogs. She pulled on her leash until her eyes looked like they were about to pop out, she whined, squealed, and anytime I got her to sit down, she would crawl as far as the leash would let her. No amount of correction or positive reinforcement would get her to calm down. It was a nightmare, and I was joking we could very well be the family who broke the “no one has ever failed an intermediate class here” record.

So this week we worked extra hard, and yesterday, Zoe actually outperformed all of the other dogs in the class. She won a little award, and mommy was so proud of her. She comprehended “heel” and “wait”, and was just as adorable as she could be. Maybe there is still some hope for her. Then again, as I am writing this though, puppy dear is sitting in front of the storm door, licking and pawing the glass until the bottom half of the door is covered in dirt and goo. You gotta love your pets. And be willing to stock up on lots and lots of windex.

Homeworking

I love the spring semester. And not just because we’re headed for summer, or because most of our students graduate in the spring, or because the days become longer and brighter. No, the main reason I love the spring semester is the fact that I don’t have to teach any classes on Friday. This in turn means I don’t have to drive three hours to and from work; instead, I can just stay home, keep my sweats on, and work from behind my very own kitchen table. The amount of work I get done in the quiet of my own home is amazing. There are no students asking a million students, no administrative distractions, and no need to be sociable. There is just me, my tea, and my computer.

The whole “working from home” concept seems somewhat alien to most of my coworkers though. Many of them seem to be under the assumption that because I am not in the office on Fridays, I have the day off. Similarly, friends seem to be surprised when they call me on Friday and I’m working. Even husband-dear needs reminding every once in a while that I can’t do our taxes, run to the post office, and complete a host of chores on Friday since I have classes to prep, articles to write, and papers to grade. And a gym to go to, of course. I may not have the day off, but a little cheating should be alright, right? Since I am shaving three hours off my commute, I figured I could spend that on swimming. Or biking. Or anything I don’t get around to Monday through Thursday.

Most Americans, at least people down here, appear unfamiliar with the whole notion of “working from home”. This in contrary to Holland, where they even have a verb to describe the concept; “thuiswerken”, or “homeworking”. Entire tribes of employees work from home on a set day in the week, or at least from time to time. They pack up their laptop, their books, and move their office to their kitchen, or their living room, where they can work and watch te kids or do the laundry. In all honesty though, when half the department claims to be “thuiswerken” on a Friday when it’s nice and sunny out, you know that “thuiswerken” is more likely to translate to “sitting outside having a drink contemplating my next research project among other things”. But in spite of the occasional abuse, most universities and other employers are very serious about allowing people to work from home. It’s supposed to ease the eternal traffic jam between The Hague, Utrecht, and Amsterdam, help people balance home and work, and increase productivity. In the last year that I worked for a Dutch university, I was actually given permission to work from home full time, as this would only speed up the completion of the research project I was working on. I wonder how my dean here in Georgia would respond if I were to ask him if I could just do all my work from home – teach classes online, use a webcam for meetings, and communicate via email. It sounds like bliss to me. And imagine how much gas, and thus trees that would save.

I don’t really understand why Americans, or at least American academics in Georgia, haven’t caught up with this trend yet. Everyone always seems to be at the office, plagued by students, secretaries, and at times, other co-workers, who all want you to do something right then and there. I find that when I get one day at home per week when I can really crank out some serious work, I have a lot more patience dealing with people’s endless demands the other four days of the week. You want tape? No problem. Need me to sign a form for the second time because you lost the first one? Bring it on. Want to talk about your problems with professor so-and-so, come on in. It’s all fine, because I know I have Fridays to catch up.

So if you have a chance, try to implement this “homeworking” strategy. It really is worth it. Now excuse me while I go put in a load of laundry and then continue rewriting an article. And when I’m done with that, I may just get changed out of my pajamas. Then again, maybe not.

Feminism

I’m never quite sure what to make of the term “feminism”. Early in my college years, I called myself a feminist, a moderate one anyway. I was all about breaking glass ceilings, fixing my own bike, checking my own tire pressure and what not. But in the past decade or so, I have become increasingly unsure about how girl-power-gung-ho I am, or want to be.

I blame going to graduate school in Texas for this particular identity crisis. There I became aware of the American perspective on feminism, which, at least in Austin, is far more extreme than anything Europe has seen since the 1970s. I took classes with inspiring titles such as “Gender and sexuality in the media: women, feminism, and body image”, and met the “real” feminists. Girls who had no qualms about working as strippers on the side because they felt it only proved their power as women, girls who wrote man-bashing articles for the local magazine on female issues, women who rejected the male-dominated capitalist American consumer culture, and shopped exclusively at stores owned and operated by women, and so on. These were women who believed being a feminist meant you did not adhere to male-devised standards, such as shaving your legs and armpits, plucking your eyebrows, donning pantyhose, or wearing a bra. It made my desire to change my own tires seem quite juvenile and superficial.

Although I am all about equal opportunities, being strong and independent, and very fierce about treating women as objects of lust, studying in Texas among real die hard feminists made me realize that perhaps I don’t quite deserve the label “feminist”. I mean, I just can’t imagine sporting a unibrow, or never shopping at Victoria Secret again. Not to mention the fact that my boss would probably not approve of me throwing my hose and skirts out the window and coming to work in camo-pants and workboots. Plus I just like guys too much. They really do try, you know?

But moving to Georgia has forced me to once again reconsider my opinions. I’m beginning to understand that perhaps these women in Texas had a reason for being as extreme as they were. Did you know, for instance, that most southern men will not talk to a woman when her husband is present? I can’t tell you the number of times my husband and I have met a man who will not only refuse to introduce himself to me unless husband-dear introduces me first, but who then also simply fails to acknowledge my presence for the remainder of the conversation. Not once has any one of our male neighbors asked me simple questions such as what I do for a living or where I’m from. On the other hand, they inundate husband-dear with questions about everything. They have inquired about his favorite football team, his opinion on every single one of his assignments, his yard work philosophies, and I know that one day very soon they will be asking husband-dear for his shirt size. It is absolutely infuriating.

Husband-dear tells me it’s because southern men like to be polite, and talking to women without them initiating the conversation is considered rude. Right. I must have just missed that one. Husband-dear, sensing my disbelief, quickly backpedaled and added that lots of southern men don’t want strange men talking to their wives (“wacha doin’ talkin’ to my wife?”), and thus many males are too afraid to address any women accompanied by their spouses. Again: Right.

It’s worse when you’re out trying to buy something for you with your husband present. When we went out to buy me a new car a while back, I told my husband right off the bat that if any of the salespeople ignored me after we told them the car was for me, we would leave. The love of my life pointed out that we would, in that case, probably not be buying a car from anyone in town that day. “Fine”, I snapped, “It’s my car. I don’t care.”

And it was bad. The Toyota salesman barely looked at me, and tried to tell my husband we really should go for an automatic. When I informed him that I preferred a stick, the man looked as though he had just discovered crop circles in his backyard, and then tried to sell us the tiniest, ugliest Toyota on the lot. The Suzuki guy told my husband women generally prefer automatics, while the Hyundai dealer seemed to be talking to my legs more than anything. So when we made it to the Honda dealer, I was ready.
“We’re looking to buy a car for my wife.” My husband started, and I could see the man’s gaze just wonder across me and the kids as though we were not even there. And I had had enough.
“Yes, and if you’re going to try and sell the car to my husband like everyone else has been trying to do today, I guarantee you I will not be buying a Honda today.” I snapped.
Well, that did the trick. Jose didn’t even raise his eyebrows, and sold the Honda Fit I own today to me. He talked clutches, rpms, mileage, and maintenance with me. He sucked up to me. Then when it came time to negotiate the price, well, that he did with my husband, but still. I had made my point.

And when I had to go out and buy a refrigerator this summer, I ended up buying it from a woman at Sears. Not that the men at Lowe’s, Flint Appliances, Home Depot or any of the other stores were rude. They were just condescending. When I told them the fridge did not have to match the rest of our appliances, they chuckled and laughed. When I told them I really only wanted a certain width (we had a relatively narrow space for the fridge), they all tried to convince me that I had to have measured it wrong, because that really was very narrow. It was frustrating. Thank heavens for female sales assistants.

Maybe I do need to become more militant to get my point across. I’m not suggesting I’m going to start growing a little hamster underneath each armpit, but perhaps that I need to be more assertive and adamant about how people treat me. Maybe I should even start to put my feminist literature out in the living room and mention how sometimes in wintertime I forget to shave my legs. Let the revolution begin!

Inauguration Day

It’s January 20, 2009, you live in the US, what else is there to write about but the Presidential Inauguration?

Although our students had been hoping that classes would get canceled today, the university did not cave in, and instead offered a viewing opportunity in the large auditorium between 11:30 and 1:30. So at 11:25 my co-workers and I made our way downstairs, half-expecting to find a fairly empty auditorium, with only a few students scattered here and there. Instead, the auditorium was filling up fast with both students and faculty, while a large screen showed the Capitol building. A local television crew was setting up shop in the corner, and professional photographers were walking around snapping pictures. That is what you get for being an HBCU All them white folk wanting to know what y’all think of the whole shindig.

So as the students around us are playing with their cellphones and checking schedules, I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were there because their teachers were giving them credit. Sure, they want to see the inauguration, but why chose an auditorium full of faculty, while you could be partying in a dorm room? How politically involved are college students? Involved enough to party when Obama won, but sitting through a long and potentially tedious set of speeches? I wasn’t entirely convinced. Sure, I had seen them campaign prior to the election, but I also know them well enough to know that sitting through anything that does not move at an MTV pace is almost impossible.

Now I do know that our students feel strongly about politics, a feeling that was further corroborated when Bush made his first appearance on the screen, eliciting loud boos and catcalls from the students (and Steve, of course). And the first shot of Obama had students jumping up and down in their seats screaming, a few students raising their fists in the 1960s “Black power” style, and other shaking their books up in the air. A student behind me said; “Oh, I’m so excited, I don’t know anyone who isn’t.”

Then, when the inauguration began, the students quieted down, and proved me wrong. And, please frame this statement, but I loved every minute of it. They watched the screen with the kind of attention I wish I could get in some of my classes. They listened to the introduction, bowed their heads when the crowds were led in a benediction, and said a loud “Amen” when the reverend finished. Although they laughed at Aretha Franklin’s hat, gave a chorus of “hhmmm-mmm”’s after the statement “Dr. King and a cloud of witnesses are shouting in heaven” raised the roof after Biden and Obama took the oath, and the girl behind me was begging people for tissues “Oh Lord, I just know I’m gonna cry, I am”, you could hear a pin drop during Obama’s speech. The students were listening. They were truly listening. Interestingly, that was when the local camera crews packed up and left. They were there to record the excitement in the African American community, and the fact that this community is just as concerned by the content of their new president’s speech as well as the fact that he is black is apparently not as interesting.

So I am proud today. Proud that this country elected its first black president. Proud that this country elected someone who appears to have a realistic view of what needs to be done. And proud that our students really care.

Waterrat

Manlief en ik hebben een meningsverschil. Nu hebben we die wel vaker, en daar is helemaal niks ergs aan, maar ik weet niet of we deze ooit opgelost krijgen. Zie, ik wil een zwembad en hij niet. Ik wil echt heel graag een zwembad in de tuin, en manlief vind het echt absoluut totale onzin. Dat is het. Simpel he? Ja, heel simpel, alleen wel lastig als je vrouw een enorme waterrat is en jij absoluut geen zin hebt in de kosten en het onderhoud van een zwembad. Dus voor nu hebben we het er maar niet te vaak over. Maar toch, het blijft knagen.

Van kinds af aan ben ik een enorme waterrat. Vroeger was ik overal op vakantie gelukkig, als er maar een zwembad was. Vakantiehuisjes werden uitgezocht op basis van de grootte van het zwembad, en als we zoals altijd eens per jaar naar Sporthuiscentrum gingen (want zo heette dat toen), dan was ik niet uit het subtropisch zwemparadijs te slaan. En nog steeds wordt ik helemaal blij van waterparken. In Duitsland was ik gek op het Monte Mare zwembad, mogelijk nog meer dan de kinderen, en vorige zomer was ik teleurgesteld dat we niet ook nog naar het Dollywood Splash country konden gaan.

Toen we naar Zuid-Frankrijk verhuisden, was ik dan ook helemaal dolgelukkig. Want nu zouden we zeker een zwembad krijgen. En inderdaad, dat deden we. Het heeft nog wel een jaartje geduurd, maar uiteindelijk stond het er, compleet met drijvend volleybalnet en douche. Ik was door de dolle heen, en lag elk moment van de dag in het zwembad.

In mijn hoofd wordt een warm klimaat dan ook altijd geassocieerd met een zwembad. En het liefst eentje in eigen tuin. Dus nadat we naar Georgia verhuisd waren, begon ik al vrij snel over een eigen zwembad. Manlief kon zich er in ons eerste huis nog vrij makkelijk vanaf maken, want dat was een huurhuis, maar nu we een eigen huis gekocht hebben, wordt dat toch iets lastiger. En natuurlijk is het achterlijk duur. En helemaal niet praktisch, temeer omdat onze septic tank ook in de achtertuin ligt. En onhandig als het weer eens enorm stormt. Maar een zwembad hoort er toch gewoon bij? Vooral als je bedenkt dat het openluchtzwembad op de basis zoveel regels heeft dat de kinderen er niet eens met een bal in mogen spelen, laat staan lekker ravotten.

Laatst opperde ik het weer aan mijn man. "Ja maar lieverd, stel je nou eens voor, dan zou ik om de dag kunnen trainen voor de triathlon, in plaats van alleen op vrijdag wanneer ik geen les hoef te geven. Dan hoef ik geen rekening meer te houden met de openingstijden van dat stomme kleine overdekte zwembadje op de basis".
"Het is winter, " was het antwoord, "Hoe wil jij buiten zwemmen als het om het vriespunt is?"
"Nou gewoon, " zei ik, in een heel klein stemmetje, "Verwarming?"
Als manlief goed Nederlands had gekund had hij "Ben je nou helemaal belatafeld?!" geroepen. In plaats daarvan kreeg ik de speciale "only my wife" blik, en wist ik dat misschien ietwat teveel gevraagd was.

Die conversatie ging dan misschen wel niet helemaal zoals gepland, maar dat zegt niks. Misschien is verwarming ook wel niet helemaal nodig. Maar er komt een zwembad. Ooit.

Waterfalls

Recently I’ve learned that just because cussing is not appreciated in the Bible Belt, this does not mean you can’t use the Lord’s (or his son’s) name in other ways and means. So although “Oh my God” is unacceptable, it’s considered completely normal to cry out “Praise Jesus!” when you get an A on a test. Not using the Lord’s name in vain is thus open to interpretation, a surprising feat since most people seem to take the bible very literally in all other cases. I know it makes no sense, but there it is. I’ve tried telling my students they should praise themselves when they do well on a test, but that doesn’t seem to go over very well. So I’ve given up, and instead taken notice of the interesting ways in which people use the Lord’s name.

For instance, the other day my department chair had me confused when he told the faculty he had had a “come to Jesus” talk with students who had plagiarized. I was pretty sure he hadn’t attempted to convert them to Christianity (99% of our students our devout Baptists anyway), and it took an explanation from husband-dear to clarify this one to me. Basically, giving someone a “come to Jesus” talk means you give them hell, you tell it to them like it is, you don’t hold back. I could see how those terms could be a little too direct for the average Georgian, and since the Christian reference does fit in with the local religious discourse, “come to Jesus” works just fine down here. It’s just a little difficult imagining my old department chair telling the faculty, who were far more likely to just be coming back from their meditation-yoga-chanting retreat in the Tibet mountains than a church, that a “coming to Jesus” talk was what was needed to get a student back in line.

And our state government is not to be left behind either. This morning GPB reported on the opening of the new session of the State Congress, and they included a brief excerpt of the prayer offered at the ceremony. Usually these prayers are nondenominational to a fault (I’ve heard Air Force Chaplains mention at least four different deities in one prayer at a Christmas party one year), yet this one was everything but that. The pastor compared the start of a new legislative session to a birth, and not just any birth, no, the birth “we just celebrated”. Although I appreciated the indirectness of this statement, the meaning was almost too obvious. I mean, I always knew the Georgia State Government was powerful, but this just added a whole new dimension to their lawmaking abilities.

Sometimes, though, trying not to cuss becomes funny. Our kids know not to cuss. So when one child wanted to tell a story of how a friend of his misbehaved by cussing, he said “g.d” instead of the actual curse. Of course, his brother didn’t get it, but the youngest refused to say the word in full. So then dad decided to help out, and explain it in terms of opposites; “It’s like the exact reverse of Anti-Christ Waterfalls”. Of course, I had to interject that “damn” is not the same as “dam”, but they got the point anyway. So now our kids, our usually well-behaved, church-going, parental-authority fearing boys go around saying; “Well Anti-Christ Waterfalls!”

Is it really horrible to say I think it’s hilarious?

Standards

Whenever people talk about moving, they talk about all the things that are different, or that will change, or that you will have to do differently. And although I’m not going to deny that that’s true, I would also like to make the much overlooked point that some things never change, regardless of where you live. You still have to pay taxes, you’re still expected to remember grandmother’s birthday, you have to generally be nice to the people around you, and so on. But the most obvious thing that really doesn’t change all that much would be you. Well, me actually. I can list a whole host of things about me that haven’t changed since I moved to Georgia. For one thing, I still use the men’s bathroom if there is a huge line for the women’s for instance, I still sing in the car, take forever to get my stuff together after paying at a store (yes, I’m that annoying lady), and postpone ironing my shirts the night before I need them.

But what’s even more interesting than the things that don’t change or the new things you learn are those characteristics that seem to become more intensified after a move. Have you ever looked at yourself a little while after you moved and realized that something in your new environment seems to have put some of your personal characteristics into overdrive? When I moved to Germany, for instance, I became even more punctual than usual. I. Was. On. Time. All. The. Time. I think I even synchronized my watch to the news just to make sure. Yeah. Now when I see that the clock in my car is four minutes off from the news (which it was this morning), and I don’t even care. Because no one else here really cares. And moving to the south, where making small talk is the elixir of life, my tendency to strike up small meaningless conversations with just about everyone (in the elevator at work: “Wow, this sure is a nice elevator, isn’t it?”) has increased exponentially.

Usually I don’t really care. I figure it’s a natural way to adapt, and unless I start forgetting grandma’s birthday as a result, I leave it be. But there is one highlighted characteristic I’m not exactly happy about. I always knew it was around, but it didn’t really rear its ugly head until today. You see, I’m an overachiever. Always have been, and probably will be until the day I die. Now there’s nothing wrong with working hard, in my opinion. But it becomes a problem when you move to a country where “being the best” is a way of life, and then work in an environment where everything seems to be about outperforming your co-workers. You have to get better student evaluations, publish more, do more original research, volunteer more, get more involved in media production, ad nauseam, all in the name of achieving tenure. When you a put a natural overachiever like myself in this kind of environment, you know you have a really interesting situation on your hands. You all may remember that I taught seven classes last semester. This semester I’m back to the normal four classes. And what did I catch myself thinking this morning? That I had so little to do, I really should be ashamed of myself for not starting up some extra projects. After all, I’m only teaching the regular load this semester, so I’ll have tons of time left over for research. Three classes worth of time, right? In fact, I should do that new study with the local high schools. And I could definitely start the content analysis project, and get going on the focus groups. And how about finally finishing that article on the media literacy measure?

In Holland one or more co-workers would have called a halt to my train of thought hours ago. They would have informed me I was headed for an early heart attack, and should take the time I’ve gained from teaching “only” four classes to enjoy life, catch up on my sleep, and go feed the ducks in the park or something. Here, I’ve yet to hear someone say anything. Everyone down here seems to think that stressed out is a perfectly normal state of mind. And I guess I’m still Dutch enough to realize that perhaps this is not entirely normal. So, Steve, can you help me out here buddy? Perhaps send me home on time today? Thanks.

Over inleidingen enzo

Eens per jaar geef ik een bijzonder spannend college. En gisteren was het weer zo ver; het inleidende college van “African American images in the media” stond net als vorig jaar weer ingeroosterd voor 9:50 ‘s ochtends. Inleidende colleges zijn meestal niet echt de meest spannende verhandelingen. Vaak worden ze beperkt tot een kort verhaaltje over waar het vak over gaat, en een uitgebreide uitleg over de “syllabus”; het handboek van de cursus, met alle regels, eisen, opdrachten, deadlines, en het rooster. In sommige gevallen wordt er ook nog uitgelegd waarom het vak relevant is voor de opleiding, maar meestal wordt dat bewaard tot college nummer twee.

Dit is niet het geval bij “African American Images”. Hier val ik, na het uiteenzetten van de syllabus, meteen in de deur in huis met de vraag “En, jongens, vertel eens, waarom is dit vak relevant?”. Dit doe ik allereerst omdat het volle rooster hier verder geen ruimte voor heeft, maar voornamelijk om duidelijkheid te scheppen over welke richting het vak op zal gaan.

Dat dit nodig is, bleek ook dit jaar weer toen studenten gezamelijk “Well duh” riepen op mijn vraag waarom we aandacht zouden moeten besteden aan de representatie van zwarte Amerikanen in de media. Uiteraard lijkt het voor de hand te liggen; ik werk op een HBCU, mijn studenten zijn zonder uitzondering African American, en de school staat ook nog eens in het racistische zuiden. Maar als dit als uitgangspunt genomen zou worden, dan zou het college op niet veel meer uitlopen dan een “pity party”; een soort groepstherapie waarin studenten vooral kunnen praten over hoe verschrikkelijk slecht African Americans geportretteerd worden in media. Hiermee wil ik absoluut niet beweren dat er niks mis is met de manier waarop deze bevolkingsgroep wordt neergezet op televisie en in de bioscoop, maar wel dat ik in dit onderwerp op een analytische en academische manier wil aanpakken.

Naast dat ik studenten gisteren duidelijk wilde maken dat dit dus een serieus college zou worden, waarin niks zomaar aangenomen zou worden, en we alle series en films die de revu zouden passeren kritisch zouden bekijken, was het voor mij als docent ook van belang dat ik het vertrouwen van de studenten zou winnen. Dus ik had bedacht dat ik na een uitleg over racisme als een continuum, de noodzaak van het gebruik van schemata (ook wel stereotypes genoemd), de studenten alle stereotypes over blanken op een rij zou laten zetten. Vorig jaar, toen de klas veel wantrouwender en vijandig was viel dat in zeer goede aarde, en ook dit jaar was het een groot success. Het is verschrikkelijk interessant om te horen hoe studenten over blanke Amerikanen denken, en ook nog eens verschrikkelijk leuk om ter plekke de spot te drijven met hoe sommige dingen in deze maatschappij in elkaar zitten.

Dus wat denken mijn studenten over blanke Amerikanen? Ze vinden dan blanke vrouwen erg onderdanig zijn naar hun man toe, maar dat er wel minder “single moms” zijn. Ze vinden dat blanken absoluut niet kunnen dansen, en veel te veel aan plastische chirurgie doen. Vooral vrouwen laten hun gezichten heel vaak liften, en dat komt omdat ze veel sneller rimpels. Gelukkig gold dat dan weer niet voor mij, aldus de studenten. Toch fijn om te horen. Ook doen blanke Amerikanen heel veel aan extreme sports, en zijn ze ook heel avontuurlijk. Zo vroeg een mannelijke student zich af waarom al die mannen toch altijd willen kletteren en bungeejumpen en parachutespringen. Ik heb hem maar uitgenodigd een keer met ons te komen mountainbiken, dan kon hij de kick ook voelen. Hij zou er over nadenken. Blanke Amerikanen zijn volgens mijn studenten ook echt verliefd op hun huisdieren, tot op het bespottelijke af. Zoals een student zei; "Uw hond is ook echt een schatje, maar die sjouwt u toch ook niet overal mee naar toe?". Oh nee, want ik was geen blanke Amerikaan. Ook vonden de studenten dat blanken altijd in korte broek en slippers lopen, zelfs als het hartje winter is. Onbegrijpelijk vonden ze het. Ook al werd het een college, die uit het hoge koude noorden komt, wel vergeven. Ook houden blanken van heel “bland” eten, zijn ze over het algemeen rijk, en houden ze erg van drinken. Het zal je maar gezegd worden.

Een kwartier later was het ijs gebroken, en kon ik veilig verder met een discussie over identiteit, en de vraag of jezelf “Black” of “African American” noemen iets betekende voor wie je nu werkelijk was.

Het wordt een interessant semester.

Split Personalities

I never truly realize how much I actually live in two worlds. I don’t think about it when I switch languages in mid-sentence, or when I watch a Dutch kids’ show with my husband, or when I get really excited over a soccer match thousands of miles away. It’s what I do and who I am, and there you have it. It tends to take a friend or other innocent bystander who points out the obvious extraordinariness of my actions for me to realize that not everyone is like me. That is, until a few days ago, when I started playing my “Ik hou van Holland” CDs in my car on my way to work.

“Ik hou van Holland” (I love Holland) is a collection of four CDs that my parents gave to me for Christmas. It has the most imaginative mix of music on there, from melancholy songs from the 1960s (“Het Dorp” by Wim Sonneveld), Eurosong hits from the 1970s and 1980s, folksy partysongs (“meezingers”) such as “Geef my maar Amsterdam”, horrific tearjerkers such as “Telkens weer” and “Pierrot”, to more modern classics such as songs by Wonder Woman (Who? Yes, I don’t know either), Doe Maar, and De Dijk. I think it takes an expat to appreciate the eclectic collection, for no real Dutch person in their right mind would like Andre Hazes, Ramses Shaffy (“Zing, Vecht, Huild, Bid, Lach, Werk, en Bewonder”), and The Golden Earring all on one CD. But that doesn’t really matter to me – I love it. Just this morning I found myself singing along to “De bom” by Doe Maar, and imagining being back in the early 1980s, wearing neon pink and yellow wristbands, and wondering why all those girls kept passing out at Doe Maar’s concerts.

And that’s where the weirdness comes in. Whenever I listen to these songs, it’s as though I’m somehow in a different world. When I listen to Doe Maar (a 1980s punkock-ska band), I’m back in the 1980s, the cold war is a reality, and there are still only two Dutch television channels. Listening to Ramses Shaffy or Boudewijn de Groot puts me in a car with my parents listening to their favorite music, while anything by Andre Hazes, de Havenzangers, or Anneke Groenlo puts at any student party where listening to folk music is considered “camp”. In my head I’ll be riding my bicycle in the cold, wondering if I should go shop in Amsterdam or Utrecht that weekend, and knowing I need to stop by the Albert Heijn to get some cheese. And then, in the midst of all this Dutch-ness, my eyes will refocus on the road, and I will, for one second, find myself wondering why on earth all the traffic signs are green, not blue, why the Volvo behind me has such a little plate on the front (instead of the long yellow one), and why on earth I’m stopped at the “Willie Harris Parkway”. And then, just like the Celine Dion song, it all comes back to me. I’m not in Holland, I’m in Georgia. You know, the place where I live. Where there are no bikes, no Albert Heijns, and no cool shopping towns for miles around. And that’s when I really feel like I am two people. One who is happy living here, driving her car from stripmall to stripmall, looking out for green signs, and listening to 106.3 classic rock. And one who wants to ride her bicycle in the cold, have pea soup on really cold nights, and yearn for sun and warmer days.

I think I need to listen to my Dolly Parton CD on my way home today.

Junk mail

Since the United States Postal Service has yet to invent the "nee-nee/ja-nee"sticker, I have spent the past eighteen months becoming once again reacquainted with the concept of junk mail. If you think Dutch junk mail (the cheap local newspapers, the flyers, the coupon booklets) are bad, you need to take care of my mail for about a month. Actually, you're welcome to come do that regardless of what you think, but that's beside the point. The point is that American junk mail is beyond unbelievable. It's not just flyers from shops and little local rags that do nothing but leave your hands black and your mind full of things you didn't need to know, like the date of the next lawnmower-riding competition. American junk mail goes far beyond that.

It includes endless appeals for your money from every possible organization you could think of, from the St. Jude fund for children's hospitals, to the fraternal order of police, to the local public broadcasting organization. I have no clue how they ever got our address, but they did, and, boy, are they ready to wear it out. Each letter is addressed to us personally, and one is even sadder than the other ("Dear Dixiechick, did you know that without your help, your quarter per day, five children will die this year?"). The envelopes look different every time, so you can't just sort them out based on appearance, and sometimes these organizations make the envelopes look like they come from serious federal or state government agencies. I can't count the number of times I almost had a heart attack right there at our mailbox because I thought we had received a letter from the IRS or some other scary government branch, only to find it was a plea for our money. And these organizations do more than just tug at your heartstrings, they also include little gifts and trinkets, pretty much obliging you to do something in return. We have hundreds of little stickers with husband-dear's name and our address on it, we have several refrigerator magnets, bookmarks, and goodness knows what other kinds of vain attempts to get our money. I say vain because usually they are. And that's my fault. You see, these organizations are pretty smart. Not only do they disguise their envelopes, and try to somehow bribe us into donating money, they also always address all their mail to my husband. Who is, admittedly, the biggest teddy bear on the planet, and would give his right arm away if it would help you out. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he's married to me, and although I would give very much away to help you out, I think I draw the line at my right arm. So we end up giving to a few select charities, and then throw all the other pleas away (although we do keep all their trinkets - if they're useful - of course).

The one other aspect of American junk mail that continues to surprise me is the credit card offer. In spite of the current credit crisis, American credit card companies are apparently not satisfied until everyone has at least fourteen credit cards. And even though husband-dear and I both have the same number of credit cards (and they're in both our names), these companies seem to find me an appealing target. I receive an average of three offers per week. Husband-dear gets none. It's really quite unfair, since I would love all the little trinkets, and I never get any of those. And although these companies try to disguise their envelopes too, by making them look like bills, or strangely enough, mail from charitable organizations, I've become quite adept at picking them out. Most credit card junk mail seems to come from a specific state, and use a certain font. And all of them use my middle initial. Very odd. Since I have no need for another credit card, I save the mail until I have a decent little pile and then spend a good ten minutes each month scaring the crap out of the dog as I shred them all.

As of recently we're on the national do-not-call list (and let me tell you, it works!), and I'm really beginning to wonder if maybe someone should start a do-not-mail list. Something you could sign up for when you're just plain satisfied with what you have, Or perhaps we should create a more generic just-leave-me-the-heck-alone list. I know I'd sign up. Or how about we just all start using the Dutch "no-no" stickers? I'm all for it!

Happy New Year!

"Happy new year, happy new year! May we all have our hopes, our will to try"
Abba ~ Happy New Year

To all of my readers, near and far, I hope you all have a wonderful, joyful, fulfilling, clean (cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all), relatively stress-free, and body-rocking 2009!

I usually don't have huge overwhelming new year's resolutions, instead I like to create a little ten-point list, much like the famous Adrian Mole. So below you will find, in no particular order, those things I intend to improve on:

1. Wash my car more often than twice a year, and remember to get it buffed and waxed on a regular basis too. It costs less than $10, and I could probably get husband-dear to do it, so I'm not quite sure why my car looks like it's been through hell and back. Since my car is essential to my job, and thus my life, I promise to definitely take better care of it in 2009.
2. Stop the annoying habit of keeping one knee-high when the other one has a run in it. I do this out of frugality (well, if one more knee-high gets a run, I'll have a spare to make a pair), but in practice this means I'm left with a drawer full of non-matching knee-highs, that I never end up wearing anyway.
3. Stop saying "like" so much. For some reason, when I learned English in the 1980s, everyone said "like", like all the time. And in spite of my years, my advanced education, and my bookworm-ishness, I still use it far too often, sounding more like a grown-up Valley Girl, or someone from "The Hills" or "Made" than, well, someone I would like to be, you know, say professional, educated, and with an expansive vocabulary. So "like" has got to go.
4. Leave work when I tell husband-dear I will. Although I love my students (and co-workers), I really need to learn to be less like that unfortunate Ado Annie and say "no" a little more often.
5. At my husband's desperate request, I have to remember that when I ask him "Did I tell you about the time that.." and he says "yes", there is no need for me to not continue the story. It's apparently very annoying.
6. Bring my cellphone when I run. The past year has proven that it is very easy to get lost in this part of the world, and that running can be quite a hazardous experience as well. And not just because some people just don't pay attention when driving, but also because some locals apparently take sport in running as many runners off the road as possible. I can't tell you how many times I ended up crouched in a ditch wishing I had a cellphone so I could call the cops on some redneck kid in an oversized pick-up truck
7. Stop being obsessive and accept six resolutions when I really wanted to have five. Or ten. Or some pretty number.

Happy 2009!