Going native

"We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."
Any Star Trek episode

Last Wednesday, I was trying to explain to my students why it is important to adapt your lingo that of your interviewee. Since I am the queen of examples, I quickly searched for a way to explain this, and started, ever enthusiastic, as follows; "Imagine being from the south, and interviewing someone from Maine, and then saying..."
I fell silent, as I drew a complete blank. I could not, for the life of me, think of a typical southern term or expression. None. When I told husband-dear about this later that night, he said; "Not even y'all?"Nope. Not even y'all.
So I stood there for a few moments, and then could do nothing but say, much to the merriment of my students, "OK, wow, this is bad. I have now officially become a southerner, because I can't think of one typical southern expression. They all seem normal to me."
Finally, the only, somewhat lame, term I could come up with was "greens", a term that budding social scientists will of course be using extremely often. Fortunately, I was able to come up with an example from my own history of interviewing people, and thus clarify my point that way. But in spite of that, the little incident kept nagging at the back of my head.

Have I finally gone native? On my way home that day. I considered that option. I looked at the highway, the other cars, and the various bare cottonfields, rib shacks, pawn shops, and other local curiosities that I passed on my way, and realized to my dismay that none of them had me look twice. I remember driving along that country highway and scribbling notes for this blog on a piece of paper. I hunted through my purse (yes, I'm still driving at this point, another sure sign of becoming one of them"), found the notepad, and realized that none of the notes could inspire me to write a blog now. Billboards? Those big ugly signs that are a fact of life down here? What's there to write about? They're big and ugly. Done. The funny things you see on semis? Who cares about that? The way the cotton looks like snow when it's in full bloom? Well, maybe. It was an unsettling realization. Does becoming more southern mean I will now do and say all the things I thought were hilarious, outdated, or plain odd a few years ago, and not even realize it?

On the other hand, if I want to make this my home, then remaining a critical outsider will do me little good. Can you belong and be critical at the same time? That's also called cognitive dissonance, and I'm going to say what I tell my students when I teach them about that concept: no you can't maintain dissonance without losing your mind. I need my mind to keep my job, so obviously that's not an option.

But then this morning, as I was driving to the base pool, I witnessed another one of those spectacular southern sunsets. One where the whole sky seems to be on fire in hues of orange, pink, and blue, with colors stretching as far as your eyes can see. Somehow you never see those in Europe. Maybe that's because there's always some building blocking your view, or because you're further north, I don't know. But what I did realize right then is that as long as you realize how different and special the place you live and the people there are, you don't really "go native". Perhaps time does shave the edges off any criticism, and possibly it will become harder to write scathing pieces about the local idiosyncrasies. But that doesn't have to mean that you have no option but to become one of the locals, start saying "y'all", listening to country music, wearing mom-jeans, and perming your hair. Thank goodness. But do forgive me if I say "greens" and "cuss", and pass on the right from time to time.

Gek

“Ik word gek, harstikke gek, helemaal gek...”
Brigitte Kaandorp ~ Brigitte: De Musical

Soms weet ik het, net als Brigitte, even niet meer. Dan begin ik me zelfs serieus af te vragen of ik misschien gewoon degene ben die ze niet allemaal op een rijtje heeft. Ik bedoel, ben ik nou gek, maar waarom vinden de studenten hier dat ik ervoor verantwoordelijk ben dat zij zich gemotiveerd voelen?

Deze week is, zoals ik al eerder schreef, de week van de midterms, de tentamens die midden in het semester gegeven worden. En dit semester lijkt dit halfwegpunt een nog groter drama dan voorgaande jaren. Het toppunt was tijdens mijn “Senior Project” college. In dit college moeten de studenten de ruwe versie van hun afstudeerproject bij het midterm inleveren, zodat ik hun voortgang kan beoordelen. Een theoretisch goed idee, alleen hebben dit semester acht van de tien studenten niks ingeleverd. En toen ik ze daarop wees, en opmerkte dat ik niet vond dat ze hun best deden, riep een van de studenten; “And how are we supposed to feel motivated if you tell us we’re not trying?! We are trying, and you make us feel like crap this way!”

Dat was eentje die ik nog nooit gehoord had. En na enig denken werd het me duidelijk; ik word hier als docent verwacht mijn studenten te motiveren. Dat is iets nieuws voor mij, als ik eerlijkben. Natuurlijk probeer ik mijn studenten enthousiast te krigen voor hun werk, ze te motiveren om steeds beter hun best te doen. Maar ik ben zelf niet van de overtuiging dat mensen motiveren betekent dat je ze niet de waarheid kan vertellen. In mijn mening horen mijn studenten zichzelf te motiveren. Zij hebben een bepaald doel voor ogen, afstuderen, een carriere, verder studeren, het maakt niet uit. En daarin horen ze, in mijn mening, zichzelf te enthousiasmeren. Ik zal ze aanjuichen en bijsturen indien nodig, maar daar houdt mijn rol op. Mijn studenten zijn het daar dus niet mee eens.

Na enige navraag onder collegae ben ik er achter dat zij dit ook zo ervaren, en het, net zoals ik, een erg vreemd uitgangspunt vinden. Studenten op de universiteit horen zichzelf te sturen, het is ten slotte geen high school meer.

Dus hoe komt dit dan? En waarom is het zo anders dan in Europa? Of zelfs in andere delen van de VS? Misschien komt het omdat hier in het zuiden meer een “coddle” cultuur heerst; een cultuur waarin kinderen bij alles volledig aan de hand genomen worden. Zo valt het mij wel eens op dat veel van de “lokale” ouders hier ontzettend veel voor hun kinderen doen. Is een kind zijn of haar lunch vergeten? Dan komt moeders het naar school brengen. Moet Sue-Lynn of Steve een groot project doen, en is kindlief te laat begonnen, dan gaan alle hens aan dek en helpen papa en mama mee, desnoods tot ‘s avonds laat, om het alsnog in orde te maken. Ook scholen lijken soms mee te doen. Er zijn regels voor werkelijk alles; van kleding, tot taalgebruik, tot gedrag in de cafeteria, tot wat mee te nemen naar de les, tot het wel of niet naar de WC mogen. En deze staan allemaal stuk voor stuk beschreven in pagina’s tellende student handbooks. En een klas overdoen als het niet goed gaat? Dat gebeurt hier in Georgia al helemaal niet. Niet alleen is dat slecht voor de naam van de school, welke op “graduation rates” beoordeeld wordt, maar het zou ook heel slecht zijn voor het ego van het kind.

Laat ik wel duidelijk zijn; ik heb helemaal geen probleem met duidelijke regels. Ik weet graag waar ik, en de kinderen aan toe zijn. En ook al zijn manlief en ik niet van het “coddling parenting”, en hebben we kinderen regelmatig zonder handschoenen, muts, of lunch naar school gestuurd als ze deze kwijt, of vergeten waren, we zullen ze heus wel helpen als er weer eens een of ander crea bea project op stapel staat.

Maar waar ik wel een probleem mee heb, of denk te hebben, is dat zo veel verantwoordelijkheid bij de kinderen zelf weggenomen wordt. Ze worden overal door anderen doorheen gelaveerd, zonder zelf over na te hoeven denken (“is het beleefd om midden in de les naar de WC te gaan?”) of verantwoordelijkheid te hoeven nemen (“ach, ik ben mijn jas kwijt, mama koopt wel een nieuwe”). En dan krijg je volgens mij studenten die dus verwachten dat hun professor ze, net als hun ouders en leerkrachten op school, overal doorheen sleept. Want dat is, zoals zij het zelf regelmatig tegen mij zeggen, mijn baan.

Nu is mijn baan, volgens mij, studenten iets bij te brengen over mijn vak. Om ze te stimuleren na te denken, en zichzelf elke keer te overtreffen. Om ze, a la Vygotsky, uit hun comfort zone te halen, en ze zo tot een bepaald niveau van functioneren te krijgen. Maar ik ben niet verantwoordelijk voor hun success. Of hun motivatie. Die moeten ze zelf verzorgen.

Maar ja, misschien ben ik toch wel gek.

A nerd and midterms

When I was in school, I truly liked taking finals and midterms. No, I did not like the days or weeks of studying in advance. I also did not very much care for the waiting right before the final, those few moments in which you’re running everything through your head one more time, fighting the urge to dive into your bag and check in your book. But once I was sitting in that chair, opened the exam, and read through the questions in a preliminary scan, I hit the “exam-zone”. My mind was clear, focused, and as I would pen quick notes in the margins of the test paper, I felt like a runner hitting their stride. And even if I didn’t know all of the answers right away, an incredible peacefulness would envelop me every time. This is where I needed to be, and this is what I needed to be doing, so I better do it. In fact, I used to get so caught up in what I was doing, apparently entire bookbags could fall of chairs, people could be coughing their heads off, or arguing with the professor about something, albeit in whispered undertones, and I would not have a clue. I never even felt the urge to use the bathroom, until after the final, when the pains in my stomach would have sprinting to the nearest bathroom. During finals, I was in a bubble. A bubble which was no one was ever really aware of, until one notorious occasion at my Dutch university. For one of my upper-level classes, the professor had prepared a few of the finals in English for our foreign students. They had accidentally been placed on top, and so I, not the foreign student at the back of the line, received one. Of all the students to whom a final in a foreign language could have been given, I, the one who spent numerous years at American schools, was probably the worst. I didn’t even give it a second thought, and started scribbling my first answer to the open question. In English. It wasn’t until I was bicycling home with a friend, that I started to wonder about that. The professor thought it was hilarious, although the two foreign students did not find it equally funny.

Now that I administer my own finals and midterms, I can’t help but wonder if any of my students enjoy the rush of taking exams. If any of them go into a zone of feverished writing and thinking. Academics seem so different from when I was a student. These students seem surprised when I tell them that, no, they cannot wear their IPods while taking their finals. We had just made it into the portable CD-era when I was in college. Because someone’s phone will always go off, I have all my students place their cellphones on my desk. Besides the fact that my generation, obviously, did not own cellphones, I always marvel at the fact that some of those phones have features that, back then, I couldn’t have even imagined. My students seem a lot more preoccupied with other things; rush, parties, steplines, and the social life of the dorms, than I ever was.

But in spite of all those differences, I still see a very familiar gleam light up some students’ eyes right before a final. Their mouths become one straight line, they stop talking and laughing, and stare off into space until they’re holding the test in their hands. Then they dive into the paper, their pens scribbling furious notes while they consider all the questions and what they could write. These are the students whose papers are filled with paragraphs of mind-numblingly precise detail and who use the backs of their tests for notes. Students who really don’t re-read their answers after they’ve written them. Why should they, after having extensively outlined their answer first? Students who don’t look up when someone walks in late, and who don’t ever smile when handing in their final. Of course. It is a very serious business after all.

Midterms are fun.

And I’m getting old.

Office wisdoms

As I was cleaning out my computer, I came across a whole series of documents that contained nothing but quotes, wisdoms, and lyrics that adorned a wall in one of the various offices I have occupied over the past years. Some are still up on my wall today, others I had all but forgotten about, and reflect a long-ago past. However, I thought I select the oddest, funniest, and most inspirational here. Perhaps they will adorn some of your walls, or if not that, they will at least provide everyone a little joy, and make you all wonder about what really does go on inside my head.

Deep and supposedly mind-engaging quotes:
"But the reason I call myself by my childhood name is to remind myself that a scientist must also be absolutely like a child. If he sees a thing, he must say that he sees it, whether it was what he thought he was going to see or not. See first, think later, then test. But always see first. Otherwise you will only see what you were expecting. Most scientists forget that.
Wonke the Sane, “So long and thanks for all the fish”

In the offensive category:
"This isn’t an office; it’s hell with fluorescent lighting."
"Well, this day was a total waste of make-up. "
"Sarcasm is just one more service we offer. "
"Can I trade this job for what’s behind door 1? "
"And which dwarf are you? "
"Do NOT start with me, you will NOT win. "
"I’m multi-talented, I can talk and piss you off at the same time. "
“Any connection between your reality and mine is purely coincidental.”
“I have plenty of talent and vision. I just don't give a darn.”
“Ahhh...I see the screw-up fairy has visited us again...”
(Needless to say, I went through an obvious 'angry young woman' phase)

Inspirational:
"Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius power and magic to it. Begin now." Jonathan Goethe (1749-1832)

"Don't think! Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious
is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things." Ray Bradbury.

“May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.”

“Toen ze de communisten kwamen halen
heb ik niets gezegd
ik was geen communist.
Toen ze de vakbondsleden kwamen halen
heb ik niets gezegd
ik was geen vakbondslid.
Toen ze de joden kwamen halen
heb ik niets gezegd
ik was geen jood.
Toen ze de katholieken kwamen halen
heb ik niets gezegd.
ik was geen katholiek.
Toen kwamen ze mij halen
en er was niemand meer om iets te zeggen. Martin Niemöller (1892-1984)”

“Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life, define yourself. Harvey Fierstein"


Just plain odd:
"Meandering to a different drummer."
“The light at the end of the tunnel has been temporarily shut down due to financial difficulties”
“Who me? I just wander from room to room.”
"Karate Wisdom:
Watch out for those people half your size; they are twice as familiar as you are with the ground, and tend to be eager to introduce you."

And the quote which hung over my desk for about six years:

"It is sometimes a mistake to climb
it is always a mistake never to even make the attempt.
If you do not climb, you will not fall. This is true.
But is it that bad to fail, that hard to fall?
Sometimes you wake, and sometimes, yes, you die.
But there is a third alternative.
And sometimes, when you fall, you learn to fly."

So there you have it. A little insight into DixieChick's warped mind. Enjoy!

The Spring Faculty Conference

For the longest time we were led to believe that we were going to escape this semester’s pep-talk-administrative- update meeting known as the semi-annual faculty conference. There had been no announcements before Christmas break, and right up until the beginning of the Spring semester there was not a peep about a possible conference. Most faculty breathed a sigh in relief. Although the administration loves these conferences as an occasion to showcase the wonderful achievements of our university and bring every one together as a “united spirited academic community”, many faculty don’t quite share their sentiments. In spite of understanding the need to communicate pertinent information to all employees, the faculty tend to think of long-winded speeches with endless power point presentations as taking away from time that should have been spent on preparing classes, meeting with students, conducting research, or generally doing what they are being paid to do. So when there was no sign of a spring conference, most people raised their eyebrows, but decided not to bring it up lest they should give someone an idea.

However, the fact that I am sitting in a full auditorium, listening to the Vice President talk about impending budget cuts, proves that our approach was less than successful. Mid-January, the administration decided the current developments on the state level were sufficiently ominous to warrant a university-wide faculty conference. And having listened to some of the recent developments, I can’t blame them. The bad news? We’re facing massive, enormous, positively staggering budget cuts. Every economic bump in the road leads legislators to treat education as the evil stepchild that should have been thrown out years ago, and this time around it’s no different. The state is considering a 10% budget cut, and is debating the possibility of furloughs. There will be no raises for the next two years, and a 100% hiring freeze has been put in place. The good news? Our university considers pink slipping anyone a non-option. For the time being anyway. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that we have a fairly decent amount of alumni donations come in, or maybe it’s because HBCUs like ours were founded on the principles of standing together during times of adversity. I don’t know. But I am very grateful. Not just because I have a mortgage payment to make, and kids to put through college, but also because I can’t imagine my life without teaching. I’ll take a furlough, I’ll even take a paycut if it comes to that, heck, I would take on a second job if need be, but just let me teach.

But the conference isn’t all doom and gloom. Perhaps it would have been had we been in the Netherlands, where even the most progressive universities tend to have a Calvinist-glass-half-empty approach. But we are in the US, at an HBCU, in the south, and so there is plenty of optimism. Our President called it just another glitch on the road to preeminence. Now I’m not entirely sure about us being on the road to anything quite that fancy, but I appreciate the upbeat attitude. The president started off today’s conference with a speech that almost a command to believe in a positive outcome. He phrased it as follows:

“Keep in mind the Jesus who laughed. Keep in mind our ancestors who laughed. Keep in mind our founders who laughed. Keep in mind all the professors who came before you and who lived through Jim Crow, the Great War, the Great Depression, World War Two, segregation, lynchings, the civil rights movement, the Vietnam war, another recession, another war, and who laughed all the way through. When I walk by an office or a classroom and I see people laughing, I know we are doing our jobs right. Because when you laugh, you acknowledge that we will make it through this. We are, after all, called the Unsinkable!”

Never mind that we are a public school, that many of the faculty members are not religious, that some of them are not born US citizens, or were born long after many of the above-mentioned events, or the fact that at least 10% of the faculty is not African American, the president had an auditorium filled with critical and at times cynical academics cheering in appreciation.

And even I, your usually somewhat cynical Dutch closet-Calvinist, was cheering and laughing. What else is there to do? You can mope and worry about college funds, bills, and vacation, but that is not going to magically improve our current economic situation. You might as well smile and be merry, and enjoy what you do have while you have it. And I do honestly think we will be okay. Like our university, I think we’re all a little bit unsinkable.

“Members of the jury…”

"...have you reached a verdict?”

I have to admit that although I admire the brilliant simplicity of the American judicial system, I have never quite gotten used to the idea of a jury made up of laypeople like you and me determining the outcome of every imaginable criminal trial. Sure, I learned about the sixth and fourteenth Amendment it in 10th grade US History, and then again in 12th Honors Government. I understand that the principle behind the concept of a jury is that everyone is tried by a group of people who reflect a cross-section of the community; i.e, a group of “one’s peers”. I can even understand why this may seem a more reliable form of justice than a system whereby a single Judge decides on a case. But I still don’t worry that a trial by jury is simply not as reliable or accurate as a trial overseen by multiple judges, as currently is the case in the Netherlands.

Can we really depend on a jury to come to a fair, unbiased, and well-founded decision? To be honest, I don’t know. And for all the prattling I do about the use of topic sentences, proper grammar, and understanding world history, I’m not worried about that. I don’t care if people are smart, or even educated. I worry about people being biased, or worse, prejudiced. Now sure, you could argue that with a proper cross-section of the community, one should, technically speaking, have a jury that represents every possible political and religious views in the country. If you live further North or West, I will venture that perhaps that is an actual possibility. However, down here, far in the deep south, it is actually possible that you get a jury made up of nothing but semi-racist white people. And if you’re an African American male up for a crime committed against a white person, I can guarantee you you’re up a certain creek without a paddle.

Now let’s, for argument’s sake, assume that you can assemble a jury of relatively reasonable people. There’s a few men, a few women, some African Americans, a couple of white people, maybe a Latino or two, and a fair representation of the different religious beliefs in your reasonable jury. But in that case, I can’t help but wonder about all those studies out there about people’s limited ability to perceive, process, and retain information. Numerous studies have proven that people have a hard time remembering information that is not line with previously developed ideas. One study carried out in the 1940s proved that the majority of the people on a plane who witnessed a white man starting a fight, actually remembered an innocent black passenger as throwing the first punch. That scares me. And how about people tuning out? I know that sitting through grad school gave me a massive attention span, but that in spite of that even I tune out from time to time. Especially when I think I know what someone is going to say. Imagine that happening on a jury. Now I’m not saying this won’t happen to a Judge, but at least they have been trained to do this type of work.

Anyway, this is a very long and roundabout way to talk about the fact that Keith, one of my co-workers, was called up for jury duty this week. He had received the letter a few weeks earlier and was so excited he could barely see straight. Although Keith is a bleeding-heart liberal who lives to criticize anyone in power, he did honestly seem to want to serve his country. But more than that, he also has a very stressful job. Hence, Keith was also very much looking forward to getting away from the students, the administrators, the staff, and everyone else who pesters him on a daily basis. He had a series of books lined up he wanted to read during the selection process, and he and I spent many enjoyable coffee breaks speculating about the kind of case he had been called up for. He wondered about the possibility of being sequestered, while I wondered how many brands of fancy coffee creamer he could buy with the $25 he would be earning per day. What would it be like to serve on a jury in a part of the world that is not known for its open-mindedness? Keith was sure he would be selected, if only because he would be the only Democrat around.

So on Monday, as he left to report to the courthouse, I wished him a good time, but secretly hoped he would not stay away too long as our Department is horribly overworked with him there. But I had not expected the call thirty minutes later. There had been a plea-bargain, so there was no need for a jury after all. Keith was not a happy man. After all, his quiet time had just evaporated. As had my inside scoop on the American jury system. My heartfelt apologies to you, the reader. We'll just have to wait until Keith receives another letter. I'll keep you posted.

Tussen acht en vijf

Amerika is het land van het gemak. Alles gaat bijna vanzelf; je bankzaken doe je vanuit de auto, eten kan in de auto, belasting en andere financieen kunnen allemaal online geregeld worden, je “dry cleaning” geef je af in een drive-through, en we hebben hier zelfs een quick-lube waar je gewoon in de auto kan blijven zitten. Het is soms net een beetje als de Nederlandse belastingdienst, “Leuker kunnen we het niet maken, makkelijker wel”.

Toen twee weken terug onze koelkast in een keer begon te lekken, verwachtte ik dan ook niet anders dan dat het met datzelfde gemak gemaakt zou worden. We hadden ten slotte nog garantie, dus ik zag een al flitsend mannetje langskomen op een vantevoren precies afgesproken tijd, die binnen een paar minuten onze lekkende “water dispenser” zou repareren. Het begon allemaal nog veelbelovend. Nadat wij om acht uur ’s ochtends de hele keukenvloer hadden gedweild, de doorweekte spullen uit de voorraadkast hadden weggegooid, en de verzopen rijst uit alle hoeken en gaten van de keuken (en Zoe’s poten) hadden gevist, kreeg ik tot mijn grote verbazing meteen iemand van het Sears repair center aan de telefoon. Ook kon ik meteen een afspaak maken. Geweldig. Ik verwachtte een systeem zoals onze kabelmaatschappij, onze pest control, en onze Airco-repareer-man allemaal hebben; ze noemen vier blokken van twee uur, en daar kan je dan uit kiezen. Niets van dat alles. Ze zouden tussen acht en vijf langskomen. Acht en vijf!? Ik probeerde het nog voorzichtig; “Dus dat betekent dat ik de dag van te voren een specifiekere tijd kan afspreken?”
“Nee mevrouw”
Ik werd wanhopig; “Op de dag zelf dan?”
Maar nee. De reparateur zou tussen acht en vijf langskomen. Meer wisten ze niet. En nee, ik kon ook geen telefoonnummer krijgen van het lokale bedrijf dat de route bepaalde.

Gelukkig stond op de betreffende vrijdag het mannetje van Sears al om half negen op de stoep, waardoor ik niet mijn hele rooster om hoefde te gooien. Alleen kon hij die dag niet de koelkast repareren omdat hij een onderdeel nodig had. En laat hij dat onderdeel nou juist niet bij zich hebben. Het onderdeel zou in de loop van de week aankomen, en dan zou hij de volgende vrijdag het installeren. Dan moest ik alleen wel even een nieuwe afspraak maken. Zo gezegd zo gedaan. Deze keer beloofde de mevrouw van Sears mij zelfs dat ze een verzoek zou indienen of ik vroeg op de route ingepland kon worden. Maar helaas. De reparateur kwam om half vier aanzetten. Dat werd dus niet zwemmen, niet fietsen, en ook niet douchen (want stel je toch eens voor dat die man voor de deur zou staan).

Ik ben me eens af gaan vragen hoe de wereld er volgens Sears uitziet, en het enige waarop ik uit kom is een soort mix tussen June Cleaver, “Toen was geluk heel gewoon” en “The Brady Bunch”. Een wereld waarin vrouwen met gebloemde schortjes en gepermanent haar braaf thuis wachten tot manlief thuiskomt van een dag op kantoor. Het huis is blinkend schoon, en ruikt heerlijk naar sudderlapjes, want ja, vrouwlief gaat toch het huis niet uit, en kan zich dus perfect aan de taak van huisvrouw kwijten.

Als dit in Nederland zou gebeuren, zou ik er niet op of om van kijken. Ten slotte staat Nederland nou niet echt bekend om zijn service. Maar dat dit hier in de VS gebeurd, daar kijk ik toch wel even van op. In het land van de glimach en het gemak lijkt dit toch echt achterhaald. Maar helaas, zolang manlief noch ik nog steeds geen koelkastenexperts zijn, hebben we ons er maar, heel Nederlands, bij neer te leggen.

Fez

“You know, in my country…”
Fez ~ That 70s show

So after letting Steve take over my blog for a day (and yes he really does exist, does live in the office next to mine, and can be very annoying in a brotherly sort of way), I would like to point out several things. First, I don’t just wear skirts and boots on days I meet with the promotion and tenure committee, I wear them pretty much as often as possible. In a world of pumps with diamonds on the heels, I figure that if nothing else, my job is to prove that you don’t need polyester slacks to look professional. Second, I really don’t say “in Nederland” that often. Really, I don’t. I do say “at the other places I’ve worked at” or “anywhere but here” a lot though. And naturally that’s always as part of a sensible and well-reasoned comparison. Finally, the social science approach really is the only way. Don’t believe a word those bleeding heart post-structuralist semiotic qualitative analysis humanities people tell you. It’s all lies.

Today, however, I wanted to talk about something that has me hopping with excitement; my very own fez. For those of you unfamiliar with the That 70s Show, fez stands for Foreign Exchange Student, and I now have one of my own. It’s a she, and she is visiting from a school in the Netherlands where a former co-worker now runs the show. It’s extremely exciting to have someone here who speaks Dutch, knows what I mean when I say “Joh!”, and who brought a whole box of Dutch candy with her. It’s also very interesting to be on the other side of the fence for a change. I’m so used to being the one who is on the exchange that it’s very odd to be on the one my student turns to for help and advice, as well as the one who has the have the delicate “you are now in the south so you really shouldn’t....” discussions.

My student has done a great job making me feel smart. She, to the dismay of her American roommate, wanted a bike. It so happened that I have a spare bike in our garage, so I loaded it in my car, and drove it all the way down here. Or just yesterday the student wanted to know if she could drive here with her German driver’s license. And where she needed to go to find the microfilm in the library, where she could buy a bicycle lock, and what she needed to do if she wanted to call someone from the phone in her office. What’s so amazing to me is that I knew all the answers. I even remembered that the DMV changed its name to DDS. I felt like a kid in grade school. Here I am, always feeling like the complete alien (although I suppose that technically I am just that), yet I knew all about foreign driver’s licenses in Georgia, microfilm, locks and phones.

And having a “fez” around has also made me face up to the absolutely unacceptable fact that I have become more of a southerner than I would like to admit. I’ve found myself wondering why she would say something a certain way, only to realize that I would have done or said the exact same thing a few years ago. It’s uncomfortable and enlightening at the same time, as I get to see, firsthand, how much I’ve (shudder) conformed. Suddenly I’m made aware of how ridiculously nice I am to everyone. It’s not just “thanks”, but “thank you so very much, wow!”. And how absurdly concerned I have become about not offending people.

And of course having a research assistant means that suddenly you have someone doing research for you. It’s amazing. After years of academic exploitation, I’m the one making the decisions about the sample, the coding instrument and all other research concerns. So today Dr. D. is very happy. And for those of you who have been wondering if Steve’s comments about the hallway are true; happy means I have been singing a mixture of Carole King songs and bad hip hop for every one to hear. Except you. Count your blessings.

Steve Speaks out

DixieChick is a wonderful accident. After earning an "arts van filosofie" in Social Science with a minor in "konijn-tonijn" studies, she joined the American military and moved to Georgia. It was by relocating to the American South that she ended up being hired, two years ago, at the same small university I was. I say accident because it's purely geography that allows her to be here – she's a fierce advocate for our school and our most outstanding contributor, but we frankly don't deserve her, and are too myopic to realize it, too. She and I set up a little campaign with a political action committee last year in order to ensure that the school would be smart enough to rehire her as tenure track and give her an exorbitant raise. Fortunately that worked, and now she's working on her tenure portfolio and wearing boots and short skirts on days when she meets with the promotion & tenure committee. We still don't appreciate/understand her, though, because she has the misfortune of knowing how things should be done, properly.

Our workplace is very old fashioned and traditional. This tends to rub DixieChick the wrong way. She is quick to explain that, "in Nederland," various things are done like this or like that. This is fun for me, as my job is to play devil's advocate and tell our precious Dutch transplant why she's wrong. Trouble is, she's very stubborn and sticks to what she knows to be right (a true conservative :P). Honestly, we agree on most everything important (we originally bonded over being cultural and political misfits in rural Georgia), but I can't resist in trying to convince her that:
· Her students' excuses are valid
· Her supervisors know what they're doing
· The humanities and social science approach are equally valid
· Whitey is always to blame
· She's being unreasonable
· One should work six days a week

No progress, yet, but I'll keep y'all posted. I'm not just picking on DixieChick for fun, though. She is really sui generis. As I'm sure you're aware, she commutes 3 hours a day in her little car. She's at work every morning before nearly anyone else in our building. I usually arrive a little later than the bulk of our neighbors, but even if I come in at 8 o'clock sharp, she's already there. I think she's there at 7am. Only a few times have I ever made it in before her, usually because something catastrophic has happened, like she hit a flock of geese on the highway, or had to run a 5k before she got ready to come to work. As a consequence of coming in so early, and from so far away, she does end up being the first person to leave the office each day. After I come back from a lunchtime meeting or session, I'll look around and wonder, "where is Dr. D?" Gone! But her commute and hours are far from being the strangest things about this perfectly accentless professor. She is wonderfully quirky, and gets very excited about small things. She was hopping up and down just the other day in my office, excited over received a shipment of Dutch candy. Having someone goofy (but "normal" in the ways that matter) at work to talk with about the funny and odd details of life keeps me sane. She is an entertaining coworker/friend/weird foreign person. One that faithfully gives me full updates on how many kilometers miles she ran/biked/swam (it makes me tired!). She likes to shout down the shared and reverberant hallway at no one in particular, not caring who hears her acting out Family Guy lines, cursing out her Senior Project students, or threatening to poison the departmental secretary. The great thing about DC's quirks, though, is that I can pick on her ad nausuem, to the point where it would annoy or insult most people, and she doesn't care. She even thinks it's funny sometimes. I've found that she has a very thick skin and an absurd sense of humor. Try as I might, I haven't been able to make her cry. Apparently only bureaucrats, immigration officials, and our IT staff have the ability to produce DixieChick tears.

Students fear her for her challenging courses, but they also realize she's a damn good teacher. She pours her heart into the classroom, and when she's not in the classroom, she's poring over her notes, examples, assignments, and teaching strategies. Next year, she'll be eligible for a teaching award…

So now you've gotten the "Steve" perspective on your favorite blogger. Everything you've read in Southern Tales is true. About every morning over coffee, DixieChick will shout through the paper-thin walls: "BLOG'S UP!"

Independent Woman

“All the women who’re independent, throw your panties at me”
A friend’s version of “Independent Women”

So, husband-dear was away for almost five days this weekend, visiting his grandmother in Indiana. Grandma B, by the way, seems to be “holding her own” to use another age-old euphemism. As Wednesday and the following days progressed, she seemed to actually be making small recoveries each day. It was an extreme relief for everyone in the family.

Anyway, you would think that, once the news came that Grandma B was doing better, I reveled in four days of husband-free me-time, and that I did things like take long baths, blog endlessly, rent girl movies, and drink lots of tea with friends. That’s what I thought I was going to do too. The operational word here is “think”, because what did I do during those four days? I cleaned. Yes, you read that right. I cleaned and scrubbed and scoured, and generally just wore myself out. In fact, I told my husband that had he stayed away for another few days, I would have probably put a good dent in our plans to paint our bedroom, our living room, and our office.

What happened, you may ask. Well, I’m not sure myself. I remember how in years gone by I used to spend those weekends husband-dear was away, playing war in some frost-covered field with all of his GI Joe buddies, or practicing his sandbagging-laying skills, or doing whatever else it is men in uniform do when they’re away from home, and it did not involve anything near a mop or a broom. I used to sleep late, dance around the house to the music only I liked, go out and watch very odd indy films, and manage to eat not one healthy meal the whole weekend. There have been many occasions when I would think back to those wonderful refreshing weekends, and wish for just one more so I could truly unwind. But this past weekend, it was just not the same.

For one thing, I was just plain busy. Instead of having the luxury of having husband-dear do our groceries while I clean up around the house, and on Saturdays having one of us run the kids to their music lesson while the other one takes Zoe to her class at PetSmart, and sharing responsibilities such as the laundry and cooking, I now had to juggle all those things by myself. That’s when you just stop enjoying the business of your weekend, and it becomes all about efficiency and “getting ‘r done”. I have to admit that there were some moments in the DixieChick household this weekend when there was not a whole lot of love going around. On the upside, I don't think Zoe will ever again have the courage to go through our pile of firewood, chew up half a log and then it into our house.

And funny enough, even though I love to gripe about life with a man from time to time (I mean, what is up with leaving socks everywhere?!), it was just no fun without husband-dear around. A painful confession for a semi-feminist who spent years living by herself and was fairly happy about it. I had a hard time thinking of things to do, especially in the evenings. Once you’re used to sharing most of the things you do, what fun is there in doing them by yourself? There was that, and of course the fact that this town I live in, is absolutely not set up for the single young urban professional. There are no independent film houses, no coffeeshops, not even a really good bookstore. So what is a women by herself, who has already gone to Walmart that day, to do? Go to Walmart again? Exactly. And hence the cleaning spree. Whenever I got antsy, I would find something else to clean. And judging by the fact that now even our garage is cobweb-free, I got antsy a lot. The love of my life was pondering if he had joined the army and would have had to go on those horrid 15-months deployments, I would actually resort to painting the outside of the house, or screening in the backporch, and I told him I probably would.

Fortunately, husband-dear returned on Sunday. It was wonderful. And I would love to tell you that it lasted for about a day, but it didn’t. I’m sorry. My days of semi-feminist weekends are apparently over.

When time stands still

"There's a personal phone call for you"
A co-worker was standing in the door of my classroom which was full of students taking notes and listening to my lecture on early philosophers. It's a moment you've planned for; you've given close family members the number to the department office in case there is ever an emergency and you're teaching and your co-workers know your schedule. It's a moment you dread and hope never happens. And it's a moment that somehow always sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

As I followed Steve down the hallway and up the stairs, he told me my mother-in-law was on the phone with the department office who had called him. Thoughts started racing through my head, was it my father-in-law? Or maybe his mother, who lives in an in-law home on their land? Or maybe I had forgotten to give the base my work number, and something had happened to husband-dear.
But it wasn't any of them. My mother-in-law told me her mother, grandma Barbara, as the kids know her, had had a stroke in her home in Indiana, and would probably not make it. Although grandma Barbara is in her eighties, it did not, and still does not seem right. We had even made plans to drive up and visit her this spring. It was probably not meant to be.
My mother-in-law told me that she and father-in-law, who live south of us, were going to drive up to Indiana via our house, where they would pick up husband-dear who would want to say goodbye to his grandmother. Of course. They would leave right away.
As I walked back down to my classroom, where I had told my students to stay put until I came back, I couldn't help but wonder about this weekend. We were going to drive down to my in-laws and celebrate our oldest's birthday there. He adored his grandma Barbara, and he loves to visit his grandparents. Funny how things can be turned upside down so quickly.
Then, as I stepped into my classroom, I decided I wasn't going to cancel class. What else could I do? Husband-dear would be at work until 5, my in-laws weren't arriving at our house until 6, and so the best thing for me to do would be to stick to what I know best: teach. And I did. With all of my heart. Life is too short to do things any other way.

Stenglish

Altho I love my students, st they drive me crazy to. There writing can be truely horrible, a combo bt college shorthand, txt msg lingo, and simple laziness. Oh w8, I frogot when their ina rush.

Although I have yet to receive a sentence as bad as the one I wrote above, it is a fact that a lot of the papers and assignments I receive are written as though the student has never met an English teacher in their life. I call their particular brand of English Stenglish, or Student English. Sentences run on and on and on and on, or stop in the middle of a thought. Paragraphs come and go without any logic, topic sentence, or apparent structure, sometimes leaving me to wonder if a student decided to insert a new paragraph when they did because it looked pretty. Students will use shorthand in serious research papers (“This is not an instance of hegemony bc of…”), forget to use proper punctuation (“There are two main views ritual and transmission”), sound just odd (“your first response is going to be come on be more picking”), or resort to very convoluted language (“Being that it may be that..”).

I realize that the complaint that “back in the day” students used to write better, work harder, and show more enthusiasm is as old as time itself. And I don’t necessarily believe that. My students are incredibly enthusiastic and some of them do try very hard, but at times they all just seem to suffer from proper-Englishitis.

Now I would love to argue that it’s content that matters, and not form, but I just can’t. I figure that just knowing about something isn’t enough; you need to know how to communicate about it too. And even in today’s multi-media environment, writing is still the main tool used for communication.

It’s easy to blame the Internet or cell phones for this development, but I’m not too sure about that. I text, blog, email, and use Facebook as much as my students, and yet I generally know where to put my commas. I’m not sure what’s going on. Some of my co-workers lament about the sorry state of the Georgia public school system. They argue that the No Child Left Behind Act has made schools dedicate more and more time to preparing their students for the annual standardized tests. Time they used to spend teaching students the art of writing. And maybe they’re right. I remember learning about the different forms of essay writing as early as 8^th grade. Yet last semester, when I talked to my Editorial and Critical Writing students about how the basic intro-body-conclusion outline of an essay applies to an editorial too, I got a whole class full of blank stares. And is it true that my students are absolutely wizzes when it comes to answering multiple choice questions.

Whatever the reason may be (and in all honesty, I don’t really care), I’m stuck with dozens of students who struggle to write flowing, grammatically correct, and properly punctuated prose. So last year I decided I could ignore this Stenglish (Student English) problem no more and broke out my old writing manuals. So now, next to comments about significance levels, myth development, and ethics, my students can now also find remarks such as “needs comma”, or “insert topic sentence” in the margins of their paper. Right. I think I definitely care too much.

Case of the Mondays

“Ooh..sounds like someboday has a bad case of the Mondays!”
Nina ~ Office Space

Some things just never change, regardless of where you live. Bad Mondays would be one of them. I knew it was going to be a bad day today when I woke up. The clue was the fact that I almost didn’t have the energy to do just that. I had spent half the night working as a flight attendant while the pilot elected to do loops during take-off, when thankfully my husband had to go to the bathroom and rescued me from a possible promotion into first class. The second half was spent looking for something in my purse, and then in my car, and in my desk at work, only to find that my fellow passengers (for once again I appeared to be on a plane) had taken the book I was looking for and would not give it back. So you understand why, after a night of serving coffee and attempting high levels of diplomacy, I did not wake rested and bouncy.

But rough nights happen to anyone, anywhere in the world. I’m sure you can all tell me about nights spent running marathons, trying to get the other side of the lake, talking to hamster, and hordes of other ornery activities. But there some things that are just very specific to my life right here in Georgia that only add to the frustration.

Having your husband call you from work at 6am, right before you are about to leave, for instance. I don’t know many people who can make that claim. Don’t misunderstand me, I love it when my husband calls, but when he calls right after getting to work, something is wrong. And indeed, for husband-dear had lost classified (think something very very small) and wanted me to go through all the pockets of his workpants to see if I could find it. Now I’m sure you’re all familiar with some variant of that routine, so you know the tiny amount of frustration I was experiencing as I’m rushing around the house getting things ready and trying to find out what husband-dear needs. While he is trying to tell me what to do, the clock on base strikes six, which means the national anthem is played as reveille, and he has to stop what he’s doing and stand at attention. Anyone? Ever? Now I’m cool with most base routines, but in this case, this one means I’m stuck at the other end, wishing for the goshdang anthem to hurry up so I can hear what the love of my life would like me to do so I can hurry up and get back into our routine here at the house.
Once we have come to the conclusion that classified a.k.a small annoying thing is not to be found anywhere at the house, I get to leave. I’ve got my laptop, my bookbag, my purse, my lunchbag, my hot tea, and NPR, so just maybe I can still salvage this morning. Wrong again. This time it was my fault; I had put too much milk in my tea. Usually this is no big deal at all, but when you can’t start drinking it until about 45 minutes into your drive, lest you start to get that infamous urge before you get to your destination, the amount of milk can make the difference between a lovely cup of warm tea or cold brown yucky stuff. This morning it was the latter. And because I live, and work, in the boonies, there are no Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, or anything drive-thrus which might serve a splash of caffeine to the driver in a rush anywhere on my 90-mile commute. My only options are various trucker stops, and I think I’ll pass on that experience. In short, I had no caffeine before I came to work.

And at work some people seemed to be vying for the “most annoying” award (No Steve, not you). We had a phone line put in that didn’t work, another new phone line whose number we don’t know, a plagiarism case that just won’t get resolved, a bunch of forms that should have been filled out last year and nobody told us about until today, and oh yeah, they don’t come with an extension, and, to top it all off, someone literally said; “Well, mistakes are made, and this is just one of them, so there is nothing we can about it”. Thank goodness the students were just amazing today though. I think they secretly figured out that crossing Dr. R. today meant a sudden death, so they kept it quiet.

Fortunately, the solutions to bad Mondays are universal. You go home on time, sit down, have some tea, cookies, ice cream, and run a nice hot bath. And that’s just what I’m going to do. Like Annie said, the sun will come out tomorrow!