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.