To air or not to air

It's been comparatively hot in The Netherlands the past few days. I say 'comparatively' because although temperatures in the mid-80s might be considered 'subtropical' in this part of the world, over two years of excessive complaining should have made you aware of the fact that temperatures in Georgia can beat that any day between, oh, April and October. In fact, it gets so hot during the day that we're positively thrilled when night time temperatures make it as low as the mid-8os.

Having said that, however, I know we really don't have as much right to complain as the Dutch do. First of all, of course, because only real Dutch people living in Holland are able to complain as much as they do. But secondly, also because we have air conditioning. And the vast majority of Dutch people don't.

It's funny how quickly you become accustomed to air conditioned homes, stores, schools, and cars. You can withstand the heat much easier, knowing that within a few moments the sweat will freeze off your skin, You also don't mind wearing hose, long pants, dress shirts, or really anything else, as you know that the time spent in the actual outdoors is limited to your brisk walk from your car to the indoors. Really, when you think about it, Georgia might be hotter than hell for more than six months out of the year, but when you live there, you really barely notice it.

So having spent the past few days in Holland has been interesting. Not in the least because I wear sweaters when everyone else is in tanktops, looking for the shade, and complaining about the heat, but also because whenever I go indoors, I can't help but voice my amazement at the lack of airconditioning. Where is the deepfreeze shock I have grown to love? Where are my goosebumps? Where is the desire to return outdoors where the blazing sun can help defrost your toes and fingers?

Because when I say that we have airconditioning in the south, I mean it. My family might be the exception, with our air set to a lukewarm 77/78, but most homes and businesses have their air set to 75 or below. Mostly below. So besides learning that 'y'all' is singular, and that the Georgia Bulldogs are the only football team worth watching, when you move south of the Mason-Dixie line, you also quickly learn to bring a jacket everywhere you go. It doesn't matter if it's a 114 out, you will freeze your butt off inside any building if you stay there long enough.

And so when I arrived at the conference the other day, I had brought a jacket. Yes, a jacket. It was 85 degrees out, the building was not airconditioned, and yet I had brought a jacket. I hadn't even stopped to think about it, and just brought it along. Because any southern girl knows that when it's summer, and you're indoors, you'll be cold without a jacket. Only we're not in the south anymore, Betty Sue. So my jacket and I drew a lot of stares. And questions. Which led to some really interesting conversations.

But in the future, I will make a note that there is no need to bring a jacket anywhere in Holland when it's hot out. Some wet wipes, deodorant, and a towel would actually be more in order. Check.

Passie zonder grenzen

Zoals u weet, heb ik vandaag een presentatie gegeven. Voor een congres in Nederland. Met allemaal Nederlanders en Vlamingen. En dus was, ondanks dat het paper in het Engels mocht, de presentatie in het Nederlands.

U moet weten dat ik me daar best wel druk om heb gemaakt. Ik heb namelijk al in geen jaren meer een serieuze presentatie in het Nederlands gegeven. En dus had ik heel veel geoefend. Ik had de presentatie zo goed als uitgeschreven, en heb onze honden en Gertie de cavia op minstens drie oefensessies getrakteerd. Maar daarna ging het ook als gesmeerd, mits ik geen enkel Engelstalig woord gebruikte, want dan raakte ik in de war.

En vandaag was ik ook zeker niet ontevreden over de presentatie. Na het publiek gewaarschuwd te hebben rolde zelfs alle lastige woorden zo van mijn tong. Ik heb zelfs onthouden om multiple linear regression niet uit te spreken als MULtipuhl LINie-urh reGREssion, maar heel mooi mulTIEPele linIE-AIre reGREssie te zeggen, en toen ik niet meer wist of het "meette" of "mat", kon ik me daar met een mooi grapje ("zie, daar heb je het al") van af maken.

Maar ja, toen kwam de referent.
U moet weten dat wetenschappelijk congressen vaak met referenten werken. Dat zijn mensen die je paper gelezen hebben, en na je paper je werk samenvatten, en je een aantal vragen stellen.

Zo hoort het in ieder geval.

U moet helaas echter ook weten dat het referent-zijn vaak een politiek spel is. Vaak zijn wetenschappers er helaas opgebrand om onderzoek dat veel op hun werk lijkt zo effectief mogelijk af te branden, uit een academische vorm van lijfbehoud.

Toen mijn referent zijn reactie begon met de woorden, "Naar jouw onderzoek is erg uitgekeken, en je werk is dan ook heel Nederland rondgegaan, maar toen ik het las, was ik eigenlijk teleurgesteld", wist ik al hoe laat het was.

En inderdaad. Alles werd bekritiseerd, van de conceptontwikkeling, tot de meting, tot de vertaling van enkele Engelstalige begrippen, tot waarom ik in hemelsnaam een recent werk van een bepaald beleidsorgaan, waar de referent toevallig zelf werkt, niet gebruikt had.

En sja. Daar had ik me niet in het Nederlands op voorbereid.

Maar gelukkig is Dr. Dixiechick niet voor een gat te vangen, en toen ik het woord kreeg, besloot ik me van heel dat Nederlands niks meer aan te trekken. Ik heb me dus in prachtig Dunglish verdedigd. Nou ja, de referent in de pan gehakt kun je wel zeggen. Want iemand die bivariate en multiple lineaire regressie door elkaar haalt, die is de knip voor de neus niet waard, zoals mijn oma zou zeggen. Maar goed, dat kon ik natuurlijk niet zeggen.
Maar goed, woorden zoals "confounding variables", "bivariate analysis" en "fragmenten" vlogen het publiek om de oren, samen met mijn excuses dat ik even niet op de Nederlandse varianten kon komen.

En het allerleukste? Toen ik mijn respons eindigde met; "En de reden waarom dat beleidsstuk niet is meegenomen is omdat ik alleen gebruik heb gemaakt van academic peer-reviewed literature, en dat is dat stuk helaas niet" , het publiek me beloonde met een echte Amerikaans gejuich.

Zo dan.

En toen kwam de referent na de sessie ook nog zijn excuses aan bieden.

Dus. Goed Nederlands is helemaal niet belangrijk, passie wel.


p.s. For my English readers - presentation went great, kicked the respondent's bee-hind, but sucked at doing it all in Dutch.

The wow factor

Returning to Holland seems to be getting progressively stranger as time goes by. You would think that one would get used to how things are different from back home, but you really don't. Or at least, I don't. I only seem to find more things that are weird different.

Every time I'm back here, there is a whole slew of other odd things that I don't remember noticing before. Things that make me go "oh wow", and have everyone around me turn around and stare (which will then elicit another "oh wow" from me, and then more people will stare, and well, it just gets really odd from there).

So anyway, the reason I am in Holland right now is not a well-deserved vacation. Of course not! DixieChick doesn't believe in well-deserved anythings (I am more of the "Work until you die" lifestyle), but because I was invited to speak at a conference in the Netherlands this week. And not only did I get invited to come over, the organizing university also offered to pay my airfare. And, no, I am not kidding. Someone wants to hear me speak so badly, they will pay me. Can I have a really loud "wow"? So I booked a ticket at the speed of light, and here I am. Severely jetlagged, and apparently also a little culture shocked.

So what were some of today's "wow's"?

Well, for your convenience, and because I am a type A personality, I have a created a small list.

1. This one is not necessarily related to Holland, but I just had to include it. Have airlines been reducing leg room in the past months or what? Because, wow, I had to just about put my legs up behind my ears to lay back in my seat, and I'm a measly 5'4". It made for great yoga, but did very little for my ability to sleep, as my knee/hip/thigh/calf would take turns aching, wake me up, and force me to shift my legs onto my shoulders, or in my lap, or some other odd contortionist-like position.

2. Now my second one is related to Holland. Did you know that Dutch people dress up to go shopping? For real. I went into town today, and there was no one, and I mean no one in jeans, or shorts, or a "I went to the Great Smokey Mountains and bought this crappy Dollywood memento" t-shirt. At all. All the women looked like they were off to parties in cute little skirts, dresses, while the men wore nice slacks, capris (that was another wow! right there), button-downs, or brightly-colored polos.

3. The Dutch dress down for weddings. While we were having a coffee on one of the many little outdoor cafes every Dutch town has, we saw two wedding parties come out of the town hall conveniently located next to our little cafe. And although the brides looked awesome, the guests looked well, like they were going shopping. They weren't in jeans (obviously), but there were no pretty dresses, no nice hairdoes, nothing of the sort.

4. The Dutch are really fashion-conscious. You may recall husband-dear and I last visited in Holland in March, and it seems as though the fashion has changed completely since then. While in the US we are apparently stuck in the early 2000s, since my clothes from that era are still considered hip, here in Holland they have moved on up. While skinnypants were all the rage in March, now all the women were sporting leggings. White skintight leggings. With a dress or a skirt over it. Yes, I said leggings. And I said skirt. And scary as all that may sound, I will bet you a pound of Dutch cheese that in three months it will all have changed again. Which I guess is a good thing if you're like me, and you don't like leggings. But I could see how it might be a bad thing if you're Dutch and you feel pressured into updating your wardrobe every six months. Let me tell you, I feel really lucky to live in a part of the world where updating is something you do maybe every ten years, and where the 80s still live on.

So, yeah, I had some definite fashion-shock today. Now excuse me while I go hunt through my lugagge to see if I brought -anything- that will make me blend into the crowd a little better.

Een ode aan manlief

Vandaag ga ik eens niet zeuren. Niet over de plaats waar ik woon, mijn werk, manlief, de kinderen, of het klimaat hier. Gewoon niet. Vandaag wil ik u namelijk eindelijk eens vertellen over wat voor een geweldige man ik heb. Natuurlijk had ik dat al veel eerder moeten doen, maar ja, dat zeuren he? Dat komt eigenlijk altijd op de eerste plaats.

Maar vandaag dus niet. Want vandaag is manlief mijn held.

Het verhaal begint van het weekend. U moet weten dat wij vrijdag na een slopende autorit van 14 uur om negen 's avonds thuis aankwamen. Op zaterdag heb ik zo'n zes wassen gedaan, achtentwintig kilo jongenskleding gevouwen, zes volle droogtrommels opgeruimd, en de smurrie van het lekkende muggenspray-busje van al onze toiletspullen afgepoetst, tassen opgeborgen, rommel opgeruimd, en meerdere cadeaus gekocht voor verjarende familieleden. Op zondag was het tijd om het huis te poetsen. Mijn moeder komt namelijk volgende week, en die is netjes. Erg netjes. Echt waar. Doe mij keer tien, en je hebt iets dat in de buurt komt van mijn moeder. En dus ging ik als een razende roeland door onze badkamers, de huiskamer, en de keuken heen. Ondertussen maaide manlief het gras, verticuteerde alle struiken en bosjes, haalde honden op, kookte, deed booschappen, en repareerde de pomp van het zwembad.

Toen ik gisteren dus naar mijn werk ging, was ik dus in een redelijke zeurbui. En dat werd er niet echt beter op, toen ik tot de realisatie kwam dat ik niet alleen op woensdag naar Nederland zou vertrekken voor een congres, maar dat ik dus ook slechts twee dagen had om een presentatie in elkaar te zetten, en veertig student papers na te kijken, en twee discussies te moderaten, en een voorstel syllabus te schrijven, en dus al mijn koffers weer te pakken.

Tegen de tijd dat ik gisteren om half zeven thuis kwam, was het hele vakantie gevoel weg. Gewoon weg. Foetsie. Net alsof we nooit weg waren geweest.

En daar was manlief, mijn held. De eeuwig optimistische ridder op het witte paard. De man die alles kan.

Hij zag de donderwolk die doorging voor mijn gezicht, hoorde mijn relaas aan dat ik toch echt een nacht door moest werken omdat ik en een bak papers moest corrigeren, en al mijn strijkwerk voor dat congres nog moest doen, en wilde hardlopen, en belooft had om te koken, en de cavia kooi schoon te maken. En sprak toen de magische woorden; "What would like me to do?"

Natuurlijk geloofde ik hem niet. Want ik ben een zeurpiet. En ik ging dus gewoon door met mopperen over mijn drukke leven. En dus herhaalde hij van het engelengeduld het weer, "Honey, just tell me which chores you want me to do, and I will do them for you."

En dus heeft mijn persoonlijke engel gisteren gekookt, afgewassen, de keuken opgeruimd, al mijn strijkwerk gedaan, de caviakooi schoonmaakt, en het zwembad onder handen genomen. En had hij ook nog tijd over voor een schoudermassage terwijl ik achter mijn laptop zat.

En het flauwe hieraan? Manlief doet dit echt heel regelmatig. Tijdens finals, midterms, belangrijke deadlines, of vlak voor grote reizen. En het enige wat ik doe is klagen.

Dus vandaar geen klaagblog. Maar een ode aan manlief. Want zo iemand, daar wil je toch best wel een beschuitje mee eten, toch?

Absence...

...makes the heart grow fonder.

So obviously you're all tickled pink that I'm back. Or at least mildly pleased. Or maybe just relieved that I didn't fall off a cliff or something. Or perhaps this post really does very little for you, in which I want to welcome you to my world.

You see, we just came back from a week in Ohio, visiting our newly relocated in-laws, and while I expected to be thrilled to be back in Georgia, I wasn't.
OK.
So I'm lying. I didn't expect to be thrilled, but I at least expected some sort of "Oh goody, we're home" experience. But if we discount the relief I experienced at getting out of the car after fourteen hours, and chalk up the joy at sleeping in my own bed to our awesome new mattress, I experienced no such thing at all. In fact, I would have happily stayed in Ohio had the opportunity presented itself.

And why, you ask? After all, Ohio is not exactly the birthplace of excitement either. It's freezing in the winter, only mildly warm in the summer, awash in black flies and people in baseball caps, and has the strictest cops this side of the Mississippi.

And although all this is true, I think I may have found the Mayberry I wrote about on Tuesday (and if you haven't read that post, shame on you!). Several Mayberry's, possibly. In fact, I would go as far as to postulate that every town in the area we visited was a Mayberry. For instance, the town we stayed in did not only sport a main street right out of the 1950s, complete with planters filled with petunias hanging off each wrought-iron lamppost and a variety locally owned stores, it also lacked any kind of chain store or restaurant, had a busy ballfield just off the main street, and several biking trails running along the river that meandered happily along the town's edge. And every single town we visited looked like that. It was amazing. There were no mega-Mount-Zion-the-Redeemer-Lives-Sanctified-Holy churches, no stripmalls, no endless car dealerships, and everything was nestled in between softly rolling hills, where Amish houses dotted the landscape, their washing flapping on clotheslines, and their buggies reminding you that life does not have to zoom by in order to be enjoyable.

On the downside, there were also no air force bases around. The closest one was three hours away, and I have the feeling that that part of Ohio might just be as little like Mayberry as the town where we live now.

Perhaps the only solution is to join the Amish community and live life the simple way. In one of the many Mayberry's in Ohio.

Maybe.

The quest for Mayberry

In one of his books, Bill Bryson travels across the entire lower 48 states looking for Amalgam, the ideal American town. Amalgam is, as the name suggests, a town that combines all the ideal characteristics of all the little towns he remembers from childhood movies and television shows. On his travels, he finds little bits and pieces of Amalgam here and there, half a main street, the perfect soda fountain, a town square, and lots and lots of friendly people, but he never succeeds in finding one town that has it all.

Lately, I have been feeling a lot like Bill Bryson. And that's not because I've suddenly grown a beard, or a desire to move to England (although now that I think of it, that does sound like an awesome assignment), but because I think I have finally discovered my problem with my current location. It's not the syruppy kindness of the natives, or the 500 churches, or even the total lack of culture, but it's the lack of Mayberry-ness.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of Mayberry-ness, it's related to the fictional town of Mayberry from the the Andy Griffith Show . You see, besides having an incredibly catchy theme tune, it also takes place in the quaintest town American television has ever known. It is a lot like Bryson's Amalgam, complete with town square, baker, butcher, greengrocer's, harvest festivals, a cop everyone knows, and lots and lots of happy people.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize I want to live in Mayberry too. I don't need all the happy people, or even a cop everyone knows, but I would love to live somewhere that has an actual downtown. And stores. And a town square. And trees. And rolling hills. And festivals that don't necessarily involve God, the bible, or a local church. And most importantly, people who like living there, instead of seeing our town as a necessary stop on a successful military career.

But there is the problem. You see, for those of you not quite up to date on your air force history; the Air Force was founded in 1947, about 100 years after the founding of quaint towns such as Mayberry and Amalgam. Granted, the army air corps had been around for a few decades, but the real boost didn't take place until the 1950s and 1960s. So you won't find Air Force bases in quaint little towns that have been around for centuries. You will find them in places where there is lots and lots of room that is preferably as flat and as empty as possible. Places like, oh, where we live.

It doesn't help of course, that Georgia gets so hot that on days like today you sometimes feel like your face is going to melt off. What is the point of having a town square, or little stores, when walking outside makes you so uncomfortably warm you want to scream and cry, but you can't because you need all the energy you have to walk that 100 ft from the store to your car?

So my chances of finding a Mayberry in my current location are pretty much next to nothing. Nada. Zilch. Instead, I'm setting my sights on our next move. I'm already working on a personal dream sheet, which I will present to husband-dear when the time is right. At the moment, it includes anywhere in the heart of Ohio, her town, hers, anywhere in Europe, and Hawaii, just for the heck of it. Any other ideas?

Really weird stuff

My current location is probably the most rural of all the places I have ever lived in. Having been here for almost three years now, I thought it was time to step back and evaluate the past three years. Because, you know, I hardly ever do that. Really. Never.

So anyway, a phone call from one of our darling children today, regarding a turtle they had accidentally caught while fishing, and who was now stuck on dry land with a fishing hook between its eyes that they could in no way get out, and "Dad, the turtle is REALLY in pain, I mean you can tell", made me think of one interesting way to look back on the past three years: The really weird stuff. What are some of the things I have done in the past three years, that I never thought I would do? Ever? After some thought, I've lumped a few together for you.

1. Sat watch on the dock on my in-law's pond with a shotgun, waiting for the gigantic snapping turtle to return so we could send it to the eternal marshlands before it would mutilate one of our kids. Although I don't mind if other people own guns (well, actually, I do, but for argument's sake, let's pretend I'm really as tolerant as I like to be), I never imagined myself holding a gun, much less intending to use it.

2. Some of you may remember this: Calling for the dogs to pick up a cockroach that was scurrying along the wall in our office. I know I could have gotten the Raid and put an end to its life, but this seemed to a) provide our dogs with some entertainment, and b) give the roach a chance at life.

3. Eaten boiled peanuts, collared greens, fried pickles, fried green tomatoes, hop 'n' john, pork and bean soup, biscuits and gravy, low country boil, and learned to like them all.

4. Said "I'ma holler at ya" and not thought anything of it. In that same vein, I have also made words such as "doo hickey", "y'all", "hot dang", and the truly southern "it is what it is" part of my daily vocabulary.

5. Looked at several of our plants demolished by the rabbits that have been plaguing our neighborhood, and asked husband-dear if a bee bee gun would scare them away (see my first remark).

6. Worn a parka when it was 50F degrees out, and pulled out a hat, scarves, extra camisoles, and gloves when temperatures would hit anything starting with a '4'.

7. Hooked a worm onto a fishing hook without gagging, cast a line, reeled in a fish, and pulled it up out of the water (although I that point I did thankfully started squealing for someone to "Get that fish away from me! Oh my God, it's gross! And wet! And it flops around! Eeeuw!"

8. Traveled up north, giggled every time I saw a sign for "pop", and asked husband-dear if they were selling their dads in that store.

9. Tried to order "unsweet tea" in other parts of the country, and get annoyed when people look at me funny. Seriously, do you know how annoying it is when you can't determine the sweetness of the tea yourself?

10. Understood everything said by characters such as Boomhauer on King of the Hill, George Clooney in O Brother, where art thou, and really anyone pretending to be a southerner in the media.

So, now that I've revealed my ten weirdest changes, what are yours?

When in doubt....

whip it out..

No, this isn't some form of odd innuendo. Trust me, I am almost a southern woman now, and I know better than to give y'all the vapors. So if you have any less than wholesome thoughts when reading that statement, it's all on you. "When in doubt whip it out" is actually a saying used in skydiving. It refers to the idea that if you are ever not sure about the status of your main parachute, you "whip" out your reserve.

You see, when husband-dear and I were in our mid-twenties, we both spent an entire summer skydiving. To be honest, I'm not sure why. All I can think of is that we must have had oodles of time on our hands and balls of steel (and where both of those things went, who knows). At any rate, we both really liked it, but decided that one summer was enough. In spite of the relative brevity of our skydiving career, there are still plenty of remnants of it in our lives. To this day, I am still finding packing cords in the oddest places, I also still have my goggles and altimeter in the back of my sports clothes drawer, and we use expressions like the one above on a daily basis. Especially when it's time for me to make a decision.

I should probably add that I generally suck at making decisions. I can seriously get into a frenzy over what to have for lunch. A sandwich? Or soup? Or a Leanpocket? Will it be enough? Too hot? Too cold? It's not normal, I'm telling you. I will weigh the pros, the cons, the possible outcomes, rethinnk my pros and my cons, and then ask everyone around me. And then weigh the cons some more. And the pros. And then sleep on it. And flip a coin, but not like the outcome, so I'll go back to redesigning a pros and cons list. It's exhausting, and so the above saying works pretty well for me at times. Especially when I'm feeling very pro-active. When I'm feeling a little less gung-ho, we have an alternative saying, "When in doubt, do nothing at all." And that works too. If nothing else, both sayings save husband-dear a lot of headache, which makes him happy, and that makes me happy, and then we're both happy. Even without having made any decision at all.

So this past weekend, we were faced with another difficult decision. With Jimmie in the hospital, was it still appropriate to do a triathlon? It would be husband-dear's first, and my third, and may the record show that we had been training our behinds off. It would also be during a time when the hospital did not have visiting hours, so our alternative would be to sit at home until we could leave for said visiting hours. And we already knew Jimmie would be coming home on Monday. So it seemed like competing in a triathlon would not be the worst idea in the world. But still, could a responsible, loving parent just go and race on a day like that? Obviously, it's not on a par with calling your child "it" and making it sleep in the bathtub, but we weren't sure if it wasn't some sign of parental neglect. Or lack of caring. Or something that Dr. Spock might frown upon.

Well, in this case the "when in doubt whip it out" perspective applied, because after some thought, we both agreed that we would go out and "whip" some butt. It would make the time go by faster, it would distract us, and we would get some good exercise in before sitting in a car for another two hours.

So as of Saturday morning, we are both married to a triathlete. Although I smashed last year's time, and came -this- close to placing in my age category (why is there never an award for fourth place? I mean, really?), and husband-dear did his 5k so fast I think he may have broken the sound barrier, we have been in better shape. During my first transition, I had my bike shoes on, gloves, glasses, and was about to run off with my bike, when I realized; "Crap! Helmet!". How I could have forgotten that, while it was lying on top of my shoes, and would have resulted in a DQ, I don't know, but there you go. Husband-dear's chain came off his bike during the first 500 yards, and we both managed to almost run out the wrong gate during the second transition, which cost us precious seconds as we then had to race all the way back to our backs and out the other end of the transition area. But we had fun. And Jimmie loved the triathlon cap we brought back for him.

And just to stay within the "whip it out" angle, we have now registered for three more triathlons this season, one in August, one longer one in September, and a full Olympic in October. You see, that ties in with another one of our beliefs:

"When you do something, you do it all the way or not all."

En alweer Zoe

Eigenlijk wilde Shelby deze keer achter de laptop kruipen, maar dat kon ik natuurlijk niet toestaan. Gelukkig ben ik nog steeds groter en zwaarder dan dat gestreepte ukkepukje, en dus kon ik haar makkelijk opzij duwen. Maar goed, de reden waarom ik nu alweer blog, en niet mijn bazinnetje, is omdat zij op het moment veel te druk is met blijzijn. Want na een week weg komt Jimmie eindelijk naar huis. Volgens het bazinnetje is hij weer helemaal beter, en hoeft hij nou ook niet meer weg.

Ik kan het bijna niet geloven, maar het is toch echt waar. De baasjes zijn hem nu ophalen, en hij kan elk moment thuiskomen. Ik ben zo blij, ik heb al bijna twee planten omver gekwispeld, en Jimmie's kamerdeur afgelikt. Ook heb ik voor de zekerheid maar even extra een plasje gedaan net, want je weet het maar nooit met zulke thuiskomsten. Shelby en ik hebben al een heel aanvalsplan bedacht. Shelby houdt de voordeur in de gaten, en ik sta op wacht bij de achterdeur, zodat we elkaar kunnen waarschuwen zodra we de auto zien. Volgens mij is Shelby nog niet zo goed met het herkennen van auto's, want zij blaft echt bij elk voertuig dat voorbij komt. Ik word er doodzenuwachtig van.

Maar, nog eventjes en dan is ons kleinste baasje weer thuis! En ik weet zeker dat het bazinnetje dan wel weer tijd heeft om te bloggen. Dus hierbij hartelijk dank voor al jullie aardige complimenten en lieve berichtjes. Uiteraard zijn allerlei vormen van cheweez en dog treats ook altijd van harte welkom.

Zoe vertelt

Normaal hoor ik mijn baasje bijna dagelijks praten over haar blog. Wat ze erin zal zetten, wie er op reageert, en of dit of dat nou "Echt wel kan. Of toch niet". Maar de laatste paar dagen is ze stil over haar blog. En eigenlijk ook over heel veel andere dingen waar ze normaal niet over ophoudt. Zoals haar werk. Of het feit dat Shelby en ik zoveel verharen. Of waarom ik toch altijd meteen weer naar binnen wil als ik net naar buiten ben geweest. Tegenwoordig praat het bazinnetje samen met het andere baasje alleen nog maar over ziekenhuizen, lange autoritten, en of de vakantie nog wel door kan gaan.

Ik ben maar een asielhond, dus helemaal snappen doe ik het niet allemaal, maar wat ik wel weet is dat ik mijn jongste baasje al sinds Maandag niet gezien heb. En dat ze, sinds dat hij weg is, ook heel vaak weg zijn. En vaak 's avonds heel laat thuiskomen. En dan praten over allemaal dingen die ik niet zo goed snap, maar waar ze wel heel serieus bij kijken. Ik klaag niet hoor. Ik mag nog steeds veel naar buiten, en krijg, als ze weer eens zo lang weggaan, heerlijke botten. En ook vertellen ze mij heel vaak dat Jimmie echt snel weer thuis komt. Maar ideaal is anders. Het liefst wil ik gewoon weer dat iedereen thuis is. Met zijn allen.

Volgens mij dachten het baasje en de bazin ook eerst dat mijn jongste baasje vandaag thuis zou komen. Dat hadden ze mij in ieder geval verteld. Maar vandaag ging de grootste baas weg, en toen mijn bazinnetje een telefoontje kreeg, kon ik al meteen horen dat mijn jongste baasje, mijn speelmaatje, en de beste gitaarspeler ooit, vandaag niet thuis kon komen. Het is heel zielig, want op zondag zouden mijn baasjes op vakantie gaan. En dat gaan ze nou niet. Persoonlijk vind ik dat wel best, want sja, de kennel is wel leuk hoor, maar thuis zijn is toch fijner. Daar heb je ten minste heel veel meubels om op te liggen enzo. Maar ja, ik vind het wel sneu voor mijn baasjes, want die werken altijd zo hard.

Dus ik dacht, kom laat ik het baasje eens helpen, en een blog voor haar schrijven. Het is vast niet zo grappig, of kritisch, of puntig zoals die van haar, maar het is beter dan niets, toch? Zodra het beter gaat met het kleinste baasje dan zal mijn bazinnetje vast wel weer gaan "bloggen" zoals ze dat noemt. Maar voor nu heeft ze denk ik even andere dingen aan haar hoofd.

Leave, Steve

"Southern man/When will you pay them back? I heard screamin' and bullwhips cracking / How long? How long?" ~ Neil Young

"Well, I hope Neil Young will remember / A southern man don't need him around anyhow" ~ Lynyrd Skynyrd

For 3 years, DixieChick and I have worked in adjacent offices, taught and advised the same students, dealt with the same red tape and office politics, and found solidarity in our similar responses to the cultures of the South. So I am therefore very sad to report that I am leaving our place of employment to go back to graduate school. I am leaving Dr. DC to fend off armies of sweet tea, entitles students, and overzealous Baptists all on her own. What I want to share with you, DixieChick's loyal readers, is not a nostalgic trip down our office's tragicomic memory lane, but rather a DixieChick-style anthropological investigation of my own. She would want it that way. My observations are about the funny responses that I've been receiving from Southerners when they find out that I'm leaving the region.

Maybe it's my own fault. I've always been very polity and coy when asked why I, a nerdy white kid from the suburbs who fell in love with social science and mass media production, moved from Big Midwestern State University to work at a small HBCU in an even smaller Southern town in the middle of an agricultural region. Southerners know pretty instinctively when "you ain't from around here". Common questions include "Where you from?" and, while taking down my number, "What the hell area code is that?!".
In response to the abundant questioning about why I came here, I often reply with the quick and smug "For the weather". And that's true, although only part of the truth. My partner and I somewhere warm, like Florida, Georgia, or Arizona. And for the record, I'm glad I didn't choose Arizona. Anyway, sometimes I add "for the job" to my response. I have a pretty much perfect job. It's tailor fit for what I want to do at this stage in my life, and the position at it is now was actually kind of designed for me. I love what I do - the only reason I'm leaving now is because I have to earn a terminal degree and that's not something I can do while working this full time job. So I tell people I came here for the weather and the job. And maybe that confuses them.

You see, the subtle underlying truth that I know and that they suspect is that I'm a carpetbagger. I came here as an "opportunistic Northerner" to fix your institutions. I wanted to come to this smaller school because they needed development and leadership in my areas of expertise. I came here because I wanted to work with, for, and around African Americans and other minorities, and stick my finger in the eye of white culture. I know white bigotry - the Midwest is more racist and segregated than people realize, and I come from one of the most racist states in the Midwest, where the Klan ran the state legislature a mere 4 generations ago. I jumped at the opportunity to work for a black institution, and to expose my ignorant white self to black culture, issues, and education in an immersive way. I have two signs on my office door that just stop short of proclaiming "kill whitey". Unfortunately, my students and colleagues are not quite that radical. In fact, they're the epitome of conservatism at times. But that's fine, I still love it here. I came here because I believed in this place and its mission. I should have just been a lot bolder saying that.

It probably doesn't help that there are white locals, "good ole boys" and gals, who work here because there is good paying work here, and there is not much else in the region. So some black students and peers don't know what to make of me. Am I just another white person who doesn't get it? Or, they just wonder why I cam here in the first place. Am I an opportunist? I don't really understand the south, do I? The non-progressive white Southerners hope or assume I'm like them (a surprising number of white people feel comfortable making racist comments and jokes to other white people, just because they're white), while black people either worry that I'm another white bigot, or that I'm some sort of know-it-all holier-than-thou Northerner who came down here to show 'em how it's done. It's hard to know how much of this is my own neurotic/guilty imagination, and how much of this distrust and discomfort is real, but I have to point out that that discomfort really comes out when they find out I'm leaving.

"You goin' back home?"

See, the thing is, I applied to a lot of different grad schools last year. I tried to end up on the East Coast, I considered Florida, I even looked at California and the UK, but in the end, the schools that were the best fit academically and financially were schools....in the Midwest. Three hours from my hometown.

So when folks hear that I'm leaving for Even Bigger Midwestern State University, their universal and immediate reaction is "Oh, so you're moving closer to home?". But in spite of what my mother might wish, I am not relocating to be closer to "home". It's nothing more than a coincidence. But to the Southern mind, this carpetbagger is headed back to where he came from. Go back home, boy.

What surprised me about this response is the provincial and parochial attitude it betrays. Where you are from = where you belong. I have the feeling this is a strong outlook in the South. Stereotypical Southern White families like to think they're descended from some aristocratic plantation-owning dynasty, and Stereotypical Southern Black families stayed put in the Deep South after Reconstruction and through Jim Crow, opting not to take part in the Great Migration to the urban metropolises of the North.
Since I'm "from" the North, that's where I, at least according to the Southerners in this town, belong. Why would I want to live somewhere I ain't from? Away from mommy and daddy and grandma and auntie and cousin so-and-so with the towing business? The answer is obvious to me, but not to the locals I guess. DixieChick and I are always surprised at how many of our students have never been outside the state, have never seen snow, and could not for the life of them understand why anyone would want to live anywhere they had snow.

So these are some of the responses I have been getting, and I just found it really interesting and worth sharing with you all. People have mainly been unsurprised or even relieved to hear that I was going back where I belonged. Southern Man don't need Steve around. That's alright. I still love y'all! I know that DixieChick and a few others will miss me, and maybe someday we will get to work together again in the big, scary, but real cosmopolitan world out there.