Er zijn een heleboel dingen die je niet perse hoeft te weten. Hoe je de olie in je auto vervangt bijvoorbeeld. Of hoe je pasta maakt. Of hoe je je eigen haar moet knippen. Het kan natuurlijk enorm handig zijn om te weten hoe dit allemaal moet, maar je kan er ook gewoon iemand voor betalen. Er zijn echter ook dingen in het leven die je toch echt wel moet weten of kunnen. En sinds gisteren kan ik daar "het herkennen van een tornado sirene" aan toe voegen.
Zoals de oplettende lezers ondertussen vast wel weten, is het zuidoosten van de VS de laatste dagen geteisterd door een serie mega-tornados. Hele wijken zijn weggevaagd, honderden mensen hebben de stormen niet overleefd, en nog steeds worden er tientallen mensen vermist. Ondanks dat we de nodige voorbereidingen getroffen hadden, heeft ons gebied de dans redelijk ontsnapt. Het heeft de hele nacht van woensdag op donderdag enorm gestormt, een aantal buren zijn delen van hun dakdekking kwijt, en enkele wijken hebben een aantal uur zonder stroom gezeten. Maar geen tornados. Godzijdank.
Toen ik op donderdag ochtend naar mijn werk reed, dacht ik dus ook van het slechte weer af te zijn. En in een land dat bekent om de snelle, en gewelddadige weersveranderingen, is dat dus geen goed idee. Storm, onweer, en regen achtervolgde me anderhalf uur lang. Op mijn werk was het niet beter, en nadat ik me net geinstalleerd had achter mijn bureau hoorde ik een sirene.
Nu denkt u natuurlijk meteen, ja, muts, dat is dus voor die tornados he? Hup, onder je bureau! Maar ja, ik ben blijkbaar niet zo snugger, want dat dacht ik dus niet. En ik wil toch even een poging doen mezelf te verdedigen. Kijk, in Nederland hebben jullie een sirene. Een die elke eerste maandag van de maand getest wordt, en volgens mij nog steeds dient als een waarschuwing voor aanvallende Russen, want waar moet je anders voor waarschuwen? Langzaam stijgende rivieren? Maar hier hebben we sirenes voor alles. Op de campus hebben we o.a. een sirene voor een "active shooter" i.e., een loslopende gek met een geweer. Ook hebben we er een voor "unwanted intruder", i.e., een loslopende gek maar zonder geweer. Daarnaast hebben we naturlijk ook het brandalarm, het alarm voor "severe weather", en het tornado alarm. Al deze alarms houden we uit elkaar omdat de dreiging namelijk aangekondigd wordt door middel van een herhaalde waarschuwing, bijvoorbeeld, "Warning, there is an active shooter on campus."
Maar gisteren hoorde ik dus niks van een waarschuwing. Alleen maar een monotone sirene, waarvan ik eerst nog dacht dat het een politie auto was. Natuurlijk was het net acht uur, en waren geen van mijn collega's gearriveerd, en dus niemand om advies te vragen. Een tweet met de vraag wat dit nu precies was leverde het volgende geweldige (maar niet enorm behulpzame) antwoord op van een collega in een ander gebouw:" Just harmonize with the sound...very zen-like". En ondertussen wist ik dus nog niets.
En wat doet een zelfredzame, moderne vrouw in dat geval? Juist, die belt haar man op, houdt de telefoon omhoog, en vraagt, "Is dat een tornado sirene?"
Jazeker, en ik leeft echt in 2011. Net als u.
En het was dus wel een tornado sirene. Nou, merkte ik leuk op tegen manlief, die gaat ondertussen al zeker vijf minuten af, en ik zie niks en hoor ook niemand naar de shelter gaan. Dus het zal wel meevallen. Daar was manlief het uiteraard niet mee eens. Ja, beargumenteerde ik, ik ga daar niet als enige sukkel in die shelter zitten hoor. Dan zit ik voor schut. En daar heb ik geen zin in. Een zeer doorslaggevend argument, vond ik. Alleen vond manlief dat niet.
Uiteindelijk hebben we een compromis gesloten; ik moest toch iets fotokopieren, en laat het fotokopieer apparaat nou in een kamer zonder ramen in het midden van het gebouw staan. Dus daar ging Dr. D op een drafje naar het kopieer apparaat. En toen ik klaar was, was de sirene ook opgehouden, en was er geen tornado te zien.
Er is die dag ook helemaal geen tornado gespot bij mijn werk in de buurt. Of zelfs niet in heel Georgia. Ik heb het vermoeden dat de man bij het knopje iets te zenuwachtig werd van alle "favorable conditions". Maar goed, nu weet ik ten minste wel hoe zo'n ding klinkt. Voor de volgende keer.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The eye of the storm
Academics are a strange bunch.
However, before I go off on some tangent about how academics should really be classified as a Class C dangerous substance, allow me to digress on the title of this blog for a quick moment.
You see, it's not entirely what I had in mind when I started writing this blog. In Dutch we have a wonderful saying (among many, many, many, many others) which literally translates to "silence before the storm". It refers, on a literal level, to the perfect calm you usually see right before the storm from hades breaks loose. The trees stop fluttering, the birds stop twittering, and just when you're about to comment on how perfectly peaceful everything seems, a storm cloud pops up out of nowhere and dumps a thousand gallons of water on your head. On a metaphorical level it, of course, refers to a period of relative quiet, while you know something major is about to come up on the horizon. It would have been the perfect title for this blog. However, it doesn't translate into English. At least not that I'm aware of.
So I was stuck with using the American version of this saying, "the eye of the storm". Although it's close, it's just not quite the same, and the Dutch don't even have an equivalent. When you think about though, that does make sense, since only hurricanes have "eyes", and Holland has never ever experienced a true hurricane (and don't come crying to me about major storms - until you've seen your porch swing picked up ten feet into the air and slammed into your fence, you haven't seen anything. And in all honesty, that was just the "tail" of a hurricane). Interestingly, America does have major thunderstorms as well, but no sayings about them. So I was stuck using a saying about hurricanes, which really refers to a calm period right after a brief spell of insanity and right before the next spell is about to commence.
Anyway, pardon the digression. As I was saying, academics are strange. We all gripe and complain about our students, the amount of work we have to do throughout the semester, the difficulty of this particular cohort, how these students are the most demanding/spoiled/entitled we have ever seen, throughout the entire semester. We basically can't wait for it to be over. Seriously.
Then, when you're about two weeks away from finals, all that turns around, and suddenly all these same complainers suddenly wonder how we'll ever make do without our responsible seniors to tell the other students to be quiet and pay attention. How much we will miss their sensible input. How hard it will be to train the next cohort to meet their standards.
Another week later, and most faculty members are headed for a level five meltdown. Senior grades are due in 48 hours, and suddenly there are finals to grade, papers to collect, grades to calculate, and O-M-G why didn't we set the deadlines for these final projects way, way earlier. In the meantime, there are regular classes to teach, reviews to organize, and non-graduating finals to make.
And then somewhere in the middle of that is a pocket of peace. And quiet. Two hours between classes when you realize you've graded everything that was handed to you. Your reviews are prepped, your finals have been typed up, and your spreadsheets have been set up. You know you have thirty major papers coming in at 2pm, and more finals after that, but for now, there is absolutely nothing to do. Nothing, and you find yourself browsing sites you haven't looked at in weeks, wondering if you should start working on that grant proposal or manuscript.
Academics are weird.
And perhaps the title of the blog is appropriate after all.
However, before I go off on some tangent about how academics should really be classified as a Class C dangerous substance, allow me to digress on the title of this blog for a quick moment.
You see, it's not entirely what I had in mind when I started writing this blog. In Dutch we have a wonderful saying (among many, many, many, many others) which literally translates to "silence before the storm". It refers, on a literal level, to the perfect calm you usually see right before the storm from hades breaks loose. The trees stop fluttering, the birds stop twittering, and just when you're about to comment on how perfectly peaceful everything seems, a storm cloud pops up out of nowhere and dumps a thousand gallons of water on your head. On a metaphorical level it, of course, refers to a period of relative quiet, while you know something major is about to come up on the horizon. It would have been the perfect title for this blog. However, it doesn't translate into English. At least not that I'm aware of.
So I was stuck with using the American version of this saying, "the eye of the storm". Although it's close, it's just not quite the same, and the Dutch don't even have an equivalent. When you think about though, that does make sense, since only hurricanes have "eyes", and Holland has never ever experienced a true hurricane (and don't come crying to me about major storms - until you've seen your porch swing picked up ten feet into the air and slammed into your fence, you haven't seen anything. And in all honesty, that was just the "tail" of a hurricane). Interestingly, America does have major thunderstorms as well, but no sayings about them. So I was stuck using a saying about hurricanes, which really refers to a calm period right after a brief spell of insanity and right before the next spell is about to commence.
Anyway, pardon the digression. As I was saying, academics are strange. We all gripe and complain about our students, the amount of work we have to do throughout the semester, the difficulty of this particular cohort, how these students are the most demanding/spoiled/entitled we have ever seen, throughout the entire semester. We basically can't wait for it to be over. Seriously.
Then, when you're about two weeks away from finals, all that turns around, and suddenly all these same complainers suddenly wonder how we'll ever make do without our responsible seniors to tell the other students to be quiet and pay attention. How much we will miss their sensible input. How hard it will be to train the next cohort to meet their standards.
Another week later, and most faculty members are headed for a level five meltdown. Senior grades are due in 48 hours, and suddenly there are finals to grade, papers to collect, grades to calculate, and O-M-G why didn't we set the deadlines for these final projects way, way earlier. In the meantime, there are regular classes to teach, reviews to organize, and non-graduating finals to make.
And then somewhere in the middle of that is a pocket of peace. And quiet. Two hours between classes when you realize you've graded everything that was handed to you. Your reviews are prepped, your finals have been typed up, and your spreadsheets have been set up. You know you have thirty major papers coming in at 2pm, and more finals after that, but for now, there is absolutely nothing to do. Nothing, and you find yourself browsing sites you haven't looked at in weeks, wondering if you should start working on that grant proposal or manuscript.
Academics are weird.
And perhaps the title of the blog is appropriate after all.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Talking the talk...
I like Americans for lots of reasons. They smile a lot, are generally always upbeat, and don't seem to live to put you down, are three of the things that come to my mind right now. But one of the main things I like about these people is that they love to talk. And in case you hadn't figured it out, so do I.
Interestingly, as a genuine Dutch-American, I immediately feel a need to modify that statement. So, for all Dutch people out there: yes, I like to talk. If you're from the North of the country: A lot.
For all Americans out there: Actually, that's not true. I talk about as much as you do, possibly even less, and nowhere near as much as the old ladies you see down at the quilt store, which I'm sure the statement "I like to talk" made you think of.
Glad we got that out of the way.
Anyway, as indicated by that little digression, Dutch people don't like it when people talk a bunch. It doesn't matter if you're a stranger or a best friend, talking a lot is somehow seen a sign that you must think you have noteworthy things to say, and unfortunately, in the Netherlands thinking that you are somehow noteworthy or worthwhile is still a questionable activity.
So as a child, I was told over and over and over again that I talked far too much. I talked to people I didn't know well, I talked to grown ups, I was kind to strangers, in short, I did all those things American parents generally encourage in their children, and Dutch adults abhor. You can imagine my relief when we moved abroad, and suddenly I was surrounded by people who talked as much, if not more, as I did. Suddenly, I no longer stood out, and no one was telling me to pipe down, be quiet, or just plain shut up.
Southerners are, if possible, even more eloquent than other Americans. They love to find out everything about you, and share their entire life story on your first meeting. Subsequently, my talkative rating has dropped precipitously. Nonetheless, I still feel very comfortable surrounded by people who don't care when you want to share something.
Except this morning. This morning I went to the gym, as is tradition on Friday mornings, to swim before I go to work. Although I've written about the interesting disparity in opinions on appropriate dress in the gym, I don't think I've ever mentioned how loud the ladies' locker room gets. You see, the same women work out there every day, at the same time. And so they've become friends, and they like to talk. That's great. I applaud social interaction as much as the next person. But these women are done with their work outs at around the time I walk in, which is about 6am. Now although I'm a morning person if you ever saw one, 6 am is on the early side for me. And yet I dare anyone to walk into that locker room and stay chipper. Because not only are these women chatting up a storm, they are doing so across the entire locker room, i.e., at the top of their lungs.
It's like walking into a chicken coop. There will be one lady applying her make up by the mirrors, carrying on a loud conversation about her husband's back surgery with a woman three locker rows down, while two women in the shower are carrying on a conversation loud enough for the women in the adjacent locker row to join in. And I'm not even talking about the loud laughter and giggles coming from the, judging by its echoes, cavernous steam room. Call me grumpy, but I can't handle that at six in the morning.
So usually I smile, nod, pull my bathing suit on in record time, beat a retreat, and brace myself for a repeat of the coop by the time I'm done swimming, as most of these women take about 45 minutes to get ready. But this morning was different.
I think the women felt bad for me. They've seen me come to the gym every Friday for months now. I'm by myself, I don't talk to anyone, and I think they wanted to include me. A very sweet thought. Really. But I can't tell you how taken aback I was when after my swim, while I was changing into my running gear, two of the women struck up a conversation with me about swimming. They were on either side of my locker, so I couldn't escape, and they were asking one question after another. I tried to be nice. I think I was nice. I know I smiled and answered their questions, but I couldn't wait to get out in to the quiet gym.
I'm not grumpy. I'm not. But I fear that I may need to change my swimming time if I want some peace and quiet next week...
Interestingly, as a genuine Dutch-American, I immediately feel a need to modify that statement. So, for all Dutch people out there: yes, I like to talk. If you're from the North of the country: A lot.
For all Americans out there: Actually, that's not true. I talk about as much as you do, possibly even less, and nowhere near as much as the old ladies you see down at the quilt store, which I'm sure the statement "I like to talk" made you think of.
Glad we got that out of the way.
Anyway, as indicated by that little digression, Dutch people don't like it when people talk a bunch. It doesn't matter if you're a stranger or a best friend, talking a lot is somehow seen a sign that you must think you have noteworthy things to say, and unfortunately, in the Netherlands thinking that you are somehow noteworthy or worthwhile is still a questionable activity.
So as a child, I was told over and over and over again that I talked far too much. I talked to people I didn't know well, I talked to grown ups, I was kind to strangers, in short, I did all those things American parents generally encourage in their children, and Dutch adults abhor. You can imagine my relief when we moved abroad, and suddenly I was surrounded by people who talked as much, if not more, as I did. Suddenly, I no longer stood out, and no one was telling me to pipe down, be quiet, or just plain shut up.
Southerners are, if possible, even more eloquent than other Americans. They love to find out everything about you, and share their entire life story on your first meeting. Subsequently, my talkative rating has dropped precipitously. Nonetheless, I still feel very comfortable surrounded by people who don't care when you want to share something.
Except this morning. This morning I went to the gym, as is tradition on Friday mornings, to swim before I go to work. Although I've written about the interesting disparity in opinions on appropriate dress in the gym, I don't think I've ever mentioned how loud the ladies' locker room gets. You see, the same women work out there every day, at the same time. And so they've become friends, and they like to talk. That's great. I applaud social interaction as much as the next person. But these women are done with their work outs at around the time I walk in, which is about 6am. Now although I'm a morning person if you ever saw one, 6 am is on the early side for me. And yet I dare anyone to walk into that locker room and stay chipper. Because not only are these women chatting up a storm, they are doing so across the entire locker room, i.e., at the top of their lungs.
It's like walking into a chicken coop. There will be one lady applying her make up by the mirrors, carrying on a loud conversation about her husband's back surgery with a woman three locker rows down, while two women in the shower are carrying on a conversation loud enough for the women in the adjacent locker row to join in. And I'm not even talking about the loud laughter and giggles coming from the, judging by its echoes, cavernous steam room. Call me grumpy, but I can't handle that at six in the morning.
So usually I smile, nod, pull my bathing suit on in record time, beat a retreat, and brace myself for a repeat of the coop by the time I'm done swimming, as most of these women take about 45 minutes to get ready. But this morning was different.
I think the women felt bad for me. They've seen me come to the gym every Friday for months now. I'm by myself, I don't talk to anyone, and I think they wanted to include me. A very sweet thought. Really. But I can't tell you how taken aback I was when after my swim, while I was changing into my running gear, two of the women struck up a conversation with me about swimming. They were on either side of my locker, so I couldn't escape, and they were asking one question after another. I tried to be nice. I think I was nice. I know I smiled and answered their questions, but I couldn't wait to get out in to the quiet gym.
I'm not grumpy. I'm not. But I fear that I may need to change my swimming time if I want some peace and quiet next week...
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The right answer
Last week was advisement, but only twenty students (give or take) showed up.
Last week was advisement, but only twenty students (give or take) showed up.
No, you do not need glasses, my cut and paste function didn't suddenly go hogwild, and yes, that sentence is up there twice. On purpose. You see, I have eighty-five advisees. Eigty-five students with academic advising holds that will only be lifted once they come for, you guessed it, advisement. Our university instated this policy a few years ago, because they found that the majority of the students not graduating within four years did so because they never went to advisement and thus made less-than-effective scheduling decisions. Anyway, the advising hold is a way to make sure students actually meet with their adviser. You'd think it makes perfect sense. It does to me. But apparently I'm missing something, as of my eighty-five students, only twenty or so bothered to show up last week. On Friday, no less. Not during any of the other, oh, twenty hours I had set aside for advisement. And not even after I sent every single advisee an email advising them of, well advisement, the previous week.
This week is fall registration. It's the week students are supposed to sign up for those classes they so diligently picked out during their advisement. Unless you have a hold on your account. Because, you know, you didn't actually go see your adviser.
I have about sixty cases like that floating around campus. About thirty found their way to my office yesterday throughout the day, complaining that they, much to their incredibly surprise, could not register for classes (and have they told you how unfair that is?!). Unfortunately for them, once advisement is over, my schedule returns to normal, which means I only (and I use that word in the most sarcastic way possible) have two office hours per day. And they're early in the morning too. On account of I need to get stuff done, such as, oh I don't know, teach or grade, during the rest of the day.
So you can imagine what happened. Lots of students were turned away and told to come back today during my office hours. Only three did, which means that today is probably going to be a repeat of yesterday, with students knocking on my door when I'm in a meeting, grading, or away teaching. And just in case you're now convinced I'm the grinch who stole Christmas and Easter (goodness knows my students are) - I really want to help. I do. But I have sixty papers that need grading, twenty senior portfolio to assess, twenty defenses to attend, five finals to put together with accompanying study guides, and the list just goes on and on and on. So I simply don't have time for people who forget to check their academic calendar, don't know how to plan, think everything will be magically solved for them, still have some learning to do when it comes to assuming responsibilities.
There haven't been any tears yet, but there have been mumbled insults and underhanded insinuations. This time around, however, it hasn't affected me nearly as much as it has in previous years, where I would still see students outside office hours, scramble to resolve scheduling conflicts, overrides, and whatever else would come up at the last minute. This time around, there has been very little of that. If I'm busy (and I am), and they're outside of my office hours (and they usually are), it's a clear "no" from me.
I know. It's new to me too. And I think I can attribute it all to the one perfect, fool-proof, no-comeback statement I have started using consistently: "Poor planning on your part, and yes, not showing up during advisement is poor planning, does not constitute an emergency on my part".
And then I smile, wish them a wonderful day, and shut my door.
Professor: 1
Student: 0.
Last week was advisement, but only twenty students (give or take) showed up.
No, you do not need glasses, my cut and paste function didn't suddenly go hogwild, and yes, that sentence is up there twice. On purpose. You see, I have eighty-five advisees. Eigty-five students with academic advising holds that will only be lifted once they come for, you guessed it, advisement. Our university instated this policy a few years ago, because they found that the majority of the students not graduating within four years did so because they never went to advisement and thus made less-than-effective scheduling decisions. Anyway, the advising hold is a way to make sure students actually meet with their adviser. You'd think it makes perfect sense. It does to me. But apparently I'm missing something, as of my eighty-five students, only twenty or so bothered to show up last week. On Friday, no less. Not during any of the other, oh, twenty hours I had set aside for advisement. And not even after I sent every single advisee an email advising them of, well advisement, the previous week.
This week is fall registration. It's the week students are supposed to sign up for those classes they so diligently picked out during their advisement. Unless you have a hold on your account. Because, you know, you didn't actually go see your adviser.
I have about sixty cases like that floating around campus. About thirty found their way to my office yesterday throughout the day, complaining that they, much to their incredibly surprise, could not register for classes (and have they told you how unfair that is?!). Unfortunately for them, once advisement is over, my schedule returns to normal, which means I only (and I use that word in the most sarcastic way possible) have two office hours per day. And they're early in the morning too. On account of I need to get stuff done, such as, oh I don't know, teach or grade, during the rest of the day.
So you can imagine what happened. Lots of students were turned away and told to come back today during my office hours. Only three did, which means that today is probably going to be a repeat of yesterday, with students knocking on my door when I'm in a meeting, grading, or away teaching. And just in case you're now convinced I'm the grinch who stole Christmas and Easter (goodness knows my students are) - I really want to help. I do. But I have sixty papers that need grading, twenty senior portfolio to assess, twenty defenses to attend, five finals to put together with accompanying study guides, and the list just goes on and on and on. So I simply don't have time for people who
There haven't been any tears yet, but there have been mumbled insults and underhanded insinuations. This time around, however, it hasn't affected me nearly as much as it has in previous years, where I would still see students outside office hours, scramble to resolve scheduling conflicts, overrides, and whatever else would come up at the last minute. This time around, there has been very little of that. If I'm busy (and I am), and they're outside of my office hours (and they usually are), it's a clear "no" from me.
I know. It's new to me too. And I think I can attribute it all to the one perfect, fool-proof, no-comeback statement I have started using consistently: "Poor planning on your part, and yes, not showing up during advisement is poor planning, does not constitute an emergency on my part".
And then I smile, wish them a wonderful day, and shut my door.
Professor: 1
Student: 0.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Geval van een festival II
Eigenlijk heb ik helemaal geen tijd om hier een post te schrijven. Het is namelijk niet alleen registration week, maar ook de een-na-laatste week voor de tentamens, en u weet wat dat betekent: nakijken, heel veel studenten te woord staan, nakijken, senior portfolio defenses bijwonen, en nog meer nakijken. Maar ik had gisteren een dusdanig lumineus idee, dat ik toch tijd kan maken voor een blogje vandaag (en dan ook nog eens in het Nederlands!).
Ik ben er namelijk achter gekomen dat ik mezelf eigenlijk helemaal niet vooruit help als ik altijd al mijn werk ver van te voren af heb door in het weekend en 's avonds te werken. Weet u wat er dan namelijk gebeurt? Dan komen mijn collega's of mijn bazen met een of andere klusje aan, dat nou niet super urgent is, maar toch eigenlijk wel gedaan moet worden. Aangezien ik de enige ben die een beetje op schema loopt met werk, mag u drie keer raden wie ze dan elke keer vragen.
Juist.
Ik dus.
En ik hoef er natuurlijk niet bij te vertellen dat ik het dan niet over mijn hart kan verkrijgen om "nee" te verkopen.
Als ik daarentegen mezelf niet drie slagen in de rondte werk in mijn vrije tijd, dan heb ik wel een goede reden om "nee" te zeggen, en word ik dus minder vaak opgezadeld met roosters maken, vergaderingen bijwonen, en allerlei andere dingen die totaal niet bijdragen aan mijn wetenschappelijk carriere.
En het schrijven van een blogpost doet dat natuurlijk wel. (Echt waar. Je kan het meetellen als "creative production" in je tenure portfolio. Geloof ik. Moet ik wel even alle negatieve referenties aan mijn studenten verwijderen.)
Dus, ondanks dat ik het nu dus eigenlijk best wel druk heb, omdat ik van het weekend maar liefst een dag heb vrijgenomen, is het gevoel dat ik absoluut niet met een of andere rotklus opgezadeld kan worden zo bevrijdend dat ik toch graag iets wil vertellen over het festival van het weekend.
Het was in een woord geweldig. Ik heb mijn ogen uitgekeken. Het begon al met het stro dat op de grond lag. De ondertitel van het festival (dus naast die naam over een ranzige rivier) was namelijk: The barnyard gathering (of zoiets), en om het barnyard gevoel verder te versterken had met het hele festival terrein, dat midden in het bos lag, bedekt met een dikke laag stro. Het stofte, stuifde, en prikte enorm in je tenen en enkels als je slippers aan had, maar het was inderdaad net een stal.
Dankzij deze ondertitel hoopte ik stiekem ook op een hele menagerie aan dieren, maar dat was helaas niet het geval. Dieren waren uberhaupt niet toegestaan, wat dan wel weer jammer was.
Verder was het eigenlijk een standaard arts and crafts fair, waar de meeste vendors jammer genoeg niet eens uit Georgia kwamen. De kwaliteit van de spullen was nog best wel hoog, alhoewel ik nu absoluut geen kraampje dat namen op spaarpotten/bordjes/vlaggen/beren/treintjes zet meer kan zien. Manlief en ik vertrokken bijna met een enorm prijzig olieschilderij, maar dat hebben we bij nader inzien toch maar niet gedaan. En natuurlijk waren er ook allerlei muziekstandjes; de Dolly Parton imitator op "the main stage" probeerde te wedijveren met "The sounds from the Appalachian mountains" verderop, en ondertussen zat er ergens in een hoekje ook nog een harpiste echt prachtige, en totaal niet -passende keltische muziek te spelen.
Al met al viel het dus reuze mee. Er waren geen grits te bekennen, en ze boden niet eens deep fried cornbread aan.
En ik denk dat ik nou toch echt even hard aan het werk moet om te compenseren voor die vrije middag...je kan niet alles hebben, ten slotte.
Ik ben er namelijk achter gekomen dat ik mezelf eigenlijk helemaal niet vooruit help als ik altijd al mijn werk ver van te voren af heb door in het weekend en 's avonds te werken. Weet u wat er dan namelijk gebeurt? Dan komen mijn collega's of mijn bazen met een of andere klusje aan, dat nou niet super urgent is, maar toch eigenlijk wel gedaan moet worden. Aangezien ik de enige ben die een beetje op schema loopt met werk, mag u drie keer raden wie ze dan elke keer vragen.
Juist.
Ik dus.
En ik hoef er natuurlijk niet bij te vertellen dat ik het dan niet over mijn hart kan verkrijgen om "nee" te verkopen.
Als ik daarentegen mezelf niet drie slagen in de rondte werk in mijn vrije tijd, dan heb ik wel een goede reden om "nee" te zeggen, en word ik dus minder vaak opgezadeld met roosters maken, vergaderingen bijwonen, en allerlei andere dingen die totaal niet bijdragen aan mijn wetenschappelijk carriere.
En het schrijven van een blogpost doet dat natuurlijk wel. (Echt waar. Je kan het meetellen als "creative production" in je tenure portfolio. Geloof ik. Moet ik wel even alle negatieve referenties aan mijn studenten verwijderen.)
Dus, ondanks dat ik het nu dus eigenlijk best wel druk heb, omdat ik van het weekend maar liefst een dag heb vrijgenomen, is het gevoel dat ik absoluut niet met een of andere rotklus opgezadeld kan worden zo bevrijdend dat ik toch graag iets wil vertellen over het festival van het weekend.
Het was in een woord geweldig. Ik heb mijn ogen uitgekeken. Het begon al met het stro dat op de grond lag. De ondertitel van het festival (dus naast die naam over een ranzige rivier) was namelijk: The barnyard gathering (of zoiets), en om het barnyard gevoel verder te versterken had met het hele festival terrein, dat midden in het bos lag, bedekt met een dikke laag stro. Het stofte, stuifde, en prikte enorm in je tenen en enkels als je slippers aan had, maar het was inderdaad net een stal.
Dankzij deze ondertitel hoopte ik stiekem ook op een hele menagerie aan dieren, maar dat was helaas niet het geval. Dieren waren uberhaupt niet toegestaan, wat dan wel weer jammer was.
Verder was het eigenlijk een standaard arts and crafts fair, waar de meeste vendors jammer genoeg niet eens uit Georgia kwamen. De kwaliteit van de spullen was nog best wel hoog, alhoewel ik nu absoluut geen kraampje dat namen op spaarpotten/bordjes/vlaggen/beren/treintjes zet meer kan zien. Manlief en ik vertrokken bijna met een enorm prijzig olieschilderij, maar dat hebben we bij nader inzien toch maar niet gedaan. En natuurlijk waren er ook allerlei muziekstandjes; de Dolly Parton imitator op "the main stage" probeerde te wedijveren met "The sounds from the Appalachian mountains" verderop, en ondertussen zat er ergens in een hoekje ook nog een harpiste echt prachtige, en totaal niet -passende keltische muziek te spelen.
Al met al viel het dus reuze mee. Er waren geen grits te bekennen, en ze boden niet eens deep fried cornbread aan.
En ik denk dat ik nou toch echt even hard aan het werk moet om te compenseren voor die vrije middag...je kan niet alles hebben, ten slotte.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Geval van een festival
Weet u nog dat ik een maand of wat geleden verkondigde dat manlief en ik meer dingen "in the community" gingen doen? En dat we subiet naar een filmfestival zijn geweest. En een kersenbloesemfestival? Sindsdien is het een beetje stil geweest, en hebben we, eerlijk gezegd, ook niets kneuterigs, sorry, community-oriented, gedaan. We hebben zelfs, tot onze grote schande voor de nu vierde keer op rij, het jaarlijke Grits festival gemist. Jawel, Georgia heeft de eer om elk jaar een waar grits festival te organiseren.
Voor diegene onder u die zich nu toch echt afvragen wat "grits" in hemelsnaam zijn, dat kan ik in een woord uitleggen: vies.
Mijn excuses als u wel van grits houdt, maar ik vind het werkelijk niks.
Wat het precies is, dat kunt u beter hier lezen, voor zover ik weet is het een soort papje van mais dat smaakt naar..sja..naar niks met klontjes. En nu hou ik al helemaal niet van klontjes, laat staan van iets dat er niet alleen uitziet als behangplaksel, maar ook net zo smaakt.
Maar goed, hier in het zuiden is het een "staple", en gaat ieder respecterende burger erop prat zijn eigen "secret grits recipe" te hebben. Ik word dan regelmatig verteld dat de reden waarom ik niet van grits hou is omdat gewoon nog nooit het juiste recept geprobeerd hebt. Ik moet het toch echt proeven met spek (griezel) of met ham (eeuw) of met weet ik val wat. Uiteraard knik ik altijd lief, maar ik moet er eerlijk gezegd niet aan denken. Ham en brei met klontjes? Nee, dank u.
Ondanks dat ik niet van grits hou, wil ik natuurlijk graag zien hoe zo'n grits festival er precies uitziet. Zouden er proef wedstrijden zijn? Wie het snelste een bord grits kan leegeten? Het "raad het geheime ingredient" spelen? Maar ja, dat heb ik nu dus al weer gemist.
Gelukkig is er morgen een of ander lokaal festival, en dus kan ik de schade in halen. Gelukkig voor mij is deze niet vernoemd naar een of ander twijfelachtige lokale cuisine, maar, zo mogelijk nog beter, naar een lichtelijk ranzig beekje bij ons in de buurt (iets in de trant van "gross-looking water that barely flows", maar dan iets eufemistischer). Ik heb vernomen dat er zweepslag competities zullen zijn, line dance demonstraties, dat er square dance groepen zullen optreden, dat ze alle mogelijk denkbaar eten gefrituurd serveren (grits?), en dat alles voorzien van live country muziek.
Kortom: het lijkt me geweldig.
Ik hou u op de hoogte.
Voor diegene onder u die zich nu toch echt afvragen wat "grits" in hemelsnaam zijn, dat kan ik in een woord uitleggen: vies.
Mijn excuses als u wel van grits houdt, maar ik vind het werkelijk niks.
Wat het precies is, dat kunt u beter hier lezen, voor zover ik weet is het een soort papje van mais dat smaakt naar..sja..naar niks met klontjes. En nu hou ik al helemaal niet van klontjes, laat staan van iets dat er niet alleen uitziet als behangplaksel, maar ook net zo smaakt.
Maar goed, hier in het zuiden is het een "staple", en gaat ieder respecterende burger erop prat zijn eigen "secret grits recipe" te hebben. Ik word dan regelmatig verteld dat de reden waarom ik niet van grits hou is omdat gewoon nog nooit het juiste recept geprobeerd hebt. Ik moet het toch echt proeven met spek (griezel) of met ham (eeuw) of met weet ik val wat. Uiteraard knik ik altijd lief, maar ik moet er eerlijk gezegd niet aan denken. Ham en brei met klontjes? Nee, dank u.
Ondanks dat ik niet van grits hou, wil ik natuurlijk graag zien hoe zo'n grits festival er precies uitziet. Zouden er proef wedstrijden zijn? Wie het snelste een bord grits kan leegeten? Het "raad het geheime ingredient" spelen? Maar ja, dat heb ik nu dus al weer gemist.
Gelukkig is er morgen een of ander lokaal festival, en dus kan ik de schade in halen. Gelukkig voor mij is deze niet vernoemd naar een of ander twijfelachtige lokale cuisine, maar, zo mogelijk nog beter, naar een lichtelijk ranzig beekje bij ons in de buurt (iets in de trant van "gross-looking water that barely flows", maar dan iets eufemistischer). Ik heb vernomen dat er zweepslag competities zullen zijn, line dance demonstraties, dat er square dance groepen zullen optreden, dat ze alle mogelijk denkbaar eten gefrituurd serveren (grits?), en dat alles voorzien van live country muziek.
Kortom: het lijkt me geweldig.
Ik hou u op de hoogte.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Idiocracy
The other day I finally realized what drives me crazy about this town. It's the level of idiocy. I realize this might come across as a little blunt. I'm sorry. What I mean to say is that what can, from time to time, drive me crazy about this part of the world is that there are people who don't appear to think. You know, like, at all.
Now I'm not going to try to argue that there are places that are free of such people. I am realistic enough that there aren't. So I'm not so much bothered by the fact that there are idiots, excuse me, people who appear to eschew thinking as much as possible, but the high level of concentration of such people in this specific area. I mean seriously folks, just skim through the content of my blog. There's inattentive drivers, ultra-dogmatic conservatives, people who dump dogs in complete strangers' driveways, women who believe that sweatpants are appropriate outerwear for all occasions, and a very odd understanding of what comprises rude behavior.
But, in all honesty, those are only minor examples of idiocy. The other day I had the opportunity to witness such a blatant example of stupidity, it really made everything else fade in comparison. It started innocuously enough - I was visiting Mary at her store. We talked for a little bit, when a man who works at a neighboring store, let's call him Bruce, walked in. Mary's co-worker, let's call her Sue, who until then had been ignoring us and playing with her cell phone, immediately came to life. And the ensuing conversation between these two people just blew me away.
It started when Sue complained about how hard it was to pay for college. No problems there. It is.
But immediately afterward, the conversation took a left turn and didn't so much go downhill as crash into the ravine. I'm not sure who started it, but either Sue or Bruce mentioned how much easier it was for African Americans to get into college and get financial aid.
Uhm. Really? Because I don't think that my students, who are not only 99% African American, but also hold an average of 2.4 jobs per student as well as a fair share of student loans got that memo.
But it got worse.
Sue then managed to argue that African Americans actually went to college at the expense of white people. I'm not sure what her reasoning was based on, as it sounded something like this to me, "Yeah, so like, just 'cause, y'know I'm white, I can't get into college. And they can. So yeah. If I were black, I wouldn't have that problem".
Please don't pin me down exactly on what she said, but it was something pretty much as idiotic as the above statement.
I'm not sure how long it took me to close my mouth and organize my thoughts after this incredibly profound and well though-out statement (insert sarcasm here), but once I did, I tried to make Sue see how incredibly, terribly, embarrassingly wrong she was. Really, people, really. Do I even need to make my case here?
I didn't think so.
But it was to no avail. And Bruce didn't help either, as fortunately for Sue (and I am trying to say this in the most sarcastic way possible), as Bruce decided to add his two cents, and posited that if racism still existed, which, by the way, he seriously doubted, African Americans obviously brought this upon myself by the way they acted.
Excuse me?
Excuse the holy guacamole (insert appropriate cuss words here) me?!
At this point, Mary and I exchanged a glance, and I did the absolutely unthinkable. I interrupted the two and said, "You know what? You guys are being incredibly dumb, and I am checking out of this conversation right now. Bye Mary."
And I left.
I know I joke around a lot on this blog. Most of the time I am not serious, and I hope that all of you know to take complaining should really be taken with a grain of salt, as half the time I really don't care that much. But this, this is not acceptable. Ever.
Ever.
It's the dumbest, most idiotic and ignorant moment of the past four years here in the south. In fact, it may have just the won the prize of the decade.
Now excuse me while I go take a few really deep breaths to get rid of this incredible desire to throw something across the room.
Now I'm not going to try to argue that there are places that are free of such people. I am realistic enough that there aren't. So I'm not so much bothered by the fact that there are idiots, excuse me, people who appear to eschew thinking as much as possible, but the high level of concentration of such people in this specific area. I mean seriously folks, just skim through the content of my blog. There's inattentive drivers, ultra-dogmatic conservatives, people who dump dogs in complete strangers' driveways, women who believe that sweatpants are appropriate outerwear for all occasions, and a very odd understanding of what comprises rude behavior.
But, in all honesty, those are only minor examples of idiocy. The other day I had the opportunity to witness such a blatant example of stupidity, it really made everything else fade in comparison. It started innocuously enough - I was visiting Mary at her store. We talked for a little bit, when a man who works at a neighboring store, let's call him Bruce, walked in. Mary's co-worker, let's call her Sue, who until then had been ignoring us and playing with her cell phone, immediately came to life. And the ensuing conversation between these two people just blew me away.
It started when Sue complained about how hard it was to pay for college. No problems there. It is.
But immediately afterward, the conversation took a left turn and didn't so much go downhill as crash into the ravine. I'm not sure who started it, but either Sue or Bruce mentioned how much easier it was for African Americans to get into college and get financial aid.
Uhm. Really? Because I don't think that my students, who are not only 99% African American, but also hold an average of 2.4 jobs per student as well as a fair share of student loans got that memo.
But it got worse.
Sue then managed to argue that African Americans actually went to college at the expense of white people. I'm not sure what her reasoning was based on, as it sounded something like this to me, "Yeah, so like, just 'cause, y'know I'm white, I can't get into college. And they can. So yeah. If I were black, I wouldn't have that problem".
Please don't pin me down exactly on what she said, but it was something pretty much as idiotic as the above statement.
I'm not sure how long it took me to close my mouth and organize my thoughts after this incredibly profound and well though-out statement (insert sarcasm here), but once I did, I tried to make Sue see how incredibly, terribly, embarrassingly wrong she was. Really, people, really. Do I even need to make my case here?
I didn't think so.
But it was to no avail. And Bruce didn't help either, as fortunately for Sue (and I am trying to say this in the most sarcastic way possible), as Bruce decided to add his two cents, and posited that if racism still existed, which, by the way, he seriously doubted, African Americans obviously brought this upon myself by the way they acted.
Excuse me?
Excuse the holy guacamole (insert appropriate cuss words here) me?!
At this point, Mary and I exchanged a glance, and I did the absolutely unthinkable. I interrupted the two and said, "You know what? You guys are being incredibly dumb, and I am checking out of this conversation right now. Bye Mary."
And I left.
I know I joke around a lot on this blog. Most of the time I am not serious, and I hope that all of you know to take complaining should really be taken with a grain of salt, as half the time I really don't care that much. But this, this is not acceptable. Ever.
Ever.
It's the dumbest, most idiotic and ignorant moment of the past four years here in the south. In fact, it may have just the won the prize of the decade.
Now excuse me while I go take a few really deep breaths to get rid of this incredible desire to throw something across the room.
Monday, April 11, 2011
The most wonderful time of the year
While some of you may associate "the most wonderful time of the year" with a song by that same name (which will be stuck in your head for the next three hours- you're welcome!), and Christmas, for me, the most wonderful time of the year is now. Ironically, it (now) also has the honor of holding a shared first place in "worst times of the year", i.e., it's nearing the end of the semester, but that, oddly enough, only makes these few weeks even more enjoyable.
You see, it's spring. And spring time in Georgia is truly the best time of the year.
I knew it started last week when I opened our bedroom window, turned to my husband, and said, "What in the tarnation is that racket out there?"
Actually, I didn't say exactly that, but I thought a little southern vernacular would put you all in the right frame of mind.
Anyway, as it turns out, the sound that was coming in through our window as loud as the best possible white noise maker one can buy were crickets. I love crickets. I've loved them from the nights they would lull me to sleep in France, and I've loved them ever since. Yes, they're loud, and creepy on account of that they're bugs and will thus crawl on you if they can, but they're also the first sure sign summer is on the way. And that makes up for all their creepy-crawly-ickyness.
Hearing crickets in Georgia means summer is right around the corner, but before some serious stickiness wafts over middle Georgia like a thick, wet blanket, everyone gets to enjoy a few weeks of sunny skies, balmy temperatures, and bug-free porches. Although the trees have just about shed their last blossoms, the bright green leaves look like new, and all of our bushes are covered in purple, pink, and red flowers. We've eaten outside almost every night last week, we've had all of our windows open as much as possible, and enjoyed trimming our trees and bushes without the need to run inside to cool off and avert a heatstroke every five minutes. It's absolutely gorgeous.
Of course, there are also piles and piles of papers to grade, rough drafts to comment on, portfolios to assess, and finals to prepare. But the fact that a) it's spring, and b) this means the semester so close to being over, you can almost taste it, makes up for all the long, long hours.
So, yes, it's the most wonderful time of the year.
Now excuse me while I get back to my grading.
You see, it's spring. And spring time in Georgia is truly the best time of the year.
I knew it started last week when I opened our bedroom window, turned to my husband, and said, "What in the tarnation is that racket out there?"
Actually, I didn't say exactly that, but I thought a little southern vernacular would put you all in the right frame of mind.
Anyway, as it turns out, the sound that was coming in through our window as loud as the best possible white noise maker one can buy were crickets. I love crickets. I've loved them from the nights they would lull me to sleep in France, and I've loved them ever since. Yes, they're loud, and creepy on account of that they're bugs and will thus crawl on you if they can, but they're also the first sure sign summer is on the way. And that makes up for all their creepy-crawly-ickyness.
Hearing crickets in Georgia means summer is right around the corner, but before some serious stickiness wafts over middle Georgia like a thick, wet blanket, everyone gets to enjoy a few weeks of sunny skies, balmy temperatures, and bug-free porches. Although the trees have just about shed their last blossoms, the bright green leaves look like new, and all of our bushes are covered in purple, pink, and red flowers. We've eaten outside almost every night last week, we've had all of our windows open as much as possible, and enjoyed trimming our trees and bushes without the need to run inside to cool off and avert a heatstroke every five minutes. It's absolutely gorgeous.
Of course, there are also piles and piles of papers to grade, rough drafts to comment on, portfolios to assess, and finals to prepare. But the fact that a) it's spring, and b) this means the semester so close to being over, you can almost taste it, makes up for all the long, long hours.
So, yes, it's the most wonderful time of the year.
Now excuse me while I get back to my grading.
Friday, April 8, 2011
University Shore: Student drama
As I skim through my posts of the last three years, I'm sure you're all convinced that I frequently embellish on my encounters with students. Unfortunately, I don't. I wish I did, and that in reality my students were always on time, well-organized and polite. Everything in here is very real, and I don't think I ever even wrote about the one time I had to call campus security because one particular student got a little too adamant about his/her right to an A.
Today alone (with senior portfolios due yesterday, senior theses due today, and a paper in one of my classes due this morning), I've had two students sob their way into my office, various frantic emails, and I'm sure that I have at least one panicked voice mail on my phone. And the afternoon has barely begun. While in previous years students would blame crowded computer labs or their own poor organization for their failure to turn in their work, this year, technology has swept the number one spot. I've heard about crashed hard drives, stolen flash drives, broken laptops, and faulty midnight tornado drills that left students out in their hallways until four in the morning. Students have pleaded, begged, cried until their noses were red, done the whole shaky-breath-thing and on the whole made me feel like handing out chocolate and tissues. As most of these students are the real deal; hard-working, honest, and genuinely contrite, I'd like to think I've been very lenient. People have received extensions, been consoled, or sent to the chair for a final decision, while I have yet to tell anyone "no". So far, so good.
But each year, there are the stories that would make me laugh if they weren't so infuriating. Allow me to share one such email with you:
"About the paper that's due today. I was involved in a car accident a week ago and im intrying to get my car situation handled in (a town three hours away). I will be back in town by my research methods class so if that's fine can I turn it in then "
Note the various problems with this particular student's email (and I'm not talking about the lack of punctuation). There was a car accident, and yes, those are bad, and would usually serve as a more than acceptable excuse to a late paper. However, in this case, the car accident took place a week ago. The student apparently elected to have his car repaired in the town where the accident took place, and not only that, but s/he elected to pick up said car on the morning my paper was due.
Coincidence?
I think not.
So I told the lovely student that this was not fine, and I would not accept his/her paper. So sad, too bad. I'm anxiously awaiting the reply, which I'm sure is imminent.
What's worse? The end of the semester is only four weeks ago, and you know that means the drama has only just begun. I will keep you posted.
Today alone (with senior portfolios due yesterday, senior theses due today, and a paper in one of my classes due this morning), I've had two students sob their way into my office, various frantic emails, and I'm sure that I have at least one panicked voice mail on my phone. And the afternoon has barely begun. While in previous years students would blame crowded computer labs or their own poor organization for their failure to turn in their work, this year, technology has swept the number one spot. I've heard about crashed hard drives, stolen flash drives, broken laptops, and faulty midnight tornado drills that left students out in their hallways until four in the morning. Students have pleaded, begged, cried until their noses were red, done the whole shaky-breath-thing and on the whole made me feel like handing out chocolate and tissues. As most of these students are the real deal; hard-working, honest, and genuinely contrite, I'd like to think I've been very lenient. People have received extensions, been consoled, or sent to the chair for a final decision, while I have yet to tell anyone "no". So far, so good.
But each year, there are the stories that would make me laugh if they weren't so infuriating. Allow me to share one such email with you:
"About the paper that's due today. I was involved in a car accident a week ago and im in
Note the various problems with this particular student's email (and I'm not talking about the lack of punctuation). There was a car accident, and yes, those are bad, and would usually serve as a more than acceptable excuse to a late paper. However, in this case, the car accident took place a week ago. The student apparently elected to have his car repaired in the town where the accident took place, and not only that, but s/he elected to pick up said car on the morning my paper was due.
Coincidence?
I think not.
So I told the lovely student that this was not fine, and I would not accept his/her paper. So sad, too bad. I'm anxiously awaiting the reply, which I'm sure is imminent.
What's worse? The end of the semester is only four weeks ago, and you know that means the drama has only just begun. I will keep you posted.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Signatures and stuff
I need everyone to get out a pen and sign their name on a random piece of paper. Seriously. Right now. Just pretend you're signing a bill or something.
I'll wait.
Did we all sign our names?
Good.
Now look at your signature. Can you read your name? First and last? Or does your signature more closely resemble the results of a chicken trying to scratch its way through the paper using a pen? If you answered yes to my first question, my guess is you're probably an American. If, on the other hand, your signature looks like something that could be found on the inside of an Egyptian pyramid, you're probably Dutch.
After years of pondering American signatures, I've yet to figure out why, but the bottom line is that most Americans, when signing their name, sign an at least semi-legible version of their name. Dutch people, on the other hand, will draw two parentheses, scratch a line, dot a few invisible i's, and tell you, "See, that loop right there? That says 'Maassen'. See the 'm'? No? Oh well, I see it."
I remember seeing the very first letter signed by an American. It came from the middle school I was attending, and had been signed by the female principal. Her signature was just gorgeous. The capital 'K' and 'G" looked nothing like the K's and G's I'd learned in the Netherlands. Right then and there, I decided I would try to sign my name like her. Anyone who could sign their name like that had to be totally awesome.
And so I practiced, and practiced. And practiced some more. And succeeded to a certain degree. My capital "J" is an American "J", and there are no odd hieroglyphics in my signature at all. Dutch people always tell me that my signature is so legible. Americans, on the other hand, are not so sure. Yes, one can recognize my first and last name, if one tries, but it doesn't jump out at you. And my middle name is missing altogether, as is my maiden name. You see, many American women I know like to sign their name with every single name they've ever used. Since in my case that would make my signature something like thirty letters long, that was just not an option.
I honestly always thought I had a typical American signature, until, you guessed it, Georgia. No one anywhere has ever said anything about my signature, until I went to renew my driver's license two years ago, and signed my name. The dds lady looked at me, looked at my signature, looked at me again, and said, "You wanna sign like that honey?"
I looked at my signature, "Well, uhm, yes."
"You sure?"
"Uhm, yeah. That is how I sign my name."
"Oh. OK."
"Why? Is something wrong?"
"Oh no. It's just most people write their name out in full."
And that's true. Most people do. Which raises the question with me; what's the point of having a signature if anyone can imitate it? Isn't the point of a signature that it's unique to you? But anyway, I digress.
The reason I wanted to write about signatures today is because I had a true dilemma when it came time to sign my certificate of naturalization. The actual certificate tells you to sign your "true and complete name", which in my humble opinion means you sign every single name on the certificate, which in turn means I wouldn't actually sign the paper, as much as write out my name. Before I possibly ruined a certificate with a $400 replacement value, I decided to ask an immigration officer. She appeared confused by my question, "Why, you just sign your name."
"Yes, of course. But do I sign and include my middle name too, or do I sign with my normal signature?"
"Well." Slight pause and a frown, "You just sign your name"
"But when I sign my name, I don't sign my entire name. It looks more like a chicken scratch."
"Oooh. Well in that case, write out your full name."
So when I came home, what did I do? You guessed it, I practiced signing my full and complete name on a piece of scrap paper. I hadn't done that since I got married was in 7th grade, but there you have it. I practiced and practiced and practiced. And then took a deep breath and signed my name. And forgot the "e" on the end of my last name.
Oops.
Oh well. At least it's legible.
I'll wait.
Did we all sign our names?
Good.
Now look at your signature. Can you read your name? First and last? Or does your signature more closely resemble the results of a chicken trying to scratch its way through the paper using a pen? If you answered yes to my first question, my guess is you're probably an American. If, on the other hand, your signature looks like something that could be found on the inside of an Egyptian pyramid, you're probably Dutch.
After years of pondering American signatures, I've yet to figure out why, but the bottom line is that most Americans, when signing their name, sign an at least semi-legible version of their name. Dutch people, on the other hand, will draw two parentheses, scratch a line, dot a few invisible i's, and tell you, "See, that loop right there? That says 'Maassen'. See the 'm'? No? Oh well, I see it."
I remember seeing the very first letter signed by an American. It came from the middle school I was attending, and had been signed by the female principal. Her signature was just gorgeous. The capital 'K' and 'G" looked nothing like the K's and G's I'd learned in the Netherlands. Right then and there, I decided I would try to sign my name like her. Anyone who could sign their name like that had to be totally awesome.
And so I practiced, and practiced. And practiced some more. And succeeded to a certain degree. My capital "J" is an American "J", and there are no odd hieroglyphics in my signature at all. Dutch people always tell me that my signature is so legible. Americans, on the other hand, are not so sure. Yes, one can recognize my first and last name, if one tries, but it doesn't jump out at you. And my middle name is missing altogether, as is my maiden name. You see, many American women I know like to sign their name with every single name they've ever used. Since in my case that would make my signature something like thirty letters long, that was just not an option.
I honestly always thought I had a typical American signature, until, you guessed it, Georgia. No one anywhere has ever said anything about my signature, until I went to renew my driver's license two years ago, and signed my name. The dds lady looked at me, looked at my signature, looked at me again, and said, "You wanna sign like that honey?"
I looked at my signature, "Well, uhm, yes."
"You sure?"
"Uhm, yeah. That is how I sign my name."
"Oh. OK."
"Why? Is something wrong?"
"Oh no. It's just most people write their name out in full."
And that's true. Most people do. Which raises the question with me; what's the point of having a signature if anyone can imitate it? Isn't the point of a signature that it's unique to you? But anyway, I digress.
The reason I wanted to write about signatures today is because I had a true dilemma when it came time to sign my certificate of naturalization. The actual certificate tells you to sign your "true and complete name", which in my humble opinion means you sign every single name on the certificate, which in turn means I wouldn't actually sign the paper, as much as write out my name. Before I possibly ruined a certificate with a $400 replacement value, I decided to ask an immigration officer. She appeared confused by my question, "Why, you just sign your name."
"Yes, of course. But do I sign and include my middle name too, or do I sign with my normal signature?"
"Well." Slight pause and a frown, "You just sign your name"
"But when I sign my name, I don't sign my entire name. It looks more like a chicken scratch."
"Oooh. Well in that case, write out your full name."
So when I came home, what did I do? You guessed it, I practiced signing my full and complete name on a piece of scrap paper. I hadn't done that since I
Oops.
Oh well. At least it's legible.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Teaching TMI
Today I once again learned why it's important to schedule bathroom breaks and eat when I'm hungry. Although I'm fully house-trained, I still seem to struggle with the notion of "going when you need to", and "consuming proper amounts of nutrients", which I really blame on my teaching responsibilities.
To a lot of academics, teaching is more of an afterthought. Even if we're at a teaching institution, and haven't had a 2x2 load in years, the vast majority of academics are researchers at heart. Sure, we'll tell you how much we love teaching in our cover letters, we'll have elaborate teaching philosophies to prove it, and some of us, like me, might actually like standing in front of a classroom, but deep down inside, we love nothing better than to hunker down in our offices with the lights on low, some groovy tunes in the background, a batch of data, and a looming deadline.
However, teaching is still a very real part of the day for most us, including myself. And although we're a completely different breed from people who actively chose a career in education, we do try. Now most of us do fine. The younger (read born after 1970) crowd has actually had to take workshops and classes on how to teach while in graduate school, and the looming threat of poor student evaluations keeps us non-tenured academics on our toes. Most of the time.
But in spite of our very best efforts, there are just some things that you never really figure out until several years into your teaching career. Things that I'm sure anyone with an education degree learns on day one. And some of them are downright essential, as in, on a par with breathing essential. And what I'm trying to get to is that today I forgot two of those very essential things. It was not nice.
First, bathroom use. The little orphan "Annie" had it right when she told Ms. Hannigan, "When you gotta go, you gotta go". Only she was never a teacher. Because when you're teaching, you can't just go to the bathroom when you want to. You need to learn to go before your class starts. Even if you don't have to go right then and there. And woe betide if you don't; you will suffer. You see, while your students can us the bathroom when they want to, you can't. And no, you can't always schedule a break when you need to go. Some classes are just too short for a break (but long enough to cause you serious anxiety if you don't plan your waterworks so to speak), while sometimes you just have to get through a certain amount of material to stay on schedule, and other times you really don't want to leave all your stuff in a classroom full of bored students. Thankfully, my body has developed some sort of survival-teaching mode, where I tend to forget about any physical discomforts (headaches, fatigue, bathroom desires) when I'm up there, but that doesn't mean it stays gone when class is over. And you try running to the bathroom with a laptop bag, a projector, a bag full of extension cords, your binder, and thirty students papers, while fending off twenty students with questions about something. It's interesting.
Second, food. You need to make sure you take care of any munchies before you go into class, as again, unlike your students, you can't eat during your lecture. It's just not right. Unfortunately, hunger isn't covered by the teaching-survival mode I mentioned above, so if you're hungry, well, you're just out of luck. You'll just be hungry for however long your class is, while watching your students eat their way through breakfast, lunch, or whatever snacks they could get their hands on. Not only is it extremely uncomfortable, you also find yourself using lots and lots of food-related examples which make a lot less sense when students regurgitate them back to you on their next test.
Today, I hit the jackpot. I had to use the bathroom, and I was hungry. It was not good. For all my experience, you'd think I'd have these two basics figured out right now. Perhaps I could make them part of next year's teaching goals "fulfill physical needs before class starts". I wonder what my chair would think about that...
To a lot of academics, teaching is more of an afterthought. Even if we're at a teaching institution, and haven't had a 2x2 load in years, the vast majority of academics are researchers at heart. Sure, we'll tell you how much we love teaching in our cover letters, we'll have elaborate teaching philosophies to prove it, and some of us, like me, might actually like standing in front of a classroom, but deep down inside, we love nothing better than to hunker down in our offices with the lights on low, some groovy tunes in the background, a batch of data, and a looming deadline.
However, teaching is still a very real part of the day for most us, including myself. And although we're a completely different breed from people who actively chose a career in education, we do try. Now most of us do fine. The younger (read born after 1970) crowd has actually had to take workshops and classes on how to teach while in graduate school, and the looming threat of poor student evaluations keeps us non-tenured academics on our toes. Most of the time.
But in spite of our very best efforts, there are just some things that you never really figure out until several years into your teaching career. Things that I'm sure anyone with an education degree learns on day one. And some of them are downright essential, as in, on a par with breathing essential. And what I'm trying to get to is that today I forgot two of those very essential things. It was not nice.
First, bathroom use. The little orphan "Annie" had it right when she told Ms. Hannigan, "When you gotta go, you gotta go". Only she was never a teacher. Because when you're teaching, you can't just go to the bathroom when you want to. You need to learn to go before your class starts. Even if you don't have to go right then and there. And woe betide if you don't; you will suffer. You see, while your students can us the bathroom when they want to, you can't. And no, you can't always schedule a break when you need to go. Some classes are just too short for a break (but long enough to cause you serious anxiety if you don't plan your waterworks so to speak), while sometimes you just have to get through a certain amount of material to stay on schedule, and other times you really don't want to leave all your stuff in a classroom full of bored students. Thankfully, my body has developed some sort of survival-teaching mode, where I tend to forget about any physical discomforts (headaches, fatigue, bathroom desires) when I'm up there, but that doesn't mean it stays gone when class is over. And you try running to the bathroom with a laptop bag, a projector, a bag full of extension cords, your binder, and thirty students papers, while fending off twenty students with questions about something. It's interesting.
Second, food. You need to make sure you take care of any munchies before you go into class, as again, unlike your students, you can't eat during your lecture. It's just not right. Unfortunately, hunger isn't covered by the teaching-survival mode I mentioned above, so if you're hungry, well, you're just out of luck. You'll just be hungry for however long your class is, while watching your students eat their way through breakfast, lunch, or whatever snacks they could get their hands on. Not only is it extremely uncomfortable, you also find yourself using lots and lots of food-related examples which make a lot less sense when students regurgitate them back to you on their next test.
Today, I hit the jackpot. I had to use the bathroom, and I was hungry. It was not good. For all my experience, you'd think I'd have these two basics figured out right now. Perhaps I could make them part of next year's teaching goals "fulfill physical needs before class starts". I wonder what my chair would think about that...
Sunday, April 3, 2011
"American Indians were here first"
So this week I think I might have finally forfeited my right to talk about "this" country and its people as completely different from me, my beliefs, behavior, or manner of dress. I'm not sure what this means for the future of this blog, but if nothing else, I thought you all might like to know that this past Wednesday at approximately 2:45pm, I became an American citizen.
And not only did I become an American citizen, I also promised to bear arms against all enemies, both foreign and domestic (you will all be thrilled to know that I first exercised that promise on Friday when I used a paper towel to kill the biggest domestic enemy of all: the cockroach). I gave up loyalty to any foreign princes or potentates (or strange coalitions involving men with bad dye jobs I suppose), and promised to serve the nation under civil direction (although, as husband-dear likes to point out, I'm not sure I'm actually capable of taking direction from anyone but myself, but there you have it).
In case you're expecting a sarcastic-slash-cynical description of the naturalization ceremony, as that is my usual take on life, I hate to disappoint you. For the first time in a long time, Dixiechick was completely taken in by the moment. There was music, a speech from the president, a speech from the director of the USCIS, a documentary about the US, and, of course, the oath. I believe I may have even shed a few tears.
Now, if you'd like to hear a sarcastic-slash-cynical account of the entire bureaucracy surrounding the event, I can definitely supply that. I think that compared to most (former) immigrants, I have had very little to do with the truly Kafka-esque bureaucracy that is the USCIS. Husband-dear and I applied for my green card from an overseas assignment, and the people at the consulate were nothing but nice and helpful. Ever since that first application, we've really had nothing to do with the USCIS, so I never really had anything interesting to share. Fortunately for you, though, I do now.
For one thing, there is the "hurry up and wait" mentality so typical to lots of large government organizations. I was in the USCIS office from 9:15 until 3:30 and I would guess that about an hour of that was spent not waiting. Then there is the "we're not quite sure what's going on here either" attitude, exemplified by the fact that from the time my interview was over until about fifteen minutes before the ceremony, I sat around waiting, without any idea of whether or not I would be participating in the ceremony that afternoon. And no one I asked seemed to know either. And once they did, husband-dear had about ten minutes to get himself and the kids out of Dave and Buster's and halfway across town for my ceremony.
Now, the interview itself was a breeze. Although I'd brought the equivalent of a small forest in paperwork, no one ever asked to see it, which was almost disappointing. While the lady read through my file, for what seemed to be the very first time, she fired off a series of questions about the possibility of me being a prostitute, pimp, tax evader, illegal gambler, or all four at the same time. We walked through my application question and by question, when it was time for the infamous civics and English test.
For those of your fortunate enough to be born here, immigrants desiring to become Americans actually have to study American civics. The USCIS supplies candidates with a booklet and a CD with 100 questions and answers, and expects you to, during your interview, answer six out of ten questions correctly, as well as write and read a sentence in English. As obsessed as I was with copying all of our tax information for the past century, I wasn't really too worried about this portion of the interview. I'd listened to the CD several times, and the only thing that truly concerned me was that I would remember the answers the kids had come up with to some of the questions, and start laughing. On our way up to the interview, I'd listened to the CD one last time, and the kids had a blast coming up with alternatives. They, among other things, dared me to answer "What is the name of the national anthem" with "She things my tractor's sexy", and to claim that the "US non-Virgin-slash-slutty Islands" were a US territory.
Fortunately, those questions were not on my test (instead I had to name the governor of Georgia, explain the rule of law, name the first US president, and some other safe questions like that). Then it came time for the English portion. I was handed a piece of paper, and asked to read the sentence "The White House is in Washington DC". Fair enough. Then the lady handed me a pen and asked me to write down "American Indians were here first". I kid you not. Not Native Americans. Not "lived in the US before the colonists arrived", not "were the original inhabitants of the US", no, "were here first". Were. Not lived. Were. I almost laughed. But I didn't since, as you know, I really couldn't afford that yet, and instead wrote the sentence down. Don't get me wrong, I understand that it's all about having a basic comprehension of the English language, and that for some immigrants, this portion is quite daunting. I had just expected something a little more profound. Or challenging.
However, I won't complain, I passed. And then almost hugged the lady who interviewed me, but decided not to. And a few hours later, I became one of "them". Or "us", as I should say now. And cheesy as it may sound, I'm kind of proud to finally belong. To no longer feel like an outsider, or a visitor.
But you know the weirdest thing? I still freak out every time I get my wallet out and my green card isn't in it. I think this whole being an American thing might take some getting used to....
And not only did I become an American citizen, I also promised to bear arms against all enemies, both foreign and domestic (you will all be thrilled to know that I first exercised that promise on Friday when I used a paper towel to kill the biggest domestic enemy of all: the cockroach). I gave up loyalty to any foreign princes or potentates (or strange coalitions involving men with bad dye jobs I suppose), and promised to serve the nation under civil direction (although, as husband-dear likes to point out, I'm not sure I'm actually capable of taking direction from anyone but myself, but there you have it).
In case you're expecting a sarcastic-slash-cynical description of the naturalization ceremony, as that is my usual take on life, I hate to disappoint you. For the first time in a long time, Dixiechick was completely taken in by the moment. There was music, a speech from the president, a speech from the director of the USCIS, a documentary about the US, and, of course, the oath. I believe I may have even shed a few tears.
Now, if you'd like to hear a sarcastic-slash-cynical account of the entire bureaucracy surrounding the event, I can definitely supply that. I think that compared to most (former) immigrants, I have had very little to do with the truly Kafka-esque bureaucracy that is the USCIS. Husband-dear and I applied for my green card from an overseas assignment, and the people at the consulate were nothing but nice and helpful. Ever since that first application, we've really had nothing to do with the USCIS, so I never really had anything interesting to share. Fortunately for you, though, I do now.
For one thing, there is the "hurry up and wait" mentality so typical to lots of large government organizations. I was in the USCIS office from 9:15 until 3:30 and I would guess that about an hour of that was spent not waiting. Then there is the "we're not quite sure what's going on here either" attitude, exemplified by the fact that from the time my interview was over until about fifteen minutes before the ceremony, I sat around waiting, without any idea of whether or not I would be participating in the ceremony that afternoon. And no one I asked seemed to know either. And once they did, husband-dear had about ten minutes to get himself and the kids out of Dave and Buster's and halfway across town for my ceremony.
Now, the interview itself was a breeze. Although I'd brought the equivalent of a small forest in paperwork, no one ever asked to see it, which was almost disappointing. While the lady read through my file, for what seemed to be the very first time, she fired off a series of questions about the possibility of me being a prostitute, pimp, tax evader, illegal gambler, or all four at the same time. We walked through my application question and by question, when it was time for the infamous civics and English test.
For those of your fortunate enough to be born here, immigrants desiring to become Americans actually have to study American civics. The USCIS supplies candidates with a booklet and a CD with 100 questions and answers, and expects you to, during your interview, answer six out of ten questions correctly, as well as write and read a sentence in English. As obsessed as I was with copying all of our tax information for the past century, I wasn't really too worried about this portion of the interview. I'd listened to the CD several times, and the only thing that truly concerned me was that I would remember the answers the kids had come up with to some of the questions, and start laughing. On our way up to the interview, I'd listened to the CD one last time, and the kids had a blast coming up with alternatives. They, among other things, dared me to answer "What is the name of the national anthem" with "She things my tractor's sexy", and to claim that the "US non-Virgin-slash-slutty Islands" were a US territory.
Fortunately, those questions were not on my test (instead I had to name the governor of Georgia, explain the rule of law, name the first US president, and some other safe questions like that). Then it came time for the English portion. I was handed a piece of paper, and asked to read the sentence "The White House is in Washington DC". Fair enough. Then the lady handed me a pen and asked me to write down "American Indians were here first". I kid you not. Not Native Americans. Not "lived in the US before the colonists arrived", not "were the original inhabitants of the US", no, "were here first". Were. Not lived. Were. I almost laughed. But I didn't since, as you know, I really couldn't afford that yet, and instead wrote the sentence down. Don't get me wrong, I understand that it's all about having a basic comprehension of the English language, and that for some immigrants, this portion is quite daunting. I had just expected something a little more profound. Or challenging.
However, I won't complain, I passed. And then almost hugged the lady who interviewed me, but decided not to. And a few hours later, I became one of "them". Or "us", as I should say now. And cheesy as it may sound, I'm kind of proud to finally belong. To no longer feel like an outsider, or a visitor.
But you know the weirdest thing? I still freak out every time I get my wallet out and my green card isn't in it. I think this whole being an American thing might take some getting used to....
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