Sinterklaas, wie kent hem niet?

Met als risico dat ik half Nederland over me heen krijg (nou ja, de dertien mensen die mijn blog lezen dan), maar ik ben er dit jaar echt uit: Zwarte Pieten kunnen niet meer. Blanke mensen omkleden in felgekleurde apepakkies, zwarte maillots, volsmeren met zwarte schoenpoets, en ze dan allerlei rare trucjes laten uithalen, dat kan in mijn wereld nu dus echt niet meer.

Sorry.

Ik weet dat voor de meeste Nederlanders de Zwarte Piet zo'n beetje heilig is deze tijd van het jaar, maar als rasechte NederAmerikaan kan ik er dus niet meer goed tegen, al die plaatjes van blanke mensen die lijken op een kruising tussen de tenenkrommende Sjimmie en gezellig racistische Sambo. Toen ik dit weekend Facebook opende, en een foto van mijn nichtje verkleed als Zwarte Piet zag, toen wist ik het, dit kan echt niet meer anno 2012. Sorry, geweldig nichtje van me.

Als ik eerlijk ben dan was Zwarte Piet al langer in een doorn in mijn oog. Dat krijg je, als je dankzij een Amerikaanse school bekend bent met het fenomeen "blackface", en het daarmee samenhangend racisme. Dan wordt het verdomd moeilijk, zelfs voor een jongere Dixiechick, om een grappende en grollende blanke man met zwarte make up en panties als een cultureel idiosyncrasie te zien. Want waarom moet de man perse zwart zijn? En waarom doet hij altijd alsof hij zo dom is? Maar ach, je verhuist weer eens terug naar Nederland, en je valt na een Sinterklaas feest of twee weer in de comfortabele gedachtengang dat dit "gewoon" een Nederlands fenomeen is. Eentje die natuurlijk niks te maken heeft met racisme, of blackface, or allerlei andere rare zaken. Zwarte Piet is gewoon een typisch Nederlands verschijnsel. Net zoiets als dijken, drop, en homosexuele paren die kinderen mogen adopteren.

Maar ja, een verhuizing naar het zuiden van de VS, waar de vrees voor racisme en alle daarmee samenhangende sociale verschijnselen nog steeds nadrukkelijk aanwezig is, en het hele fenomeen wordt in een keer minder makkelijk te verexcuseren. Je hoeft maar een keer les te geven over blackface aan een college zaal vol met African Americans, en je snapt meteen waarom. Want ondanks alle Nederlandse redeneringen over culturele eigenheid en relativiteit en weet-ik-veel-wat is the bottomline gewoon dat er hele groepen mensen zijn, zowel binnen als buiten Nederland die dit beledigend vinden.

Wil ik nu beweren dat ik vind dat Zwarte Piet afgeschaft moet worden? Jongens, ik zou niet durven. Ik heb nog steeds geen skinny jeans gekocht, draag nog steeds een muts als het koud is, zeg "sorry" als iemand tegen mij aan loopt, en ben dus ondertussen zo'n nep-Hollander geworden, dat ik al helemaal geen oordeel mag vellen over zo'n oer-Hollandse kwestie. Dus als jullie daar in Nederland blij worden van zwart-geschminkte blanke mannen en vrouwen die zich voordoen als de grootste lolbroeken ooit, gekleed in een bijpasselijk clown-achtig kostuum, dan ga vooral los, zou ik zeggen.

Maar voor mij hoeft het niet meer zo.
Wat natuurlijk niet wil zeggen dat ik hier de pepernoten, schuimdieren, en chocolade latters niet enorm mis.

Congratulations...

With your sister's cousin's birthday!

The Dutch have a wide variety of odd quirks. From eating salty licorice, to loving nothing better than raw herring, to the inability to keep one's opinion to oneself, to the complete lack of shame or embarrassment when telling someone "we can't do that"; the list just goes on and on. But these are what I would like to call "manifest" quirks. Manifest as in, quirks that anyone who spends a decent amount of time in that little low lying nation in Western Europe, or among the natives of that little country, will eventually pick up on. The "latent" quirks are the ones that are harder to nice. These are those funky little habits that you really only notice if you're married to one of them Dutch folk, or you, like me, teach a class on culture and the media, and are faced with a class full of students from a completely different culture than your own. One of these odd, culturally determined behaviors, is the Dutch ritual surrounding birthday wishes.

Here in the US, if it's someone's birthday and if you remember, you might call out a "happy birthday!", and there's happiness all around. Seriously, unless I've been walking around completely oblivious, that's really all it takes over here. Now in the Netherlands, birthday wishing is taken a whole lot more seriously. Very seriously. It's such a detail-oriented business, in fact, that I'm surprised no one has ever taken the time to write a handy little manual for foreigners considering a move to the Netherlands. In lieu of that gap, I thus present you: DixieChick's rules to a happy Dutch birthday!

First of all, there is no "if you remember" in the Dutch world of birthdays. The fact that those cute "It was your birthday and I forgot!" cards that do so well over here, are few and far between in the country-half-under-the-sea should be a giveaway. Forgetting someone's birthday is simply not an option among the Dutch, and doing so will result in a level of social pariah-ship one will not soon forget (although exceptions are made for uninformed foreigners. Once).  Fortunately, all Dutch homes are outfitted with a birthday calendar (a perennial calendar meant only to record people's birthdays and anniversaries), that is hung in a central location (the downstairs half bath), so no one will ever forget anyone's birthday. And let's say you don't particularly care for the whole "you must remember everyone's birthday and send them a card" ritual, and thus refuse to purchase a birthday calendar, your Dutch family will buy one for you, and present it to you, how appropriate, on your birthday. If you then proceed to not hang it in a place where everyone is able to double-check that they made it on the calendar, you will be reminded of that social gaffe every time you have Dutch company over. Trust me, it's true.

Second, there is a entire collection of social rules and codes about how to go about wishing someone a happy birthday. The correct terminology to use is "gefeliciteerd", which roughly translates to "congratulations". While in the US, "congratulations" is only used for a very impressive personal achievement, and birthdays are not viewed as such, the Dutch heartily disagree. And so every year, husband-dear manages to ask me, "So what am I congratulating you with? The fact that you managed to make it one more year? Good job, honey!"
But we're not done. If you know someone well (and how well is, unfortunately, never specified), you must give them the mandatory three "air" kisses (left cheek-right cheek-left cheek - don't mess up, or you'll be left in a really awkward situation). Funnily, although I know several Dutch people who hate this habit so much, they refuse to tell people the date of their birthday, this habit is paramount to a proper execution of a Dutch birthday wishing ritual. But, as husband-dear will confirm, you can figure this one out rather quickly. Or, in case you're completely lost, just let the other party make the first move, and follow along (although again, do note that anything other than a kiss on the cheek is really not acceptable).
The one thing about birthday wishes that still throws poor husband-dear, and most Americans I know, is the requirement to also bestow your heartfelt congratulations on the birthday boy/girl's parents, significant other, children, and other close relatives. So imagine your typical Dutch birthday party. Everyone is sitting in a circle, and you walk in. You first kiss the birthday boy/girl, and wish her/him "Gefeliciteerd!", then you move on to their partner, kiss them too (well, except if it's her husband, and you're a guy, as that's still a no-no in ever-tolerant Holland), and congratulate them with their partner's birthday. Then you rinse and repeat for their parents, brothers, and sisters, and other assorted family members. Interestingly, if you are a family member of the birthday boy/girl, at one point in the family hierarchy, family members (usually those further removed from the birthday boy/girl than you are) will start congratulating you in return. Protocol dictates that you shouldn't sit down until you've congratulated/accepted congratulations from everyone in the circle, so you can imagine that at parties where people don't all arrive at once, most of the guests spend the  better part of the night standing up, then sitting down, then standing up, then sitting down, ad nauseam.

Third, leave your birthday cards at home. While Americans love their birthday cards, and some, like me, attach as much value to the card as they do to the present, Dutch people will only send cards if they cannot make it your birthday party. And in that case, let me just prepare you, the cards will be small (about the size of an index card), non-descript (they usually contain balloons, animals, or flowers), and will contain the briefest of messages ("Gefeliciteerd!"). There are no cards for husbands, wives, sisters, brothers, mothers, teachers, best friends, or neighbors, just like there no cards that sing, make music or allow you to record their voice, or cards that contain full-length poetry, declarations of love, double entendres, or funny statements about the age you've just attained. As the Dutch are not big on expressing their love for one another anyway (the three kisses-thing aside), it's no surprise that cards are just not a big deal.

Fourth, the same no-nonsense approach applies to the wrapping of your present. Most stores will giftwrap your presents for you, and that's what most people use. No need for giftbags, tissue paper, bows, glitters, ribbon, or any of the other accessories that Americans like to use to pimp their presents. If you went to the V&D and they put an orange and grey checkered paper around your gift, that will be perfectly acceptable.

So, to summarize, the main points of Dutch birthday celebrations: 1) Don't forget them; 2) Congratulate the birthday boy/girl and everyone on their family tree with three hearty but airy kisses (except if you're a guy); 3) No cards necessary, and 4) No fancy wrapping either. Oh, and 5) although my birthday is in less than two months, please note that as a bonafide Dutch-American, these rules no longer apply to me. Except #1.

A bad American

After years of gnashing my teeth every time there was an election and I couldn't vote; after numerous elections where I would exert all of my persuasive powers to convince husband-dear to vote my way; and after four Novembers of telling students they were squandering away their parents' and grandparents' heritage by not voting, what do you think I did yesterday, the very first election in which I was allowed to vote?

Did I postpone going to work so I could vote first thing at 7am? Did I skip dinner so I could vote after coming home from work? Did I ask for multiple "I'm a Georgia voter" stickers, so I could not only wear one, but I would also have a spare for my office door, my car, and my scrapbook? Did I walk around all day telling everyone how awesome it was that I got to vote, and hey, had they voted yet?

No. None of that.

I didn't vote.

I know. It's a disgrace. After spending a year (or more) filling out the application for naturalization, forking over close to $700, memorizing one hundred questions, and swearing to uphold and the defend the constitution at all times, I did not vote yesterday.

I am ashamed.

Well, actually, ashamed is a big word. I would say "torn" is a better description, or perhaps "slightly peeved". Or possibly "What?!" covers it best.

You see, yesterday's election was really not a big deal in our county. While in some states people were voting on whether life starts at conception, or the validity of legislation outlawing collective bargaining rights, and most Georgians got to vote on whether to allow Sunday alcohol sales, the only issue on our local ballot was whether or not to extend the SPLOST (special purpose local option sales tax). Because we don't live within city limits, there were no commissioners, mayors, or even dog catchers to vote for either, just a "yes" or "no" to the question "Do you wish to extend the splost?". So when I got home at 6:45pm last night, and had the choice between eating dinner and rushing out to our local high school to vote on whether or not an adjoining county should use our county's one penny sales tax to add on to their new middle school, I opted for dinner.

Now I realize that this possibly makes me a callous, uncaring, a-political, poor excuse for a citizen. I realize that American democracy has functioned less than perfectly because I opted to sit down to some orange glazed chicken and stir fry instead of exercising my right to vote. You are welcome to berate me through your comments, email, or even in person (if you opt for the latter, though, please bring some coffee - thanks). However, I would like to point out that, if past experience is any prediction of future behavior, I will from now on vote in every single silly election my county holds.

You see, I have only missed one election in my life prior to this one. It was in the mid-1990s, and it was one of those elections for the European parliament that you never really knew about until the day before. No one in Europe really knows what the European parliament does, except squander money, so whenever there are elections for this mysterious representative body, it's very much a deer-in-the-headlights ("What? Who? Huh?") experience. Anyway, on that day, I had early morning classes, I had to work in the afternoon, and when I drove home, I realized I had ten minutes left to vote. Or I could go home and eat dinner. I opted for dinner instead. (Pattern, anyone?).

Anyway, I felt so guilty for missing that one election, that I have made sure to vote in every single teeny-tiny election and referendum since. Did they want my opinion on whether or not rebuild a historic site on the river front? I gave my opinion. Did a European subcomittee need representatives? I voted on it. Did the Dutch government fall for the second time in a year? I went out and voted again. I have even gone through the trouble of giving the power of attorney to a friend to vote for me when I was out of the country (the Dutch version of an absentee ballot), just so I wouldn't miss the election.

So, you can bet your American behind I will vote next year. And the year after that. And after that. In fact, I am bookmarking the county board of election's website right now. I'm telling you. It's on.