Waterrat

Manlief en ik hebben een meningsverschil. Nu hebben we die wel vaker, en daar is helemaal niks ergs aan, maar ik weet niet of we deze ooit opgelost krijgen. Zie, ik wil een zwembad en hij niet. Ik wil echt heel graag een zwembad in de tuin, en manlief vind het echt absoluut totale onzin. Dat is het. Simpel he? Ja, heel simpel, alleen wel lastig als je vrouw een enorme waterrat is en jij absoluut geen zin hebt in de kosten en het onderhoud van een zwembad. Dus voor nu hebben we het er maar niet te vaak over. Maar toch, het blijft knagen.

Van kinds af aan ben ik een enorme waterrat. Vroeger was ik overal op vakantie gelukkig, als er maar een zwembad was. Vakantiehuisjes werden uitgezocht op basis van de grootte van het zwembad, en als we zoals altijd eens per jaar naar Sporthuiscentrum gingen (want zo heette dat toen), dan was ik niet uit het subtropisch zwemparadijs te slaan. En nog steeds wordt ik helemaal blij van waterparken. In Duitsland was ik gek op het Monte Mare zwembad, mogelijk nog meer dan de kinderen, en vorige zomer was ik teleurgesteld dat we niet ook nog naar het Dollywood Splash country konden gaan.

Toen we naar Zuid-Frankrijk verhuisden, was ik dan ook helemaal dolgelukkig. Want nu zouden we zeker een zwembad krijgen. En inderdaad, dat deden we. Het heeft nog wel een jaartje geduurd, maar uiteindelijk stond het er, compleet met drijvend volleybalnet en douche. Ik was door de dolle heen, en lag elk moment van de dag in het zwembad.

In mijn hoofd wordt een warm klimaat dan ook altijd geassocieerd met een zwembad. En het liefst eentje in eigen tuin. Dus nadat we naar Georgia verhuisd waren, begon ik al vrij snel over een eigen zwembad. Manlief kon zich er in ons eerste huis nog vrij makkelijk vanaf maken, want dat was een huurhuis, maar nu we een eigen huis gekocht hebben, wordt dat toch iets lastiger. En natuurlijk is het achterlijk duur. En helemaal niet praktisch, temeer omdat onze septic tank ook in de achtertuin ligt. En onhandig als het weer eens enorm stormt. Maar een zwembad hoort er toch gewoon bij? Vooral als je bedenkt dat het openluchtzwembad op de basis zoveel regels heeft dat de kinderen er niet eens met een bal in mogen spelen, laat staan lekker ravotten.

Laatst opperde ik het weer aan mijn man. "Ja maar lieverd, stel je nou eens voor, dan zou ik om de dag kunnen trainen voor de triathlon, in plaats van alleen op vrijdag wanneer ik geen les hoef te geven. Dan hoef ik geen rekening meer te houden met de openingstijden van dat stomme kleine overdekte zwembadje op de basis".
"Het is winter, " was het antwoord, "Hoe wil jij buiten zwemmen als het om het vriespunt is?"
"Nou gewoon, " zei ik, in een heel klein stemmetje, "Verwarming?"
Als manlief goed Nederlands had gekund had hij "Ben je nou helemaal belatafeld?!" geroepen. In plaats daarvan kreeg ik de speciale "only my wife" blik, en wist ik dat misschien ietwat teveel gevraagd was.

Die conversatie ging dan misschen wel niet helemaal zoals gepland, maar dat zegt niks. Misschien is verwarming ook wel niet helemaal nodig. Maar er komt een zwembad. Ooit.

Waterfalls

Recently I’ve learned that just because cussing is not appreciated in the Bible Belt, this does not mean you can’t use the Lord’s (or his son’s) name in other ways and means. So although “Oh my God” is unacceptable, it’s considered completely normal to cry out “Praise Jesus!” when you get an A on a test. Not using the Lord’s name in vain is thus open to interpretation, a surprising feat since most people seem to take the bible very literally in all other cases. I know it makes no sense, but there it is. I’ve tried telling my students they should praise themselves when they do well on a test, but that doesn’t seem to go over very well. So I’ve given up, and instead taken notice of the interesting ways in which people use the Lord’s name.

For instance, the other day my department chair had me confused when he told the faculty he had had a “come to Jesus” talk with students who had plagiarized. I was pretty sure he hadn’t attempted to convert them to Christianity (99% of our students our devout Baptists anyway), and it took an explanation from husband-dear to clarify this one to me. Basically, giving someone a “come to Jesus” talk means you give them hell, you tell it to them like it is, you don’t hold back. I could see how those terms could be a little too direct for the average Georgian, and since the Christian reference does fit in with the local religious discourse, “come to Jesus” works just fine down here. It’s just a little difficult imagining my old department chair telling the faculty, who were far more likely to just be coming back from their meditation-yoga-chanting retreat in the Tibet mountains than a church, that a “coming to Jesus” talk was what was needed to get a student back in line.

And our state government is not to be left behind either. This morning GPB reported on the opening of the new session of the State Congress, and they included a brief excerpt of the prayer offered at the ceremony. Usually these prayers are nondenominational to a fault (I’ve heard Air Force Chaplains mention at least four different deities in one prayer at a Christmas party one year), yet this one was everything but that. The pastor compared the start of a new legislative session to a birth, and not just any birth, no, the birth “we just celebrated”. Although I appreciated the indirectness of this statement, the meaning was almost too obvious. I mean, I always knew the Georgia State Government was powerful, but this just added a whole new dimension to their lawmaking abilities.

Sometimes, though, trying not to cuss becomes funny. Our kids know not to cuss. So when one child wanted to tell a story of how a friend of his misbehaved by cussing, he said “g.d” instead of the actual curse. Of course, his brother didn’t get it, but the youngest refused to say the word in full. So then dad decided to help out, and explain it in terms of opposites; “It’s like the exact reverse of Anti-Christ Waterfalls”. Of course, I had to interject that “damn” is not the same as “dam”, but they got the point anyway. So now our kids, our usually well-behaved, church-going, parental-authority fearing boys go around saying; “Well Anti-Christ Waterfalls!”

Is it really horrible to say I think it’s hilarious?

Standards

Whenever people talk about moving, they talk about all the things that are different, or that will change, or that you will have to do differently. And although I’m not going to deny that that’s true, I would also like to make the much overlooked point that some things never change, regardless of where you live. You still have to pay taxes, you’re still expected to remember grandmother’s birthday, you have to generally be nice to the people around you, and so on. But the most obvious thing that really doesn’t change all that much would be you. Well, me actually. I can list a whole host of things about me that haven’t changed since I moved to Georgia. For one thing, I still use the men’s bathroom if there is a huge line for the women’s for instance, I still sing in the car, take forever to get my stuff together after paying at a store (yes, I’m that annoying lady), and postpone ironing my shirts the night before I need them.

But what’s even more interesting than the things that don’t change or the new things you learn are those characteristics that seem to become more intensified after a move. Have you ever looked at yourself a little while after you moved and realized that something in your new environment seems to have put some of your personal characteristics into overdrive? When I moved to Germany, for instance, I became even more punctual than usual. I. Was. On. Time. All. The. Time. I think I even synchronized my watch to the news just to make sure. Yeah. Now when I see that the clock in my car is four minutes off from the news (which it was this morning), and I don’t even care. Because no one else here really cares. And moving to the south, where making small talk is the elixir of life, my tendency to strike up small meaningless conversations with just about everyone (in the elevator at work: “Wow, this sure is a nice elevator, isn’t it?”) has increased exponentially.

Usually I don’t really care. I figure it’s a natural way to adapt, and unless I start forgetting grandma’s birthday as a result, I leave it be. But there is one highlighted characteristic I’m not exactly happy about. I always knew it was around, but it didn’t really rear its ugly head until today. You see, I’m an overachiever. Always have been, and probably will be until the day I die. Now there’s nothing wrong with working hard, in my opinion. But it becomes a problem when you move to a country where “being the best” is a way of life, and then work in an environment where everything seems to be about outperforming your co-workers. You have to get better student evaluations, publish more, do more original research, volunteer more, get more involved in media production, ad nauseam, all in the name of achieving tenure. When you a put a natural overachiever like myself in this kind of environment, you know you have a really interesting situation on your hands. You all may remember that I taught seven classes last semester. This semester I’m back to the normal four classes. And what did I catch myself thinking this morning? That I had so little to do, I really should be ashamed of myself for not starting up some extra projects. After all, I’m only teaching the regular load this semester, so I’ll have tons of time left over for research. Three classes worth of time, right? In fact, I should do that new study with the local high schools. And I could definitely start the content analysis project, and get going on the focus groups. And how about finally finishing that article on the media literacy measure?

In Holland one or more co-workers would have called a halt to my train of thought hours ago. They would have informed me I was headed for an early heart attack, and should take the time I’ve gained from teaching “only” four classes to enjoy life, catch up on my sleep, and go feed the ducks in the park or something. Here, I’ve yet to hear someone say anything. Everyone down here seems to think that stressed out is a perfectly normal state of mind. And I guess I’m still Dutch enough to realize that perhaps this is not entirely normal. So, Steve, can you help me out here buddy? Perhaps send me home on time today? Thanks.

Over inleidingen enzo

Eens per jaar geef ik een bijzonder spannend college. En gisteren was het weer zo ver; het inleidende college van “African American images in the media” stond net als vorig jaar weer ingeroosterd voor 9:50 ‘s ochtends. Inleidende colleges zijn meestal niet echt de meest spannende verhandelingen. Vaak worden ze beperkt tot een kort verhaaltje over waar het vak over gaat, en een uitgebreide uitleg over de “syllabus”; het handboek van de cursus, met alle regels, eisen, opdrachten, deadlines, en het rooster. In sommige gevallen wordt er ook nog uitgelegd waarom het vak relevant is voor de opleiding, maar meestal wordt dat bewaard tot college nummer twee.

Dit is niet het geval bij “African American Images”. Hier val ik, na het uiteenzetten van de syllabus, meteen in de deur in huis met de vraag “En, jongens, vertel eens, waarom is dit vak relevant?”. Dit doe ik allereerst omdat het volle rooster hier verder geen ruimte voor heeft, maar voornamelijk om duidelijkheid te scheppen over welke richting het vak op zal gaan.

Dat dit nodig is, bleek ook dit jaar weer toen studenten gezamelijk “Well duh” riepen op mijn vraag waarom we aandacht zouden moeten besteden aan de representatie van zwarte Amerikanen in de media. Uiteraard lijkt het voor de hand te liggen; ik werk op een HBCU, mijn studenten zijn zonder uitzondering African American, en de school staat ook nog eens in het racistische zuiden. Maar als dit als uitgangspunt genomen zou worden, dan zou het college op niet veel meer uitlopen dan een “pity party”; een soort groepstherapie waarin studenten vooral kunnen praten over hoe verschrikkelijk slecht African Americans geportretteerd worden in media. Hiermee wil ik absoluut niet beweren dat er niks mis is met de manier waarop deze bevolkingsgroep wordt neergezet op televisie en in de bioscoop, maar wel dat ik in dit onderwerp op een analytische en academische manier wil aanpakken.

Naast dat ik studenten gisteren duidelijk wilde maken dat dit dus een serieus college zou worden, waarin niks zomaar aangenomen zou worden, en we alle series en films die de revu zouden passeren kritisch zouden bekijken, was het voor mij als docent ook van belang dat ik het vertrouwen van de studenten zou winnen. Dus ik had bedacht dat ik na een uitleg over racisme als een continuum, de noodzaak van het gebruik van schemata (ook wel stereotypes genoemd), de studenten alle stereotypes over blanken op een rij zou laten zetten. Vorig jaar, toen de klas veel wantrouwender en vijandig was viel dat in zeer goede aarde, en ook dit jaar was het een groot success. Het is verschrikkelijk interessant om te horen hoe studenten over blanke Amerikanen denken, en ook nog eens verschrikkelijk leuk om ter plekke de spot te drijven met hoe sommige dingen in deze maatschappij in elkaar zitten.

Dus wat denken mijn studenten over blanke Amerikanen? Ze vinden dan blanke vrouwen erg onderdanig zijn naar hun man toe, maar dat er wel minder “single moms” zijn. Ze vinden dat blanken absoluut niet kunnen dansen, en veel te veel aan plastische chirurgie doen. Vooral vrouwen laten hun gezichten heel vaak liften, en dat komt omdat ze veel sneller rimpels. Gelukkig gold dat dan weer niet voor mij, aldus de studenten. Toch fijn om te horen. Ook doen blanke Amerikanen heel veel aan extreme sports, en zijn ze ook heel avontuurlijk. Zo vroeg een mannelijke student zich af waarom al die mannen toch altijd willen kletteren en bungeejumpen en parachutespringen. Ik heb hem maar uitgenodigd een keer met ons te komen mountainbiken, dan kon hij de kick ook voelen. Hij zou er over nadenken. Blanke Amerikanen zijn volgens mijn studenten ook echt verliefd op hun huisdieren, tot op het bespottelijke af. Zoals een student zei; "Uw hond is ook echt een schatje, maar die sjouwt u toch ook niet overal mee naar toe?". Oh nee, want ik was geen blanke Amerikaan. Ook vonden de studenten dat blanken altijd in korte broek en slippers lopen, zelfs als het hartje winter is. Onbegrijpelijk vonden ze het. Ook al werd het een college, die uit het hoge koude noorden komt, wel vergeven. Ook houden blanken van heel “bland” eten, zijn ze over het algemeen rijk, en houden ze erg van drinken. Het zal je maar gezegd worden.

Een kwartier later was het ijs gebroken, en kon ik veilig verder met een discussie over identiteit, en de vraag of jezelf “Black” of “African American” noemen iets betekende voor wie je nu werkelijk was.

Het wordt een interessant semester.

Split Personalities

I never truly realize how much I actually live in two worlds. I don’t think about it when I switch languages in mid-sentence, or when I watch a Dutch kids’ show with my husband, or when I get really excited over a soccer match thousands of miles away. It’s what I do and who I am, and there you have it. It tends to take a friend or other innocent bystander who points out the obvious extraordinariness of my actions for me to realize that not everyone is like me. That is, until a few days ago, when I started playing my “Ik hou van Holland” CDs in my car on my way to work.

“Ik hou van Holland” (I love Holland) is a collection of four CDs that my parents gave to me for Christmas. It has the most imaginative mix of music on there, from melancholy songs from the 1960s (“Het Dorp” by Wim Sonneveld), Eurosong hits from the 1970s and 1980s, folksy partysongs (“meezingers”) such as “Geef my maar Amsterdam”, horrific tearjerkers such as “Telkens weer” and “Pierrot”, to more modern classics such as songs by Wonder Woman (Who? Yes, I don’t know either), Doe Maar, and De Dijk. I think it takes an expat to appreciate the eclectic collection, for no real Dutch person in their right mind would like Andre Hazes, Ramses Shaffy (“Zing, Vecht, Huild, Bid, Lach, Werk, en Bewonder”), and The Golden Earring all on one CD. But that doesn’t really matter to me – I love it. Just this morning I found myself singing along to “De bom” by Doe Maar, and imagining being back in the early 1980s, wearing neon pink and yellow wristbands, and wondering why all those girls kept passing out at Doe Maar’s concerts.

And that’s where the weirdness comes in. Whenever I listen to these songs, it’s as though I’m somehow in a different world. When I listen to Doe Maar (a 1980s punkock-ska band), I’m back in the 1980s, the cold war is a reality, and there are still only two Dutch television channels. Listening to Ramses Shaffy or Boudewijn de Groot puts me in a car with my parents listening to their favorite music, while anything by Andre Hazes, de Havenzangers, or Anneke Groenlo puts at any student party where listening to folk music is considered “camp”. In my head I’ll be riding my bicycle in the cold, wondering if I should go shop in Amsterdam or Utrecht that weekend, and knowing I need to stop by the Albert Heijn to get some cheese. And then, in the midst of all this Dutch-ness, my eyes will refocus on the road, and I will, for one second, find myself wondering why on earth all the traffic signs are green, not blue, why the Volvo behind me has such a little plate on the front (instead of the long yellow one), and why on earth I’m stopped at the “Willie Harris Parkway”. And then, just like the Celine Dion song, it all comes back to me. I’m not in Holland, I’m in Georgia. You know, the place where I live. Where there are no bikes, no Albert Heijns, and no cool shopping towns for miles around. And that’s when I really feel like I am two people. One who is happy living here, driving her car from stripmall to stripmall, looking out for green signs, and listening to 106.3 classic rock. And one who wants to ride her bicycle in the cold, have pea soup on really cold nights, and yearn for sun and warmer days.

I think I need to listen to my Dolly Parton CD on my way home today.

Junk mail

Since the United States Postal Service has yet to invent the "nee-nee/ja-nee"sticker, I have spent the past eighteen months becoming once again reacquainted with the concept of junk mail. If you think Dutch junk mail (the cheap local newspapers, the flyers, the coupon booklets) are bad, you need to take care of my mail for about a month. Actually, you're welcome to come do that regardless of what you think, but that's beside the point. The point is that American junk mail is beyond unbelievable. It's not just flyers from shops and little local rags that do nothing but leave your hands black and your mind full of things you didn't need to know, like the date of the next lawnmower-riding competition. American junk mail goes far beyond that.

It includes endless appeals for your money from every possible organization you could think of, from the St. Jude fund for children's hospitals, to the fraternal order of police, to the local public broadcasting organization. I have no clue how they ever got our address, but they did, and, boy, are they ready to wear it out. Each letter is addressed to us personally, and one is even sadder than the other ("Dear Dixiechick, did you know that without your help, your quarter per day, five children will die this year?"). The envelopes look different every time, so you can't just sort them out based on appearance, and sometimes these organizations make the envelopes look like they come from serious federal or state government agencies. I can't count the number of times I almost had a heart attack right there at our mailbox because I thought we had received a letter from the IRS or some other scary government branch, only to find it was a plea for our money. And these organizations do more than just tug at your heartstrings, they also include little gifts and trinkets, pretty much obliging you to do something in return. We have hundreds of little stickers with husband-dear's name and our address on it, we have several refrigerator magnets, bookmarks, and goodness knows what other kinds of vain attempts to get our money. I say vain because usually they are. And that's my fault. You see, these organizations are pretty smart. Not only do they disguise their envelopes, and try to somehow bribe us into donating money, they also always address all their mail to my husband. Who is, admittedly, the biggest teddy bear on the planet, and would give his right arm away if it would help you out. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he's married to me, and although I would give very much away to help you out, I think I draw the line at my right arm. So we end up giving to a few select charities, and then throw all the other pleas away (although we do keep all their trinkets - if they're useful - of course).

The one other aspect of American junk mail that continues to surprise me is the credit card offer. In spite of the current credit crisis, American credit card companies are apparently not satisfied until everyone has at least fourteen credit cards. And even though husband-dear and I both have the same number of credit cards (and they're in both our names), these companies seem to find me an appealing target. I receive an average of three offers per week. Husband-dear gets none. It's really quite unfair, since I would love all the little trinkets, and I never get any of those. And although these companies try to disguise their envelopes too, by making them look like bills, or strangely enough, mail from charitable organizations, I've become quite adept at picking them out. Most credit card junk mail seems to come from a specific state, and use a certain font. And all of them use my middle initial. Very odd. Since I have no need for another credit card, I save the mail until I have a decent little pile and then spend a good ten minutes each month scaring the crap out of the dog as I shred them all.

As of recently we're on the national do-not-call list (and let me tell you, it works!), and I'm really beginning to wonder if maybe someone should start a do-not-mail list. Something you could sign up for when you're just plain satisfied with what you have, Or perhaps we should create a more generic just-leave-me-the-heck-alone list. I know I'd sign up. Or how about we just all start using the Dutch "no-no" stickers? I'm all for it!

Happy New Year!

"Happy new year, happy new year! May we all have our hopes, our will to try"
Abba ~ Happy New Year

To all of my readers, near and far, I hope you all have a wonderful, joyful, fulfilling, clean (cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all), relatively stress-free, and body-rocking 2009!

I usually don't have huge overwhelming new year's resolutions, instead I like to create a little ten-point list, much like the famous Adrian Mole. So below you will find, in no particular order, those things I intend to improve on:

1. Wash my car more often than twice a year, and remember to get it buffed and waxed on a regular basis too. It costs less than $10, and I could probably get husband-dear to do it, so I'm not quite sure why my car looks like it's been through hell and back. Since my car is essential to my job, and thus my life, I promise to definitely take better care of it in 2009.
2. Stop the annoying habit of keeping one knee-high when the other one has a run in it. I do this out of frugality (well, if one more knee-high gets a run, I'll have a spare to make a pair), but in practice this means I'm left with a drawer full of non-matching knee-highs, that I never end up wearing anyway.
3. Stop saying "like" so much. For some reason, when I learned English in the 1980s, everyone said "like", like all the time. And in spite of my years, my advanced education, and my bookworm-ishness, I still use it far too often, sounding more like a grown-up Valley Girl, or someone from "The Hills" or "Made" than, well, someone I would like to be, you know, say professional, educated, and with an expansive vocabulary. So "like" has got to go.
4. Leave work when I tell husband-dear I will. Although I love my students (and co-workers), I really need to learn to be less like that unfortunate Ado Annie and say "no" a little more often.
5. At my husband's desperate request, I have to remember that when I ask him "Did I tell you about the time that.." and he says "yes", there is no need for me to not continue the story. It's apparently very annoying.
6. Bring my cellphone when I run. The past year has proven that it is very easy to get lost in this part of the world, and that running can be quite a hazardous experience as well. And not just because some people just don't pay attention when driving, but also because some locals apparently take sport in running as many runners off the road as possible. I can't tell you how many times I ended up crouched in a ditch wishing I had a cellphone so I could call the cops on some redneck kid in an oversized pick-up truck
7. Stop being obsessive and accept six resolutions when I really wanted to have five. Or ten. Or some pretty number.

Happy 2009!