Although I wish it were different, I have the sinking suspicion that there are going to be many more parts to the "bully and the bus" saga. Ours seems to have abated for now, but I'm keeping my fingers and toes crossed for tomorrow, which is, like all other Mondays, going to be come much too soon.
Making Jimmie take the bus on Thursday did not make any difference. If nothing else, it made it worse, as Bully decided to tell Jimmie, both on the bus and at school, that "something bad" was going to happen if he took the bus again. Fortunately for Jimmie, both evil stepmom and Dad do not take to threats lightly, and five minutes after Jimmie walked in the door with that story, Dad was on the phone with the same assistant principal I had spoken to on Wednesday. Much to our dismay, the man had not yet talked to the bully. Yes, you read that right. Even though I had personally received his assurances that he would resolve this issue just a day earlier, he had not called the bully into his office. I thought husband-dear would burst a vein when he heard that.
Mind you, this is the same school system where first graders have been put in suspension for having their shirt tails untucked. The same school system that has five pages on appropriate dress code, rules about which hair styles are acceptable and which are not, and the same place that forbids high school students from engaging in, and I am literally quoting this off the school board website, "The innocent little practice of holding hands". This is also the same school system where abstinence is taught as the main way to avoid any kind of "nastiness", and where in the past children who have defended themselves from a taunting bully with a slap or a kick, have been expelled for "grossly violent behavior". And to top it all off, the school has dedicated three pages of its handbook to "anti bullying policies".
So, tell me again why the assistant principal did not call the bully into his office the moment he stepped off the bus on Wednesday? I mean, I try not to be judgmental (and trust me, that takes a lot of effort on my part), but it looks to me as though that school has its priorities slightly confused. Fortunately, husband-dear did not need me jumping up and down and making faces to get that, and he told the principal how he felt about that call. He also took his air force attitude a step further and threatened to involve the school board and the police (I'm surprised he didn't include the governor's office and the military too) if no steps were taken immediately.
The principal promised to do better, and we were once again faced with the arduous task of comforting Jimmie and getting him to take that bus the next day. Fortunately, on Friday, husband-dear went into work a little later, so he had the honors of dealing with a freaked out kid, who once again expressed his fear and frustration in our driveway at 6:30 in the morning. It's a miracle the neighbors haven't called DFACS yet. We followed Jimmie to the busstop, and parked behind a big SUV, to make sure that if Bully acted up again, we were there to see it. Nothing untoward seemed to happen, which was probably aided by the fact that Jimmie stood about 200 ft away from the actual pick up location.
And that afternoon, we received a call from the assistant principal, that he had talked to Bully after his fellow busmates had "ratted him out". Bully admitted to his behavior, broke down and cried, and was "severely punished", although the assistant principal could not tell us what the punishment was. I'm imaging two years of scraping gum off desks, or perhaps fifty whacks with a paddle, or maybe even twenty years of detention.
So we'll see what happens tomorrow morning.
But right now - thank you for all the signs of support. We've been telling Jimmie to be courageous, and it helps when he knows that there are so many people out there rooting for him.
Hopefully tomorrow, we all, this blog included, will be able to return to the order of the day.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The bully and the bus
Life is full of funny little surprises. Surprises like having your dog chew up your crepe myrtle while you were cooking dinner. Or having your oldest come home with a sheepish look on his face and the statement that he forgot all about this family heritage project that is due real soon. Like tomorrow. Sometimes a surprise can take the form of unwashed PT stuff that has been sitting in someone's bag in a car for over a week. And sometimes a surprise can entail your youngest having a breakdown in the front yard at 6:30 in the morning, while all your neighbors are leaving for work. And when I say breakdown, I mean, full-out bring-it-on breakdown. One with tears and yelling and stomping, that made me want to lay down in the grass and close my eyes until it had all gone away.
Our youngest, let's call him Jimmie (after the greatest guitar player of all time - Jimmie Hendrix. Look I know, Santana is pretty close, but I can't call a boy Santana now, can I?), has been having problems on the bus. One of the kids on the bus, let's call him Bully, has been picking on him like it's going out of style. He's not let Jimmie sit down, he's called him private parts, questioned his sexual orientation, and threatened to beat him up. In short, not cool. Not cool at all. We've talked to the school, we've talked to Jimmie about standing up for himself, and it seemed to have abated. Until a few days ago.
Now you have to know that Jimmie is the sweetest kid to ever walk the face of the earth. He's forgetful, he loves leaving things until the last minute, and he doesn't see the point in maintaining any kind of organization in his room at all, but God love him, he's sweet. This is the kind of kid who will play a song for you on his guitar when you're stressed out. Or who will try to give you a foot rub when you've been running. I don't think I've ever heard one mean word between him and his brother too. But Jimmie's niceness is his problem. Because he won't hurt a fly. And really, he won't. When he finds a cockroach, he'll just stare at it, and then ask me if he can keep it in a terrarium in his room. He's the kid who will walk away from problem kids, stay away from fights, and make a joke out of everything.
So when Bully started to act out again a few days ago, not letting Jimmie sit down on the bus, Jimmie had a solution. He was going to walk a few extra minutes and get on an earlier bus stop, so there would be plenty of seats for him to chose from. Husband-dear and I applauded this, as it was the first time we'd ever seen Jimmie do anything pro-actively. So we figured out where this stop was, when he would have to leave, and at what time.
Yesterday morning, the first morning that Jimmie was going to put his plan into action, he was all bubbly and excited. Evil stepmother (=me) was a little more apprehensive, as she was fully aware of his ability to get distracted by a bug or a butterfly and not end up at the right place on time. Add to that the fact that Jimmie's older brother (let's call him Ozzie, after yet another great rocker, and one of the oldest's heroes), that Ozzie would now have to leave after Jimmie, and that Ozzie, like his namesake, does not have the best memory in the world, and you might see why I was a little concerned. I mean God and I love Ozzie, but it would be not completely unlike him to leave all the lights, windows, and doors open when he leaves. So when I drove off, I was not entirely reassured. But I was telling myself they were getting older, and needed coddling as much as they needed a hole in the head, so I was going to not turn back and check on them. I was not.
And then at the gas station a few miles from our house, I got that weird momma-buzz. Don't know why, but I knew I had to go home. So I turned around, and drove home. And lo and behold, when I saw Jimmie's bus pull up to the kerb, no Jimmie. In fact, Jimmie was nowhere to be seen. I drove down our street, and saw him, walking towards, well, goodness knows where. Being the great evil stepmom that I am, I pulled up beside him and asked the age-old, "What happened?"
"Bully told me to get my *** **ss back to my own stop."
Well, excuse me, but wtf?
"Get in the car. What happened?"
I turned out that Bully had cussed out Jimmie and threatened him with bodily harm with he would get on the bus at Bully's stop. I was fuming. On fire. Mad. I had steam coming out of my ears.
"Here, I'll take you to school, and I'm going to go talk to the principal. What's this kid's name?"
And of course, being the protective lionesque evil stepmother that I am, I raised cain at school. I wasn't mean, or rude, or loud, but I made it very clear that this was "unacceptable". For those who don't interact with me on a daily basis, that is a word that I only use when I'm really really mad. I just love how you can clip it into knife-like syllables: un-aX-epT-able. Anyway. Fortunately, the principal agreed. He looked the type of man that could scare the devil himself, so I was comforted that it was going to be taken care of. Now we just had to worry about Jimmie.
So last night, husband-dear and I sat down and talked to Jimmie. He was perfectly fine with this morning's set up, and would have been content if I were to drive him to school the rest of his educational career. Right. No. Even if it weren't for the fact that that would make me late to work almost every day, husband-dear and I believe in teaching children how to face their fears, so that was not going work. We told him the principal had talked to Bully, and so Jimmie would be riding the bus again the next morning. We assured him nothing would probably happen again. But if it did, he would simply have to stand up to Bully. Jimmie did not like that at all. We explained that if Jimmie wouldn't, Bully would only continue to pick on him, and it would even get worse. Jimmie didn't like that either. We told him what he could do and say, and honestly, Jimmie, the non-confrontational boy that he is, did not like that any more either. When we told him he could cuss without repercussions, he seemed to perk up a little though, and when Ozzie, who is two years older, and rides another bus, offered to come beat up Bully, Jimmie even smiled. We thought it was going to be OK.
Fast forward to this morning, 6:30am, DixieChick's frontyard. After walking him out the door, Jimmie balked, "I'm not going"
He was not getting on that bus. Was. Not. He might not ever again get on that bus. Ever. And he did not care what that would mean. I pleaded, I reminded him of having to stand up for himself, I encouraged, I told him he needed to be David and the bully was Goliath. We called his dad who tried to talk to him. It was to no avail. And then I had to do what every (step) mother has to do, I told him he had to walk to that busstop and get on the bus. Or there was going to be trouble.
"But I am not going! I don't want to deal with this. It's not fair!" Jimmie was red in the face and sobbing, "I am not going to do this!"
"You have no choice buddy."
I can't tell you how much I hated myself right then. I wanted to take Jimmie inside, and tell him we would both stay home today and watch Discovery all day long. But I knew that wouldn't help.
Eventually, I had to yell at Jimmie to get in the car, now! I had to haul butt to the busstop, and when he wouldn't get out when the bus pulled up but merely whimpered, I had to yell at him to get out and go. He plunged out of the car, and without looking back, jumped on to the bus.
I know it will get better, and Jimmie will be bringing in cockroaches and lizards for pets again soon, but for now, I feel like the worst stepmom in the world. The worst.
Our youngest, let's call him Jimmie (after the greatest guitar player of all time - Jimmie Hendrix. Look I know, Santana is pretty close, but I can't call a boy Santana now, can I?), has been having problems on the bus. One of the kids on the bus, let's call him Bully, has been picking on him like it's going out of style. He's not let Jimmie sit down, he's called him private parts, questioned his sexual orientation, and threatened to beat him up. In short, not cool. Not cool at all. We've talked to the school, we've talked to Jimmie about standing up for himself, and it seemed to have abated. Until a few days ago.
Now you have to know that Jimmie is the sweetest kid to ever walk the face of the earth. He's forgetful, he loves leaving things until the last minute, and he doesn't see the point in maintaining any kind of organization in his room at all, but God love him, he's sweet. This is the kind of kid who will play a song for you on his guitar when you're stressed out. Or who will try to give you a foot rub when you've been running. I don't think I've ever heard one mean word between him and his brother too. But Jimmie's niceness is his problem. Because he won't hurt a fly. And really, he won't. When he finds a cockroach, he'll just stare at it, and then ask me if he can keep it in a terrarium in his room. He's the kid who will walk away from problem kids, stay away from fights, and make a joke out of everything.
So when Bully started to act out again a few days ago, not letting Jimmie sit down on the bus, Jimmie had a solution. He was going to walk a few extra minutes and get on an earlier bus stop, so there would be plenty of seats for him to chose from. Husband-dear and I applauded this, as it was the first time we'd ever seen Jimmie do anything pro-actively. So we figured out where this stop was, when he would have to leave, and at what time.
Yesterday morning, the first morning that Jimmie was going to put his plan into action, he was all bubbly and excited. Evil stepmother (=me) was a little more apprehensive, as she was fully aware of his ability to get distracted by a bug or a butterfly and not end up at the right place on time. Add to that the fact that Jimmie's older brother (let's call him Ozzie, after yet another great rocker, and one of the oldest's heroes), that Ozzie would now have to leave after Jimmie, and that Ozzie, like his namesake, does not have the best memory in the world, and you might see why I was a little concerned. I mean God and I love Ozzie, but it would be not completely unlike him to leave all the lights, windows, and doors open when he leaves. So when I drove off, I was not entirely reassured. But I was telling myself they were getting older, and needed coddling as much as they needed a hole in the head, so I was going to not turn back and check on them. I was not.
And then at the gas station a few miles from our house, I got that weird momma-buzz. Don't know why, but I knew I had to go home. So I turned around, and drove home. And lo and behold, when I saw Jimmie's bus pull up to the kerb, no Jimmie. In fact, Jimmie was nowhere to be seen. I drove down our street, and saw him, walking towards, well, goodness knows where. Being the great evil stepmom that I am, I pulled up beside him and asked the age-old, "What happened?"
"Bully told me to get my *** **ss back to my own stop."
Well, excuse me, but wtf?
"Get in the car. What happened?"
I turned out that Bully had cussed out Jimmie and threatened him with bodily harm with he would get on the bus at Bully's stop. I was fuming. On fire. Mad. I had steam coming out of my ears.
"Here, I'll take you to school, and I'm going to go talk to the principal. What's this kid's name?"
And of course, being the protective lionesque evil stepmother that I am, I raised cain at school. I wasn't mean, or rude, or loud, but I made it very clear that this was "unacceptable". For those who don't interact with me on a daily basis, that is a word that I only use when I'm really really mad. I just love how you can clip it into knife-like syllables: un-aX-epT-able. Anyway. Fortunately, the principal agreed. He looked the type of man that could scare the devil himself, so I was comforted that it was going to be taken care of. Now we just had to worry about Jimmie.
So last night, husband-dear and I sat down and talked to Jimmie. He was perfectly fine with this morning's set up, and would have been content if I were to drive him to school the rest of his educational career. Right. No. Even if it weren't for the fact that that would make me late to work almost every day, husband-dear and I believe in teaching children how to face their fears, so that was not going work. We told him the principal had talked to Bully, and so Jimmie would be riding the bus again the next morning. We assured him nothing would probably happen again. But if it did, he would simply have to stand up to Bully. Jimmie did not like that at all. We explained that if Jimmie wouldn't, Bully would only continue to pick on him, and it would even get worse. Jimmie didn't like that either. We told him what he could do and say, and honestly, Jimmie, the non-confrontational boy that he is, did not like that any more either. When we told him he could cuss without repercussions, he seemed to perk up a little though, and when Ozzie, who is two years older, and rides another bus, offered to come beat up Bully, Jimmie even smiled. We thought it was going to be OK.
Fast forward to this morning, 6:30am, DixieChick's frontyard. After walking him out the door, Jimmie balked, "I'm not going"
He was not getting on that bus. Was. Not. He might not ever again get on that bus. Ever. And he did not care what that would mean. I pleaded, I reminded him of having to stand up for himself, I encouraged, I told him he needed to be David and the bully was Goliath. We called his dad who tried to talk to him. It was to no avail. And then I had to do what every (step) mother has to do, I told him he had to walk to that busstop and get on the bus. Or there was going to be trouble.
"But I am not going! I don't want to deal with this. It's not fair!" Jimmie was red in the face and sobbing, "I am not going to do this!"
"You have no choice buddy."
I can't tell you how much I hated myself right then. I wanted to take Jimmie inside, and tell him we would both stay home today and watch Discovery all day long. But I knew that wouldn't help.
Eventually, I had to yell at Jimmie to get in the car, now! I had to haul butt to the busstop, and when he wouldn't get out when the bus pulled up but merely whimpered, I had to yell at him to get out and go. He plunged out of the car, and without looking back, jumped on to the bus.
I know it will get better, and Jimmie will be bringing in cockroaches and lizards for pets again soon, but for now, I feel like the worst stepmom in the world. The worst.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Home
Can I just say that I love coming home? I really do. I love pulling into our garage, knowing that husband-dear finally caved into my pleas to let me park in the garage which, although it is meant for two cars, is so full with his ten bikes and riding lawnmowers and golfclubs and tools and kids' bikes that it only holds one of our cars. I love opening the door to our house, and having two dogs completely lose it because I'm. Home. At. Last. There's nothing like two dogs wagging their entire bodies and jumping all over each other so they can be really close to mommy right now yay! I even love balancing my purse, my travelmug, my lunchbag, and my laptopbag, while trying not to trip over said dogs, and make my way into the kitchen to give husband-dear a hug. If I'm lucky, one of the kids is hiding behind the laundry room door, ready to scare me witless, and have me throw the cold contents of that same travel mug all over the floor, or a wall, or a dog, whichever is closer. And if I'm really lucky, dinner will ready in just enough time for me to pull off my 1950s hose and skirt, and get into some serious jammies. So yes. Coming home is fun.
So you would think that as it's now 5:18pm, and I've just finished my last class, I am dying to go home. And you know what, I am not entirely thrilled. And it's really because the moment I walk in the door, I know I have to leave again in less than twelve hours. So basically, coming home reminds of the fact that I'll have to leave again. And I guess I like home so much, I really don't want to. Every time I come home, I realize how badly I just want to stay home. Just for a day. Just so I can hang out in the afore-mentioned PJs, lay on our couch, hug the doggies, watch TV, and read books. And watch everyone else come home for a change. Because even though coming home is fun, welcoming someone else home is even more fun.
Who knows. Maybe tomorrow will be that day.
On second thought, probably not. I think I like coming home too much to miss that. So I better leave before the doggies forget all about me.
So you would think that as it's now 5:18pm, and I've just finished my last class, I am dying to go home. And you know what, I am not entirely thrilled. And it's really because the moment I walk in the door, I know I have to leave again in less than twelve hours. So basically, coming home reminds of the fact that I'll have to leave again. And I guess I like home so much, I really don't want to. Every time I come home, I realize how badly I just want to stay home. Just for a day. Just so I can hang out in the afore-mentioned PJs, lay on our couch, hug the doggies, watch TV, and read books. And watch everyone else come home for a change. Because even though coming home is fun, welcoming someone else home is even more fun.
Who knows. Maybe tomorrow will be that day.
On second thought, probably not. I think I like coming home too much to miss that. So I better leave before the doggies forget all about me.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Cotton Fields
"Let me hear it for the cotton fields
The cotton fields back home"
Beach Boys
So I've begun to realize that my blog is started to resemble the conversations between the two main characters on Mad About You. All I ever seem to talk about is how I'm tired, and overworked, and my students are weird, and I work so hard, and I'm exhausted, and how Steve is a nuisance. Well, in all honesty, Steve is mainly a nuisance because he's considering leaving, but that's not the point. Not yet anyway.
Anyhoo, I wanted you all to know that I am sorry about whining. Really sorry. And I would tell you I'm going to try and quit whining, but we all know that I'm Dutch and so that's just not really going to happen. Instead I'm going to prove to you that I don't whine all the time, and write about something that has been catching my eye. And my sinuses.
Cotton.
Most people, when you mention cotton, start talking history. You know, plantations, the civil war, Scarlett O' Hara, the cotton gin, and other events from a long ago past. But when you live in the south, you know that cotton, unlike some of the other, less constructive, southern traditions, is still alive and well today. And let me tell you, it is amazing.
I remember the first time I saw cotton. It was Thanksgiving some years ago, when we went to visit my husband's family in northern Florida. We drove through southern Georgia, and upon seeing endless fields of white, I got incredibly excited, "Is that cotton?! That's cotton isn't it?"
When husband-dear confirmed my suspicions, I got even more excited, "Oh wow! Real cotton! I've never seen that before. And there's so much of it! Pull over!"
"Why?!" Husband-dear, you should probably know, spent part of his childhood in this part of the world, so the sight of cotton, like many other things other mortals find extremely exciting, does little for him.
"Because it's cotton! It's what I'm wearing!" I turned to the kids, "And the kids want to touch it too, right?!"
If you have ever had two boys, you know that anything will get them riled up, especially if it involves touching something that belongs to someone else, so it wasn't long before we had pulled over next to an endless cotton field, and I was admiring the little white fuzz. And you know what? It felt just like a sweater. Or a ball of yarn. Only it was on a stick with leaves on it. A sweater growing on a bush. Who would have known.
Now that we live here, cotton has become a way of life. I no longer scream or get all excited when fall comes around, and the cotton starts to come up. But I can marvel at its beauty. There is nothing quite like an endless undulating cotton field, with cotton so white it looks like it snowed. Or the sun coming up over a waving field of cotton. Or the way the cotton glows pink when the sun sets at night. It makes me smile and think poetic thoughts every time I see it, even if it is at 7 in the morning.
Now for those yankees among my readers, November tends to be harvesting season. This means big machines plowing through those poetic fields, big machines which somehow, in some weird, unknown way, turn all those little balls of fluff into gigantic big blocks of cotton. Huge white squares, at least eight feet tall and ten feet long, that sit on the side of the field for weeks. They sit there unmoving through the rain and winds, until a semi loads them up, completely intact, and then takes them for a ride down the interstate with nothing but a bitty tarp to hold all that cotton down. You would think all the little fluff would fly it away. But it never does. Not visibly anyway.
Of course, there is a down side. All that cotton produces enough pollen to keep the antihistamine industry viable for a whole year. And the fields do look very brown and depressing from December through to September. But those two months a year when the little white buds start peeping out are magical.
The cotton fields back home"
Beach Boys
So I've begun to realize that my blog is started to resemble the conversations between the two main characters on Mad About You. All I ever seem to talk about is how I'm tired, and overworked, and my students are weird, and I work so hard, and I'm exhausted, and how Steve is a nuisance. Well, in all honesty, Steve is mainly a nuisance because he's considering leaving, but that's not the point. Not yet anyway.
Anyhoo, I wanted you all to know that I am sorry about whining. Really sorry. And I would tell you I'm going to try and quit whining, but we all know that I'm Dutch and so that's just not really going to happen. Instead I'm going to prove to you that I don't whine all the time, and write about something that has been catching my eye. And my sinuses.
Cotton.
Most people, when you mention cotton, start talking history. You know, plantations, the civil war, Scarlett O' Hara, the cotton gin, and other events from a long ago past. But when you live in the south, you know that cotton, unlike some of the other, less constructive, southern traditions, is still alive and well today. And let me tell you, it is amazing.
I remember the first time I saw cotton. It was Thanksgiving some years ago, when we went to visit my husband's family in northern Florida. We drove through southern Georgia, and upon seeing endless fields of white, I got incredibly excited, "Is that cotton?! That's cotton isn't it?"
When husband-dear confirmed my suspicions, I got even more excited, "Oh wow! Real cotton! I've never seen that before. And there's so much of it! Pull over!"
"Why?!" Husband-dear, you should probably know, spent part of his childhood in this part of the world, so the sight of cotton, like many other things other mortals find extremely exciting, does little for him.
"Because it's cotton! It's what I'm wearing!" I turned to the kids, "And the kids want to touch it too, right?!"
If you have ever had two boys, you know that anything will get them riled up, especially if it involves touching something that belongs to someone else, so it wasn't long before we had pulled over next to an endless cotton field, and I was admiring the little white fuzz. And you know what? It felt just like a sweater. Or a ball of yarn. Only it was on a stick with leaves on it. A sweater growing on a bush. Who would have known.
Now that we live here, cotton has become a way of life. I no longer scream or get all excited when fall comes around, and the cotton starts to come up. But I can marvel at its beauty. There is nothing quite like an endless undulating cotton field, with cotton so white it looks like it snowed. Or the sun coming up over a waving field of cotton. Or the way the cotton glows pink when the sun sets at night. It makes me smile and think poetic thoughts every time I see it, even if it is at 7 in the morning.
Now for those yankees among my readers, November tends to be harvesting season. This means big machines plowing through those poetic fields, big machines which somehow, in some weird, unknown way, turn all those little balls of fluff into gigantic big blocks of cotton. Huge white squares, at least eight feet tall and ten feet long, that sit on the side of the field for weeks. They sit there unmoving through the rain and winds, until a semi loads them up, completely intact, and then takes them for a ride down the interstate with nothing but a bitty tarp to hold all that cotton down. You would think all the little fluff would fly it away. But it never does. Not visibly anyway.
Of course, there is a down side. All that cotton produces enough pollen to keep the antihistamine industry viable for a whole year. And the fields do look very brown and depressing from December through to September. But those two months a year when the little white buds start peeping out are magical.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Ikea
Ik zal u eens wat vertellen: Ik wil naar de Ikea. Ja, de Ikea. En het liefst nu. Dus als u de auto pakt, dan zeg ik mijn colleges af, en gaan we naar de Ikea in Atlanta. Lekker de Bjorn en de Romby bekijken, en Zweedse gehaktballetjes eten.
Nou ja, eigenlijk wil ik helemaal niet naar de Ikea. Nee, eigenlijk wil ik gewoon een lang weekendje naar Nederland. Koffie drinken op de markt, en wandelen over een es of een dijk ofzo. Maar ja, omdat ik zo'n carrieremiepje ben die overal een vinger in de pap wil hebben en honderduizend extra colleges geeft, en die ook nog eens zwaar onderbetaald is, kan dat niet. In ieder geval niet de komende tijd. En dat is extra zielig als u bedenkt dat ik allemaal blogs lees van mensen die net in Nederland zijn geweest, er over een paar weken weer heen gaan, of die er wonen. Het is niet eerlijk. Want ik moet zeker nog tot volgend jaar wachten.
Dus dan gaan we maar voor the next best thing: De Ikea in Atlanta. Daar loop je naar binnen, en waan je je zo in Duiven, of Sliedrecht, of Borne, of Utrecht, of waar dan ook in Nederland. De namen zijn hetzelfde, het lettertype is het zelfde, de winkel heeft dezelfde spulletjes, allen de gehaktballen zijn anders. Je krijgt er namelijk veel meer. Maar ik ben dan al wel zo geintegreerd dat ik dat al niet meer erg vind. Als ik naar de Ikea hier ga (en dat heb ik al maar liefst een keer gedaan), dan koop ik nooit iets. Ik ga er alleen naar toe om te doen alsof ik weer in Nederland ben.
Dus je zou denken, mens, ga lekker naar de Ikea dit weekend. Maar ja, ook dat gaat niet. We zijn namelijk weer eens ge"voluntold" voor iets op de basis. En ik zou natuurlijk mijn huwelijks geluk op het spel kunnen zetten, en manlief kunnen vertellen dat hij het alleen kan doen, ten slotte was hij degene die ons "aangeboden" heeft. Maar ja, alleen naar de Ikea is ook zo zielig. En mijn mede-Ikea-fan kan dit weekend ook al niet omdat haar man ergens aan de andere kant van de wereld onze vrijheid aan het bewaken is of zoiets, en zij dus met twee kleine kinderen zit. Dus het is echt heel erg zielig.
Ik denk dat ik dit weekend dus maar eens de Ikea website goed ga bekijken. Misschien dat dat een beetje helpt.
Nou ja, eigenlijk wil ik helemaal niet naar de Ikea. Nee, eigenlijk wil ik gewoon een lang weekendje naar Nederland. Koffie drinken op de markt, en wandelen over een es of een dijk ofzo. Maar ja, omdat ik zo'n carrieremiepje ben die overal een vinger in de pap wil hebben en honderduizend extra colleges geeft, en die ook nog eens zwaar onderbetaald is, kan dat niet. In ieder geval niet de komende tijd. En dat is extra zielig als u bedenkt dat ik allemaal blogs lees van mensen die net in Nederland zijn geweest, er over een paar weken weer heen gaan, of die er wonen. Het is niet eerlijk. Want ik moet zeker nog tot volgend jaar wachten.
Dus dan gaan we maar voor the next best thing: De Ikea in Atlanta. Daar loop je naar binnen, en waan je je zo in Duiven, of Sliedrecht, of Borne, of Utrecht, of waar dan ook in Nederland. De namen zijn hetzelfde, het lettertype is het zelfde, de winkel heeft dezelfde spulletjes, allen de gehaktballen zijn anders. Je krijgt er namelijk veel meer. Maar ik ben dan al wel zo geintegreerd dat ik dat al niet meer erg vind. Als ik naar de Ikea hier ga (en dat heb ik al maar liefst een keer gedaan), dan koop ik nooit iets. Ik ga er alleen naar toe om te doen alsof ik weer in Nederland ben.
Dus je zou denken, mens, ga lekker naar de Ikea dit weekend. Maar ja, ook dat gaat niet. We zijn namelijk weer eens ge"voluntold" voor iets op de basis. En ik zou natuurlijk mijn huwelijks geluk op het spel kunnen zetten, en manlief kunnen vertellen dat hij het alleen kan doen, ten slotte was hij degene die ons "aangeboden" heeft. Maar ja, alleen naar de Ikea is ook zo zielig. En mijn mede-Ikea-fan kan dit weekend ook al niet omdat haar man ergens aan de andere kant van de wereld onze vrijheid aan het bewaken is of zoiets, en zij dus met twee kleine kinderen zit. Dus het is echt heel erg zielig.
Ik denk dat ik dit weekend dus maar eens de Ikea website goed ga bekijken. Misschien dat dat een beetje helpt.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Student lingo
Ever since I was about 11 years old, I have been fascinated with the English language. And when I say fascinated, I mean really fascinated. Fascinated as in I used to read English books with a dictionary at my side. And although I no longer keep the "vocab journal" I used to carry around with me, I will still, whenever I think no one is looking, jot words I didn't know down on little post-its which I will then hide in my planner. In recent years, the post-its have dwindled though. I'd like to think that it's because I already know a boatload of fancy words, but I think the more likely explanation is that I've simply become too lazy to look up and write down the definition for every unfamiliar word. Plus I have Steve to tell me what stuff means. Who needs post-its if you have a walking dictionary right next door?
Thank goodness for my students though. Through our discussions in class, and even their papers, they keep me updated on the latest, trendiest vocabulary.
As in any subculture, there are a multitude of words one can use to express how awesome something is. Let me give you one hint: rad is out. As is cool, and hot. Just today, I read a paper where one of my students described the music used in Fahrenheit 9 /11 as "zany". Zany as in silly, ludicrous, clown-like. Zing is also a popular term nowadays, as in "The ad showed some real zing", which I'm guessing is on the same level as "fly", which means cool, hip, hot, rad, or however you express yourself when something is just really nice. And for those people who the "fl" sound is a little too much, fly can be replaced with "fi" which I have been told is short for "on fire"; "That music is so fi". And when one thinks a certain track is really fi, one doesn't just like it, no, one f***s with it. I have also learned that "shawty" is not a Brooklyn version of "shorty", but actually means "sweetie", and should really not be used by anyone over twenty-five and who has been raised knowing how to make the perfect "aw" sound in that word. In fact, if you're from the north, white, or both, you may just as well forget about it.
Then of course the words related to geography. There is the ubiquitous "ghetto" which can mean anything from "lower class" to "trashy" to "sexually promiscuous". Since we are in the south, there is the very Georgian "finna" as in "I'm finna go to the store", which is just a much easier way of saying, "I'm about to go to the store". Of course, no one here lives in Atlanta, everyone instead comes from "the a-t-l". They don't go to New Orleans either, no, they visit Narlens.
In the miscellaneous category, there is the ever-embarrassing "no homo!". For many of our male students, many of whom were born and raised in the southern bible belt, being mistaken for a gay man is the worst thing that could happen to them. So whenever my male students discuss hanging out with their friends, or liking some guy's outfits, they will always feel obliged to add a "no homo!" at the end. "Mr. Johnson's tie is really nice. No homo man!". Just to make sure you are not in any way mistaken about their sexual orientation. You will also be delighted to hear that our students don't get drunk or high, they get "zooted" instead. And in every class, there is always that moment when one or more students feel the need to call out a loud "toooh!". Yeah. Have no clue what that means. But it's loud and disruptive, so they like it.
So there you have it, DixieChick's very own mini-urban dictionary. Any additions will be greatly appreciated. My post-its are ready and waiting.
Thank goodness for my students though. Through our discussions in class, and even their papers, they keep me updated on the latest, trendiest vocabulary.
As in any subculture, there are a multitude of words one can use to express how awesome something is. Let me give you one hint: rad is out. As is cool, and hot. Just today, I read a paper where one of my students described the music used in Fahrenheit 9 /11 as "zany". Zany as in silly, ludicrous, clown-like. Zing is also a popular term nowadays, as in "The ad showed some real zing", which I'm guessing is on the same level as "fly", which means cool, hip, hot, rad, or however you express yourself when something is just really nice. And for those people who the "fl" sound is a little too much, fly can be replaced with "fi" which I have been told is short for "on fire"; "That music is so fi". And when one thinks a certain track is really fi, one doesn't just like it, no, one f***s with it. I have also learned that "shawty" is not a Brooklyn version of "shorty", but actually means "sweetie", and should really not be used by anyone over twenty-five and who has been raised knowing how to make the perfect "aw" sound in that word. In fact, if you're from the north, white, or both, you may just as well forget about it.
Then of course the words related to geography. There is the ubiquitous "ghetto" which can mean anything from "lower class" to "trashy" to "sexually promiscuous". Since we are in the south, there is the very Georgian "finna" as in "I'm finna go to the store", which is just a much easier way of saying, "I'm about to go to the store". Of course, no one here lives in Atlanta, everyone instead comes from "the a-t-l". They don't go to New Orleans either, no, they visit Narlens.
In the miscellaneous category, there is the ever-embarrassing "no homo!". For many of our male students, many of whom were born and raised in the southern bible belt, being mistaken for a gay man is the worst thing that could happen to them. So whenever my male students discuss hanging out with their friends, or liking some guy's outfits, they will always feel obliged to add a "no homo!" at the end. "Mr. Johnson's tie is really nice. No homo man!". Just to make sure you are not in any way mistaken about their sexual orientation. You will also be delighted to hear that our students don't get drunk or high, they get "zooted" instead. And in every class, there is always that moment when one or more students feel the need to call out a loud "toooh!". Yeah. Have no clue what that means. But it's loud and disruptive, so they like it.
So there you have it, DixieChick's very own mini-urban dictionary. Any additions will be greatly appreciated. My post-its are ready and waiting.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The early bird
is usually just really tired.
Can anyone tell me why I'm wide awake at 6 in the morning on a Saturday and have decided that the best thing to do is to grade some papers? Why am I not in bed asleep? Or watching television? Or reading a book? Seriously, why? I mean, I really don't get it. At all. In fact, I'm seriously beginning to consider the possibility that maybe I have become possessed by the long-lost spirit of a workaholic, or a thirteenth-century monk, or a Wall street broker in the 1980s. I mean, I like working hard as much as the next person, but six in the morning on a Saturday? And I'm grading papers? Just writing this down makes me feel like I am seriously out of my mind.
But what's even scarier is that husband-dear just woke up too, and didn't even raise his eyebrows when he saw me working at the kitchen table. In fact, he put on some coffee, and is now sitting beside me, taking care of some work-related stuff. And I just talked to a friend on Facebook who has also been up since 5:30. And I can think of at least five stores I could go to right now that are open for business. Yet I am pretty certain that if I were to call certain Dutch friends right now, they would be still be asleep, or at least less awake than I am right now. And, just in case someone missed it, they are six hours ahead of us. I know I wrote about this whole "America is up long before every one else" phenomenon a long time ago, but at this point, it's gotten ridiculous people. Do we ever take time off?
When you think about it, it's even scarier when you realize that this is a country who has a lot of fingers on a lot of potentially scary buttons. I bet you that most of those fingers did not get the recommended 8-9 hours of sleep last night. Or how about the American impact on the global economy? I bet you all those traders did not get their afternoon naps in either. Now I'm not saying that a good night's sleep could have prevented the current recession, but I think it's a point worth considering. Maybe if we all had a lot more sleep, we would understand why owning a car with a 1 in 3 gas mileage is not a good idea, why Walmart's ugliness beats out its convenience any day, and why fast food is really bad for you. I'm just saying. Sleep can make a huge difference.
So as a community, I say we need to lay off the Dunkin', stay away from the Starbucks, start implementing the French, "demain, demain" policy, drink more Malibu, as it claims to be "seriously easy going", and take at least one siesta per day. At least. And then sit back and watch the world become a better place. I promise.
Can anyone tell me why I'm wide awake at 6 in the morning on a Saturday and have decided that the best thing to do is to grade some papers? Why am I not in bed asleep? Or watching television? Or reading a book? Seriously, why? I mean, I really don't get it. At all. In fact, I'm seriously beginning to consider the possibility that maybe I have become possessed by the long-lost spirit of a workaholic, or a thirteenth-century monk, or a Wall street broker in the 1980s. I mean, I like working hard as much as the next person, but six in the morning on a Saturday? And I'm grading papers? Just writing this down makes me feel like I am seriously out of my mind.
But what's even scarier is that husband-dear just woke up too, and didn't even raise his eyebrows when he saw me working at the kitchen table. In fact, he put on some coffee, and is now sitting beside me, taking care of some work-related stuff. And I just talked to a friend on Facebook who has also been up since 5:30. And I can think of at least five stores I could go to right now that are open for business. Yet I am pretty certain that if I were to call certain Dutch friends right now, they would be still be asleep, or at least less awake than I am right now. And, just in case someone missed it, they are six hours ahead of us. I know I wrote about this whole "America is up long before every one else" phenomenon a long time ago, but at this point, it's gotten ridiculous people. Do we ever take time off?
When you think about it, it's even scarier when you realize that this is a country who has a lot of fingers on a lot of potentially scary buttons. I bet you that most of those fingers did not get the recommended 8-9 hours of sleep last night. Or how about the American impact on the global economy? I bet you all those traders did not get their afternoon naps in either. Now I'm not saying that a good night's sleep could have prevented the current recession, but I think it's a point worth considering. Maybe if we all had a lot more sleep, we would understand why owning a car with a 1 in 3 gas mileage is not a good idea, why Walmart's ugliness beats out its convenience any day, and why fast food is really bad for you. I'm just saying. Sleep can make a huge difference.
So as a community, I say we need to lay off the Dunkin', stay away from the Starbucks, start implementing the French, "demain, demain" policy, drink more Malibu, as it claims to be "seriously easy going", and take at least one siesta per day. At least. And then sit back and watch the world become a better place. I promise.
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