White men

As of today, we have four white men in our program. We've never had four white anythings in our programs before, and I have to be honest with you; I'm not sure what to make of this. Now in principle, there is nothing wrong with white men of course. Unless their name is Pat Robertson, and they claim that the Haitians brought the earthquake upon themselves by making a pact with the devil. Besides "one sandwich short of a picnic" white men like him, I generally like white men. I mean, I married one, which should be enough proof that I have no general issues with Caucasian males. But to suddenly have four white men walking around our department, sitting in my classes, well, it's an odd experience.

You see, the university I work at is, as I have mentioned before, an HBCU (Historically Black College and University). This means that the university was founded during segregation with the intent of offering higher education to African Americans. The school has always been open to people of all backgrounds, but we have just never seen much of an influx of white people. At least, not that I've noticed. And although the college of education (one of the top schools in the state), as well as the school of nursing have always had a smattering of white students, I don't recall our department, or even our college, ever having a white student since I started working here.

Once again, there is nothing wrong with having white students. In fact, I think one can see it as proof that our department is slowly becoming known for offering a high-quality program. But I have to admit that it just feels, well, weird. And I know I'm white. But I'm also a female, and a foreigner at that. I don't represent white America to my students, and I share some of their sentiments about repression and discrimination (if I get called "honey" by our Vice-President one more time, I will scream). I mean, I'm trying to imagine having one of these students in my African American Images class, or even my Philosophy and Ethics class, where race is a central topic of discussion, and I use phrases like, "look, we know the man is out to get you, but can we get back on topic now?" to keep students focused, and I'm not sure how that is going to work. I wonder how my students will respond, will they clam up? Or will they see the student as a representation of "the man" trying to infiltrate one of the last truly African American institutions?

And, more importantly, what does all this say about me? I used to never ever consider my students' race when teaching, why start now? Or does race, in a part of the country where that concept remains contested and highly polarized, still matter? Don't get me wrong, I will teach these men, and treat them exactly the same as all my other students, and probably like them as much as my other students too. It's just that, well, it feels different. And I'm not sure why.

Dutch hair day

Before I say anything else, I would like to thank everyone who commented on Sunday's picture. Due to an inexplicable aversion against posting my face online anywhere (you should have heard the fuss I made when I found out the university was posting the complete faculty directory online, I mean honestly, what is the point of the whole world knowing my name -and- seeing my face? Sheesh), I hardly ever put pictures on here, and then to receive as many compliments as I did when I finally do put one up is very encouraging.

Now one person asked me if I had a hard time styling my hair myself, and to be honest, that was one of my worries. Having been raised by a mother who, although she is the best mother in the whole wide world and beyond, had much better things to do than spend more than five minutes on her hair each morning, I'm a completely self-taught stylist who can at times be really helpless when it comes to doing her hair. I mean, there was a reason I bought into the perm craze of the late 80s and early 90s; a perm means you don't need to style anything, you just comb through it and go. Those were the days, I'm telling you.

Anyway, helpless at hair. That's me. I can't do a french braid, I need husband-dear's hands when trying to tie my hair into a bun, and can struggle with the most basics of hair issues, such as centering a clip on the back of my head. Fortunately, this country is awash in hair styling equipment, and I have a cabinet full of hot rollers, a curling iron, a flat iron, a regular hairdryer, a curling hairdryer, an impressive array of round brushes, as well as various bottles of mouse, spray, and wax. And so I have been able to reproduce Friday's hairdo, even though it requires the simultaneous use of a hairdryer, round brush, and a flat iron, pretty accurately.

And interestingly, no one here looks funny when I tell them how I get my hair to look this way. Every American female I know down here, and I mean every single one of them, takes at least fifteen minutes to style their hair each morning, even the ones with a short, straight bob (straight can always be straighter). Hair is a big thing down here. It's bigger than clothes, bigger than shoes, maybe not quite as big as personal hygene, but it's huge. Sometimes even literally. Seriously, you are much more likely to see someone in ratty sweatpants, flipflops and an old tank top, but with full hair and makeup on, than to see someone dressed to the nines, but with their face and hair all "plain Jane" (and when you do, it's more than likely me). My students take the cake on this. They will show up to class in their PJs, but with their hair looking as though they are ready to head to the prom: curls tumbling down from a perfect bun, makeup looking flawless, but their feet in a pair of bunny slippers.

Where this comes from, I have no idea. But I do know that it's that exact same focus on hair that forced me to learn how to use all these styling contraptions. Attending an American middle and high school meant that it was simply unthinkable to show up with my straight hair just hanging down my head or tucked behind my ears, as people would in Holland. Your hair had to look as though you had a plan for it. And sure, that plan could be the "fresh out of bed look", but that look actually involved curling irons, teasing those curls out, and then applying liberal amounts of hair spray. There was no real "fresh out of bed" anything when I was growing up. So I learned how to make my hair look like I cared, the hard way. I learned how to avoid "fishtails" (when you accidentally hold your curling apparetus the wrong way), how to not burn my forehead or neck when using a metal curling iron (pay attention), which hairspray did not stick (Dove), how to avoid the greasy-haired look (use baby powder), how to set my hot rollers so they would produce the right kind of curl (don't rush it), and how a flat iron can be used for a mild wave (just flip it in at the end). I'm still not great, as my hair today will testify (I really need to remember to not put my hair in a bun when I shower and then go to sleep with damp hair), but you know, I'm also not an American yet. So I think I deserve some slack. At least until I take that oath, I think I should get two Dutch-hair-days a month.

But having said that, it would be really nice if the perm came back into fashion. Or the Sinnead O'Conner look. Or even the Julie-Love-Boat-Pageboy cut. I'm not picky. So can we all make that happen please? Thanks.

Een harig blog deel 2

Hier dan, zoals beloofd, een foto van mijn nieuwe kapsel


Het is nog even wennen. Het is toch nog best wel lang, de highlights zijn veel lichter dan normaal, de vele laagjes zijn nieuwe, en ook de pony is een geheel nieuwe aanwinst. En niet alleen voor mij, maar ook voor de rest van de familie. Manlief, die mij alleen maar zonder pony kent, merkte op dat hij het gevoel had alsof hij vreemd aan het gaan. We hebben mijn nieuwe alter ego dan ook maar meteen een naam gegeven; "Amy". Vreemd? Jazeker. Maar ach, het kan erger. Toen de kinderen mij met manlief zagen, dachten de oudste dat zijn vader aan het knuffelen was met zijn math support teacher, terwijl de jongste dacht dat ik een wildvreemde was. Ik zelf moet erg wennen aan een pony. Zo'n beest heb ik al in tien jaar niet op mijn voorhoofd gehad. Maar ik ben er zelf wel erg blij mee, en ik geloof dat ook de mannen in het huishouden het nieuwe kapsel ook wel mooi vinden. Dus al met al een succes.

Een harig blog

Ik zit op dit moment bij mijn kapper. Dit vond ik toch wel zo'n bijzonder moment, dat ik het even met u wilde delen. En niet zozeer omdat ik sinds Maart vorig jaar niet meer naar de kapper ben geweest, en er dus uitzie als een leeuw met dode punten, maar meet omdat ik aan een marmeren balie met een kop thee, op een van de drie MacBooks van het kapsalon zit te bloggen. Daar kunnen een Story en de laatste dorpsroddels echt niet aan tippen. Nou ja, als ze een bak met dropjes hebben misschien wel, maar dat doet er nou even niet toe.

Ik heb op dit moment, om eerlijk te zijn, geen idee hoe ik eruit ga zien. U moet namelijk weten dat ik de laatste maanden een ware haar crisis heb doorgemaakt. Omdat ik niet naar de kapper ging werd mijn haar alsmaar langer en langer en langer en langer. Nu is het hier in de het zuiden van de VS heel erg hip om lang steil haar te hebben, dus wat dat betreft viel het eigenlijk helemaal niet op. Maar ja, zoals ik al eens eerder heb meegedeeld heb ik heel fijn, maar vooral heel veel haar, en dus was het elke ochtend echt een krachttoer om iets van mijn haar te maken. Ik heb vanalles gebruikt; krulspelden (nou ja, "hotrollers"), de stijltang, heel veel haarclips en elastiekjes en haarspelden, en de haarlak was niet aan te slepen. En dat was ik beu. De mensem om mij heen vonden mijn haar geloof ik wel mooi, maar ik kon het zelf niet meer aanzien. Om nog maar niks te zeggen over die lange haren die ik werkelijk overal vond. En dus maakte ik voor vandaag een afspraak bij mijn kapper, en zei, heel stoer, "Maak er maar wat van". Mijn enige caveat was dat het geen "Kate Gosselin" kraaiennest mocht worden, maar voor de rest mochten ze helemaal losgaan.

Nu zit ik hier dus met mijn haar in het folie gewikkeld, en weet alleen dat het "lichter" word. Eigenlijk wilde de kapper mijn haar wel iets donkerder kleuren, of rood, maar omdat dit de eerste keer is dat ik een afspraak met deze Cabe heb (mijn oorspronkelijke kapster is gestopt), en hij vind dat je "should not get too freaky on a first date", doen we dat dus maar niet. Na dat het kleuren klaar is, gaan we kijken naar de vorm van mijn gezicht, en er iets moois van maken. Ik ben benieuwd. Wordt het toch een lange, southern coupe, of gaan we haar doneren aan "locks of love"? Ik hou jullie op de hoogte.

Arctic blast-off

In case you all think we're still sipping mojitos on the side of our pool: it has been freezing down here for the past week or so too. And I don't mean "freezing" in the literary sense, I mean really freezing, as in temperatures in the low teens at night, and temperatures below freezing during the day. It's so cold that when I left the house this morning, and wanted to wash a stain off my windshield, the wiper fluid froze on the window. That hasn't happened to me since that horrible winter in Germany a few years ago, when snow forced us to park our cars at the bottom of our street and walk up the hill.

Of course, compared to the several feet of snow in New England, the single digit temperatures around the great lakes, and the endless blizzards everywhere else, we really can't complain here in the south. We (you included) may once spring and summer hit and the price of oranges goes through the roof, but that's another matter. For right now, all southerners feel like God left his freezer door open, and yes, I did hear someone say that the other day.

Now I can hear you all think what everyone has been saying to me this entire week, "Well, you're from Holland, you're used to this kind of weather.". And allow me to let you in on the purpose of this blog: I have been just as cold as those who have lived here all their lives.

You see, after more than 2,5 years in a part of the world that is usually hotter than hell, my body has in fact adapted. It's called survival of the fittest, or something equally scientific, and basically means that my body has saved me from a quick trip to total heat-induced insanity by making my brain think that 95F degree weather is actually quite comfortable. As a result, I no longer find the summers here repulsively hot, have grown accustomed to the humidity, and subsequently (pretty word for here comes the kicker), my body thinks anything below 50F means my brain will freeze and I will die. Yes indeed, it does. I remember that during my first winter here, I never even wore a coat. It sat in my car, unused, for the entire winter season, while I laughed at students in hats and parkas. Last winter, I pulled out my fancy pea coat every once in a while, when temperatures would get into the 30s and 40s. This year, I have had to actually put the fleece liner in my LL Bean full-on winter jacket and wear it to work. So yes, those Dutch winter genes are no more. After more than two years in a part of the state that people from North Georgia call "the desert", they have succumbed to the incessant heat that is the summer.

So, please don't assume that because I'm "from Holland", I can handle, or even worse, I like this cold. I can't and I don't. I have been praying for summer for weeks, honestly. The only remnant of my Dutch heritage is my impressive collection of winter gear: my hats, enough scarves to match every outfit I own, four sets of gloves, thick knee socks, heating pads, and undershirts. But does that mean I'm a winter person? Heck, no.

And you know what's even worse? They've predicted snow for tomorrow, and are calling it an Arctic blast. Some blast that is going to be. We all can't wait. Yeah.

Southern life lessons

As I was pondering the lists I could make about 2009, or the past decade, I realized that there is way too much for me to write about. There are so many things I learned (how to make cornbread, how to get grass stains out of boys' pants, how to drive a tractor, how to talk to the CO's wife), so many things I did (Skydive! Get married! Move! (about five times) Bushhog a field!!), and so many things I would rather not be reminded of (you really think I'm going to put a list here?), that there was really not one clear topic to write about. Hence, I ditched that idea. Instead, as I was unblocking our toilet, or doing something other completely unrelated to this blog, I realized that it was high time for a list of things I learned from the South. I've been here for over two and a half years now, and before I become completely immersed in the local culture, I figured it was the right time to step outside of myself one last time, and consider what the Southern culture has contributed to my life.

1. There are never enough "thank you's", "please's" and "sorry's" in any given sentence. More can always be fitted in, trust me. Even when you're rip-roaring mad, and ready to set something on fire, you can squeeze one of these in there. For instance, "Look, I'm sorry, but that is just ridiculous!" See? Or how about; "Stop that, please, or I will ground you for a week, is that clear?" Notice the please. It looks nice, doesn't it? Even though it is immediately followed by a threat, it softens up the sentence, and throws a little southern gentleness in there.

2. There is no need to memorize people's names. In fact, there is one simple rule to talking to people: Anyone older than you is "ma'am" or "sir", and anyone younger than you can be referred to as "honey", "sweetie", or the more traditional "darling".

3. Tea is always cold and served either sweet or unsweet. If you want your tea hot, or with milk, or god forbid, made with something other than black tea, you will need to ask for it specifically. And you better do so nicely.

4. The period between 1861 and 1865 was not the civil war, it was the war between the states, thank you very much. The why is obvious to any southerner, of course. First, it was a war between states, and second, there was really nothing civil about it. And there is really little concern for where the actual division occured, anyone not from Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, or South Carolina is not really a southerner. No matter how often they say "y'all".

5. Cockroaches are a way of life, so you better get used to them. They were there before you were born, and they will be there long after you die. And, oh yeah, they're called Palmetto bugs down here, which somehow is supposed to make their presence less revolting. (and just for the record, that does not work for me)

6. Driving is really something you do while doing other things. Southern driving entails calling your friends, texting them, checking your email, combing your hair, reapplying your make up, or going through some paperwork for an upcoming meeting, all while driving. Cops are few and far between, so unless you do truly screw up, by, say, running into someone, or speeding just as you're passing a trooper on his lunch break, you will, on the whole, do just fine. On the other hand, if it rains, or is foggy, or if the weather is anything other than bright and sunny, all southern drivers go into survivor mode, which entails doing 45mph on the interstate, driving with your hazard lights on, ignoring the lines between lanes on the highway, and swerving around large puddles and / or potholes.

7. Potatoes are considered an acceptable breakfast food. As is bacon, grits, pancakes and ice cream, eggs, and biscuits with gravy. Cereals are really considered more of a snack before bedtime than anything else.

8. The heat isn't what's going to kill you down here, the sudden cold snaps, on the other hand, are. Any true southerner will revel at the idea of 100F all throughout the summer, but mention "below freezing" to them, and they will think the world is coming to and end.

9. There is one religion, and one religion only. You will like it, or you will leave.

10. And finally, y'all is singular. Y'alls is plural.

2010

The ball has dropped, the champagne has been finished, the Christmas decorations have come down, and we stand at the beginning of not just a new year, but an entirely brand-spanking new decade. Although I've always found starting a new year somewhat daunting, embarking on an entirely new decade is positively scary. If I look back at the past decade, there is a lot to live up to. And I'm not sure I'll be able to complete another PhD, or convince husband-dear to get married again (honestly though, wouldn't a vow renewal in Vegas or on a Carribean beach be the perfect anniversary celebration?), so I'm not sure if the 10s will ever be as sweepingly grand as the 00s.

I would, however, like to state that I am thrilled to finally be done with the awkwardness of the zeroes. The impossibility of deciding whether to say "two thousand seven" or "oh-seven", or as I've heard some people say, "ought seven", while knowing that whatever you would decide it, it would just never roll of your tongue as easily as say "ninety-three" or "eighty-six". Somehow, it always sounded too short to me, as though someone forget a number or two. But no more, and let me tell you, I am excited.
Admittedly, 2010 is going to be a little odd. Will you say "ten", "two thousand ten", simply "twenty-ten"? This morning, CNN had already devoted an entire story to that dilemma. Husband-dear settled on "two thousand ten", while I've already decided to revert back to the previous century with its "nineteen eighties", and use the far hipper "twenty ten".
But when we hit the 2011 mark, we're golden, as far as I'm concerned. And once we make it to 2016, and have the comfort of multiple syllables (just say it "sixteen"), we're as good as back in the 90s. As far as our language is concerned anyway.

So bring on the new year I say. And may it bring all of you lots of joy, happiness, health, reading, writing, and commenting.