Mijn Nederlands gaat tegenwoordig met sprongen achteruit. Zo vervoegde ik in mijn vorige Nederlandse post "ruissen" al verkeerd, en ik weet zeker dat deze post niet heel veel beter zal zijn. Nu kan ik allerlei excuses aandragen natuurlijk. Zo had ik tot vijftien minuten voor mijn Nederlands eindexamen nog nooit van het kofschip gehoord, las, en lees, ik voornamelijk Engels, woon ik ondertussen al weer lang buiten Nederland, en spreek ik thuis eigenlijk nooit Nederlands.
Maar laten we eerlijk zijn, voor een echte Nederlander is dat natuurlijk allemaal flauwekul. Want al woon je honderd jaar in het buitenland, je Nederlands moet gewoon perfect blijven. Klaar. De rest is allemaal aanstelleritus. Zelfs Jan de Bont en Femke Jansen komen hier niet onderuit, dus laat staan een onbekende miep als ik zelf.
Maar goed, de bottomline (kijk, dit kan dus echt niet. Maar ja, hoe zeg je "bottomline" in het Nederlands? De bodemlijn lijkt me niet echt een optie) is wel dat mijn Nederlands niet alleen stil staat (want zo heb ik geen idee wat men in Nederland tegenwoordig zegt als iets heel leuk is. Gaaf? Vet? Cool?), maar eigenlijk langzaamaan toch ook wel echt minder aan het worden is.
Als ik met een "echte" Nederlander praat, dan valt het meestal niet zo op. Linguistisch ben ik namelijk een enorme kameleon. Praat ik met iemand die echt uit het diepe zuiden komt, dan klink ik binnen vijf minuten net als Scarlett's jongse zus. Is mijn conversatie partner iemand uit het noorden, dan is binnen mum van tijd al het "southern" uit mijn spraak verdwenen, en praat ik met iemand die duidelijk moeite heeft met het Engels, dan moet ik heel erg oppassen om niet hun grammatica over te nemen. Dus spreek ik met iemand die in Nederland woont, dan klink ik binnen een minuut of wat weer helemaal "normaal". Ik bedoel, u vraagt, wij draaien.
Maar het wordt pas echt interessant, kwam ik gisteren achter, als ik met een Nederlander praat die net zoals ik, en al heel lang in het buitenland woont, en een kameleon is. Dan krijg je dus een gesprek tussen twee mensen die echt heel erg hun best doen om Correct Nederlands te spreken, maar er, naarmate de conversatie vordert, steeds minder van bakken. Zelfs manlief had door dat mijn Nederlands in een keer wel heel erg Amerikaans klonk. En het erge? Ik kon er echt helemaal niks aan doen.
Het is maar goed dat ik volgende week een weekje terug naar mijn "roots" ga. Dan kan ik eindelijk weer eens normaal leren praten. Want dit is natuurlijk ontzettend (vet? ongelooflijk?) belachelijk.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The cop and the deer
So let's just call it what it is, I'm a city girl. I might not have lived in the city all my life, but I can find my way around a subway system in a heartbeat, and have no problems with jaywalking, ignoring panhandlers, or cussing out a driver who just cut me off.
Now as a city girl, there are various parts of country life that I'm completely unfamiliar with, such as guns. And hunting. And fishing. And the general notion that there are dangerous animals out there that would very much like to mess up your trashcans, snap the hands off your children, scratch your eyes out, bite you, or any other activities that will most likely land you in the ER. And, most importantly, I can't handle the idea that sometimes animals get killed.
I realize that this makes me a complete hypocrite. I'm not a vegetarian, which means I eat meat quite regularly, which means I technically support the killing of animals. It's all true. Granted, I prefer to eat organic meat, which at least guarantees that the animal whose bodyparts I'm consuming had a happy, carefree life, rolling around in the mud, the grass, or whatever their preferred method of relaxation might be. And yes, I do realize that animals that were shot during hunting season probably had the happiest life of them all. They got to skip around the woods, eat grass, play with their siblings, until that fateful day that they walked into someone's crosshairs, and were swiftly dispatched into the eternal meadows.
But still, as you can tell, I'm just not feeling the whole hunting thing.
It's the city in me.
People who grew up in the country around here don't seem to have that problem. At least not that much. I honestly think they're just more in touch with nature, they realize people need to eat and we all can't live forever. Or something like that. My in-laws, for instance, have lived out in the country for years. My mother-in-law has raised her own horses, has adopted a true menagerie of animals, including dogs and a pig, and generally knows what needs to be done when something isn't quite right. Did the neighbor see a rattle snake the other day? Mother-in-law will pack a small pistol when going for her morning walk, because there is no way she's going to let a rattler get the better of her, her grandkids, or her dogs. Is one of the dogs incurably sick? She takes them to the vet and has them put to sleep. Granted, she'll shed a few tears, but it's nothing like the drama I experience at such moments. My father-in-law hunts deer (with a crossbow no less), and thinks nothing of shooting the snapping turtle living in their lake if it starts to threaten any of the children, while I immediately sink into a complicated personal debate if this is OK, since I'm technically against gun ownership.
I won't say I'm a wimp, but I'm just different. I'm telling you, it's the whole city thing.
And I had to think of that difference this morning when I was driving to work. One of the roads by our house cuts through a wooded area, which is densely populated with deer. Anyone around here knows that the combination of woods, deer, and a road is a lethal combination, and indeed, I have seen several deer carcasses strewn along the side of the road. But this morning I saw something I had never seen before. On the other side of the road, two trucks were pulled over, and a cop car was pulled up behind them. When I looked over I noticed that the police officer was standing by a large doe lying on the asphalt. As I passed, I saw the police officer pull out his gun, and shoot the deer straight in the head. In broad daylight, with cars flying by, he just shot the deer. I was so startled I almost swerved into oncoming traffic.
Maybe it's the city thing, but that just broke my heart. And maybe it's the European thing, but can a cop just pull out his gun and shoot an animal?
Anyway, I can hear my in-laws now. My mother-in-law would tell me the deer was probably very badly hurt, or else it would have tried to sit up, and they were just putting it out of its misery. She would then add that that is the humane thing to do, and how she can't stand people who keep badly hurt animals around when they know what's best for them is to put them to sleep. My father-in-law on the other hand would probably joke that any deer dumb enough to walk into the road should probably be put down anyway.
But me, I'm just a city girl. And I kept thinking about how our vet lives right around the corner from where the deer got hit, and couldn't someone have come and gotten him instead? I think I might just be too soft-hearted for this life. Or watched Bambi one too many times. It's sad.
Now as a city girl, there are various parts of country life that I'm completely unfamiliar with, such as guns. And hunting. And fishing. And the general notion that there are dangerous animals out there that would very much like to mess up your trashcans, snap the hands off your children, scratch your eyes out, bite you, or any other activities that will most likely land you in the ER. And, most importantly, I can't handle the idea that sometimes animals get killed.
I realize that this makes me a complete hypocrite. I'm not a vegetarian, which means I eat meat quite regularly, which means I technically support the killing of animals. It's all true. Granted, I prefer to eat organic meat, which at least guarantees that the animal whose bodyparts I'm consuming had a happy, carefree life, rolling around in the mud, the grass, or whatever their preferred method of relaxation might be. And yes, I do realize that animals that were shot during hunting season probably had the happiest life of them all. They got to skip around the woods, eat grass, play with their siblings, until that fateful day that they walked into someone's crosshairs, and were swiftly dispatched into the eternal meadows.
But still, as you can tell, I'm just not feeling the whole hunting thing.
It's the city in me.
People who grew up in the country around here don't seem to have that problem. At least not that much. I honestly think they're just more in touch with nature, they realize people need to eat and we all can't live forever. Or something like that. My in-laws, for instance, have lived out in the country for years. My mother-in-law has raised her own horses, has adopted a true menagerie of animals, including dogs and a pig, and generally knows what needs to be done when something isn't quite right. Did the neighbor see a rattle snake the other day? Mother-in-law will pack a small pistol when going for her morning walk, because there is no way she's going to let a rattler get the better of her, her grandkids, or her dogs. Is one of the dogs incurably sick? She takes them to the vet and has them put to sleep. Granted, she'll shed a few tears, but it's nothing like the drama I experience at such moments. My father-in-law hunts deer (with a crossbow no less), and thinks nothing of shooting the snapping turtle living in their lake if it starts to threaten any of the children, while I immediately sink into a complicated personal debate if this is OK, since I'm technically against gun ownership.
I won't say I'm a wimp, but I'm just different. I'm telling you, it's the whole city thing.
And I had to think of that difference this morning when I was driving to work. One of the roads by our house cuts through a wooded area, which is densely populated with deer. Anyone around here knows that the combination of woods, deer, and a road is a lethal combination, and indeed, I have seen several deer carcasses strewn along the side of the road. But this morning I saw something I had never seen before. On the other side of the road, two trucks were pulled over, and a cop car was pulled up behind them. When I looked over I noticed that the police officer was standing by a large doe lying on the asphalt. As I passed, I saw the police officer pull out his gun, and shoot the deer straight in the head. In broad daylight, with cars flying by, he just shot the deer. I was so startled I almost swerved into oncoming traffic.
Maybe it's the city thing, but that just broke my heart. And maybe it's the European thing, but can a cop just pull out his gun and shoot an animal?
Anyway, I can hear my in-laws now. My mother-in-law would tell me the deer was probably very badly hurt, or else it would have tried to sit up, and they were just putting it out of its misery. She would then add that that is the humane thing to do, and how she can't stand people who keep badly hurt animals around when they know what's best for them is to put them to sleep. My father-in-law on the other hand would probably joke that any deer dumb enough to walk into the road should probably be put down anyway.
But me, I'm just a city girl. And I kept thinking about how our vet lives right around the corner from where the deer got hit, and couldn't someone have come and gotten him instead? I think I might just be too soft-hearted for this life. Or watched Bambi one too many times. It's sad.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Crossfit
So today I finally caved into what can probably be called one of today's hottest trends in the fitness world: Crossfit. Next to P90X, Crossfit is probably the most talked about work out trend in the US today. Everyone's either doing it or is going to start doing it tomorrow, and neither category can wait to tell you about the complete awesomeness that is Crossfit. It's intense! They're very short workouts! It will have you ready to run a marathon in less than three months! Oh, and without any running! Really!
I usually don't do fitness trends. Call me old-fashioned, but I didn't jazzercise, I didn't aquajog, I didn't rollerblade, I didn't learn how to "nordic walk" (Walk nordic? Walk nordically? Walk with a pair of sticks and a fierce look on your face?), and I've never Billy Boot-camped either. And it's not that I don't think these things work. I'm convinced they do. It's just that a) all these new trends involve buying lots of new equipment, and I'm just too cheap to do that, b) I know what works for me, namely running for a very long time, swimming very hard, and cycling, and c) did I mention that I'm cheap?
However, I have several friends who also run, bike, swim, compete in triathlons, marathons, and mountainbike races, and who are absolutely in love with Crossfit. If given the opportunity, they will wax lyrical on the topic of Crossfit for hours. They've told me how they've run marathons using only Crossfit training as a workout, how they've build stronger muscles and resolved injuries just by using the Crossfit program, how Crossfit only takes fifteen to twenty minutes a day, and other marvelous feats, such as the absolutely wonderful notion that besides some weights and a pull-up bar, you don't need any extra toys. So when my friend Lynn asked me if I wanted to do a Crossfit routine with her this morning, I said, sure, why not. After all, one does need to try everything at least once, and who knows, I might find out that I too would be able to run a sub-four hour marathon based on a 15-minute a day workout.
Today's Crossfit workout consisted of three activities, which were to be repeated numerous times. We were to start with 21 pull ups, 21 hand-stand push-ups, and then for the heck of it, Lynn decided to throw 21 squats and a 100m dash in there too. Since neither one of us can do a hand-stand push up without falling over, Lynn figured out a substitute routine: 21 dips. Now in Crossfit, time is of the essence, apparently. The idea is that you work through your routine as quickly and as intensely as possible, thus putting your body under as much strain as you can. So off we went: 21 pull ups, 21 dips, 21 squats, and a 100 m dash. And then we did it again, only this time 18 times. And then 15 times, and 12. Then we did everything 9 times, and then 6 times, and we ended our 15 minutes and 8 second workout with 3 reps of each.
It was painful. I was sweating, out of breath, and felt like I'd really put my body through something quite unique. But, and here's the thing, my body really wasn't ready to quit yet. I mean, it's used to pain lasting at least an hour or more, and 15 minutes just wasn't cutting it. Were where the endorphins? The post-workout rush? None of that was happening either. Cognitively, I totally understand that if you push your body to the max for fifteen to twenty minutes per day, you can achieve some fantastic results. But physically, my body just wasn't buying it. There was no zoning out, no therapeutic silence as I rode my bike or pounded the pavement, and no thrill at the end.
In short, will I be doing Crossfit in the future? Absolutely. Whenever I have little time, I can totally see myself engaging in a fifteen minute frenzy. But I don't see myself ever giving up my long, painful, but incredibly rewarding workouts.
And today, after I left Lynn's house, you know what I did? I went to the gym, and did about thirty minutes of weights. It's possible I'm slightly insane, but fifteen minutes just can't be right people. Plus there is no way I could feel OK about eating that bowl of ice cream I'm about to dig into after only fifteen minutes of working. Sorry.
I usually don't do fitness trends. Call me old-fashioned, but I didn't jazzercise, I didn't aquajog, I didn't rollerblade, I didn't learn how to "nordic walk" (Walk nordic? Walk nordically? Walk with a pair of sticks and a fierce look on your face?), and I've never Billy Boot-camped either. And it's not that I don't think these things work. I'm convinced they do. It's just that a) all these new trends involve buying lots of new equipment, and I'm just too cheap to do that, b) I know what works for me, namely running for a very long time, swimming very hard, and cycling, and c) did I mention that I'm cheap?
However, I have several friends who also run, bike, swim, compete in triathlons, marathons, and mountainbike races, and who are absolutely in love with Crossfit. If given the opportunity, they will wax lyrical on the topic of Crossfit for hours. They've told me how they've run marathons using only Crossfit training as a workout, how they've build stronger muscles and resolved injuries just by using the Crossfit program, how Crossfit only takes fifteen to twenty minutes a day, and other marvelous feats, such as the absolutely wonderful notion that besides some weights and a pull-up bar, you don't need any extra toys. So when my friend Lynn asked me if I wanted to do a Crossfit routine with her this morning, I said, sure, why not. After all, one does need to try everything at least once, and who knows, I might find out that I too would be able to run a sub-four hour marathon based on a 15-minute a day workout.
Today's Crossfit workout consisted of three activities, which were to be repeated numerous times. We were to start with 21 pull ups, 21 hand-stand push-ups, and then for the heck of it, Lynn decided to throw 21 squats and a 100m dash in there too. Since neither one of us can do a hand-stand push up without falling over, Lynn figured out a substitute routine: 21 dips. Now in Crossfit, time is of the essence, apparently. The idea is that you work through your routine as quickly and as intensely as possible, thus putting your body under as much strain as you can. So off we went: 21 pull ups, 21 dips, 21 squats, and a 100 m dash. And then we did it again, only this time 18 times. And then 15 times, and 12. Then we did everything 9 times, and then 6 times, and we ended our 15 minutes and 8 second workout with 3 reps of each.
It was painful. I was sweating, out of breath, and felt like I'd really put my body through something quite unique. But, and here's the thing, my body really wasn't ready to quit yet. I mean, it's used to pain lasting at least an hour or more, and 15 minutes just wasn't cutting it. Were where the endorphins? The post-workout rush? None of that was happening either. Cognitively, I totally understand that if you push your body to the max for fifteen to twenty minutes per day, you can achieve some fantastic results. But physically, my body just wasn't buying it. There was no zoning out, no therapeutic silence as I rode my bike or pounded the pavement, and no thrill at the end.
In short, will I be doing Crossfit in the future? Absolutely. Whenever I have little time, I can totally see myself engaging in a fifteen minute frenzy. But I don't see myself ever giving up my long, painful, but incredibly rewarding workouts.
And today, after I left Lynn's house, you know what I did? I went to the gym, and did about thirty minutes of weights. It's possible I'm slightly insane, but fifteen minutes just can't be right people. Plus there is no way I could feel OK about eating that bowl of ice cream I'm about to dig into after only fifteen minutes of working. Sorry.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Bureaucracy and American awesomeness
I'm still not sure how I manage to do this, but for someone who dislikes bureaucracy with a vengeance, I somehow managed to put myself in yet another bottomless well of paperwork, forms, stamps, and apostilles. I've had to wrestle with the online application procedures for birth certificates, panicked and resolved the issue of the supposedly lost marriage certificate, and have filled out enough forms to make Kafka proud.
Now I would love to say that it makes no sense, as the sole reason I postponed applying for my citizenship was my intense aversion to paperwork, but in reality, this current bureaucratic mess can be directly traced back to my, recently acquired, US citizenship. You see, although I'm definitely an American now, I am, and always will be, Dutch as well. For those of you who just went, "What?!" I'm sorry. It's how it is. Anyone who loves licorice as much as I do will always be partly Dutch, you know. Anyway, fortunately, the Dutch government allows people like me (married to a citizen of the country whose nationality they adopted) to retain their Dutch citizenship, if, and this is the big "if", the reason behind this swamp of legalities, if I apply for a "Statement of Confirmation".
I won't bore you with all the paperwork required for this statement, at least not in this post. It's a very, very long list of lots and lots of obscure documents which each need to be supplied with variety of stamps and signatures. I might be mistaken, but I'm pretty sure they, among other things, require a footprint of your oldest living relative, the middle names of your great-great-grandmother, an affidavit from the kindergarten teacher who taught you how to tie your shoes, as well as a picture of you wrestling an alligator.
Anyway, much to my surprise, I was able to collect most of the evidence they require within a month or so. Besides that Friday afternoon when I thought I was going to LOSE MY MIND when I received an email asking me if I was absolutely sure we got married in that town on that date, because they couldn't find any records of me or husband-dear, the whole procedure was definitely within acceptable limits of frustration. Until now. Until the very final document I need.
The apostille on the authenticated copy of my naturalization certificate.
What's that, you say?
I'm so glad you asked.
You see, for some reason the Dutch government has decided that chances are that most applicants for this statement of confirmation will make up the whole "I am now an American citizen" thing, simply because they LOVE to go through complicated, legalistic procedures, and they will subsequently show up with a fake certificate of naturalization. Now, in spite of my doubts about the likelihood of this actually happening, I can go along with this line of thinking, if I try. Really hard. Anyway, I'll contend that people could, technically, falsify their naturalization certificate. Sure. But then, and stay with me here, why does the Dutch government then insist on all applications showing a US passport as well? Logically, the one government that can assess if a certificate of naturalization is real, is the American government. Subsequently, if an applicant can procure a US passport, one would -think- that therefore their naturalization is the real deal. But no. Apparently, the Dutch government is also convinced the American government is so gullible it will accept a fake certificate of naturalization with one's passport application, and that therefore the US passport one also has to procure for this statement cannot be trusted as valid proof of citizenship either.
Hence the Dutch government, in all their infinite wisdom has decided that simply showing a certificate of naturalization is not enough. No, one's naturalization certificate does not only need to be authenticated by the USCIS (read: you drive a few hours to the same USCIS office that gave you your certificate, they make a copy, put a stamp on it, and sign it), oh no, that would be far too easy. Once you've authenticated your certificate, it needs to be declared bona fide by the department of state through the placement of an apostille on the copy.
So you mail off this authenticated copy to an office in Washington DC, and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And try to email them once the 15 business days it should take (according to their website) have passed.
And then try to call them a week later, when no one responds to their email.
And then call them again, when no one returns your call after about ten days.
And then when an answering service picks up, and tells you that no, they can't possibly give you a status update on your case, and no ma'am, they also can't promise someone will actually call you back, you decide that. That. Is. It.
It's time for action.
And as a newly-minted American citizen, you do what you could only dream of as a permanent resident: You pay a visit to your local congressman's office.
Now I didn't really say this, but the the manner in which the congressman's aide raised her eyebrows at my story, asked, "So you all need is a stamp? A stamp? Really? Wow. That's ridiculous", and then said, "Yeah, I will call the office in DC this afternoon and see if we can get this taken care of today." was almost worth all the bureaucratic nonsense I had just been through.
There are a lot of things I like about this country (drive-through banking, Steak 'n' Shake, back porches, to name a few), but I've yet to find something I like as much as being able to call on your local representatives for help. It's not some consumer organization, or an ombudsman, no it's the government itself, helping you deal with that same government. When you come from a country where directly talking a politician is as likely as meeting up with the pope, this is really, very awesome.
However, before I get entirely carried out by this, let's see if he can actually do something....I will keep you posted.
Now I would love to say that it makes no sense, as the sole reason I postponed applying for my citizenship was my intense aversion to paperwork, but in reality, this current bureaucratic mess can be directly traced back to my, recently acquired, US citizenship. You see, although I'm definitely an American now, I am, and always will be, Dutch as well. For those of you who just went, "What?!" I'm sorry. It's how it is. Anyone who loves licorice as much as I do will always be partly Dutch, you know. Anyway, fortunately, the Dutch government allows people like me (married to a citizen of the country whose nationality they adopted) to retain their Dutch citizenship, if, and this is the big "if", the reason behind this swamp of legalities, if I apply for a "Statement of Confirmation".
I won't bore you with all the paperwork required for this statement, at least not in this post. It's a very, very long list of lots and lots of obscure documents which each need to be supplied with variety of stamps and signatures. I might be mistaken, but I'm pretty sure they, among other things, require a footprint of your oldest living relative, the middle names of your great-great-grandmother, an affidavit from the kindergarten teacher who taught you how to tie your shoes, as well as a picture of you wrestling an alligator.
Anyway, much to my surprise, I was able to collect most of the evidence they require within a month or so. Besides that Friday afternoon when I thought I was going to LOSE MY MIND when I received an email asking me if I was absolutely sure we got married in that town on that date, because they couldn't find any records of me or husband-dear, the whole procedure was definitely within acceptable limits of frustration. Until now. Until the very final document I need.
The apostille on the authenticated copy of my naturalization certificate.
What's that, you say?
I'm so glad you asked.
You see, for some reason the Dutch government has decided that chances are that most applicants for this statement of confirmation will make up the whole "I am now an American citizen" thing, simply because they LOVE to go through complicated, legalistic procedures, and they will subsequently show up with a fake certificate of naturalization. Now, in spite of my doubts about the likelihood of this actually happening, I can go along with this line of thinking, if I try. Really hard. Anyway, I'll contend that people could, technically, falsify their naturalization certificate. Sure. But then, and stay with me here, why does the Dutch government then insist on all applications showing a US passport as well? Logically, the one government that can assess if a certificate of naturalization is real, is the American government. Subsequently, if an applicant can procure a US passport, one would -think- that therefore their naturalization is the real deal. But no. Apparently, the Dutch government is also convinced the American government is so gullible it will accept a fake certificate of naturalization with one's passport application, and that therefore the US passport one also has to procure for this statement cannot be trusted as valid proof of citizenship either.
Hence the Dutch government, in all their infinite wisdom has decided that simply showing a certificate of naturalization is not enough. No, one's naturalization certificate does not only need to be authenticated by the USCIS (read: you drive a few hours to the same USCIS office that gave you your certificate, they make a copy, put a stamp on it, and sign it), oh no, that would be far too easy. Once you've authenticated your certificate, it needs to be declared bona fide by the department of state through the placement of an apostille on the copy.
So you mail off this authenticated copy to an office in Washington DC, and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And try to email them once the 15 business days it should take (according to their website) have passed.
And then try to call them a week later, when no one responds to their email.
And then call them again, when no one returns your call after about ten days.
And then when an answering service picks up, and tells you that no, they can't possibly give you a status update on your case, and no ma'am, they also can't promise someone will actually call you back, you decide that. That. Is. It.
It's time for action.
And as a newly-minted American citizen, you do what you could only dream of as a permanent resident: You pay a visit to your local congressman's office.
Now I didn't really say this, but the the manner in which the congressman's aide raised her eyebrows at my story, asked, "So you all need is a stamp? A stamp? Really? Wow. That's ridiculous", and then said, "Yeah, I will call the office in DC this afternoon and see if we can get this taken care of today." was almost worth all the bureaucratic nonsense I had just been through.
There are a lot of things I like about this country (drive-through banking, Steak 'n' Shake, back porches, to name a few), but I've yet to find something I like as much as being able to call on your local representatives for help. It's not some consumer organization, or an ombudsman, no it's the government itself, helping you deal with that same government. When you come from a country where directly talking a politician is as likely as meeting up with the pope, this is really, very awesome.
However, before I get entirely carried out by this, let's see if he can actually do something....I will keep you posted.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Zomer: De heilige koe
Het klinkt misschien een beetje vreemd, maar ik ben sinds het midden van deze week al weer bezig met het einde van de zomer. En ik vind het, eerlijk gezegd, helemaal niks. Van mij mag deze zomer nog wel een maandje of twee duren, of drie. Persoonlijk vind ik Halloween wel een mooie datum om weer aan het werk te gaan. Helaas denkt mijn werkgever daar iets anders over, en moet ik over drie weken weer aan het werk. En als je bijna drie maanden vrij hebt, dan klinkt drie weken in heel erg kort hoor.
En om mijn zaak beter te ondersteunen, wil ik ook duidelijk maken dat ik laatste twee maanden nou niet echt helemaal vrij heb gehad. Ik bedoel, ik drijf regelmatig in het zwembadje, ben al regelmatig naar Starbucks geweest, maar het is nou niet echt 24/7 feest hier. Niet alleen geef ik namelijk online college tijdens het "summer term", maar ook heb ik wat rapporten moeten schrijven, en vergaderingen bij moeten wonen. Dus ondanks dat ik technisch gezien sinds 8 mei vrij heb, ben ik dus de laatste twee maanden zeker twee dagen per week aan het werk geweest. En dat vind ik eigenlijk best wel zielig voor mezelf.
Maar goed, ik weet het, jullie hebben gelijk, ik ben een zeurpiet. Want hoeveel mensen kunnen zolang parttime werken? OK, behalve alle Nederlanders met ouderschapsverlof/ziektewet regelingen/VUT gedoe? Behalve al die mensen, wed ik dat dat er niet veel zijn.
Het probleem is denk ik allerleerst dat ik het hele jaar naar de zomer toeleef. En dan bedoel ik echt "toeleven". Ik tel weken, reken in hoeveel papers ik nog moet nakijken, en hoeveel weekenden ik nog moet werken. Want na achttien weken van gemiddeld 70 uur per week werken, is de zomer mijn heilige koe.
Maar ja, als die zomer eenmaal begonnen is, dan dient zich het tweede probleem aan: de tijd. In Mei lijkt de zomer een eeuwigheid te duren. Drie maanden lang The Today Show kijken, naar Starbucks met vrienden, ronddobberen in het zwembad, en oh ja, ook nog eens wat werken. Het lijkt wel eindeloos. In de eerste week van Juni kan je ook nog steeds vol vetrouwen roepen dat je "heeeerlijk" nog twee maanden vrij hebt. Maar ja, als je dan in een keer in weken moet gaan denken, dan wordt het toch wel heel erg eng. Ondanks dat de gehele Amerikaanse bevolking collectief een moord zou doen voor drie weken vrij, en de meeste Nederlanders vaak ook niet verder komen dan 21 dagen betaald verlof, is drie weken dan gewoon heel erg kort.
En wat ook al niet helpt is dat volgens de staat Georgia de zomer op 1 Augustus is afgelopen. Scholen beginnen die week, universiteitsmedewerkers worden terugverwacht, en colleges beginnen op de 15e. En dit alles terwijl buiten de mussen nog steeds van het dak vallen, het kwik makkelijk boven de veertig graden uitkomt, en alle televisieprogramma's het nog steeds hebben over "the heat of summer". Wie wil er dan weer aan het werk?
Precies.
Niemand.
En ik al helemaal niet.
En om mijn zaak beter te ondersteunen, wil ik ook duidelijk maken dat ik laatste twee maanden nou niet echt helemaal vrij heb gehad. Ik bedoel, ik drijf regelmatig in het zwembadje, ben al regelmatig naar Starbucks geweest, maar het is nou niet echt 24/7 feest hier. Niet alleen geef ik namelijk online college tijdens het "summer term", maar ook heb ik wat rapporten moeten schrijven, en vergaderingen bij moeten wonen. Dus ondanks dat ik technisch gezien sinds 8 mei vrij heb, ben ik dus de laatste twee maanden zeker twee dagen per week aan het werk geweest. En dat vind ik eigenlijk best wel zielig voor mezelf.
Maar goed, ik weet het, jullie hebben gelijk, ik ben een zeurpiet. Want hoeveel mensen kunnen zolang parttime werken? OK, behalve alle Nederlanders met ouderschapsverlof/ziektewet regelingen/VUT gedoe? Behalve al die mensen, wed ik dat dat er niet veel zijn.
Het probleem is denk ik allerleerst dat ik het hele jaar naar de zomer toeleef. En dan bedoel ik echt "toeleven". Ik tel weken, reken in hoeveel papers ik nog moet nakijken, en hoeveel weekenden ik nog moet werken. Want na achttien weken van gemiddeld 70 uur per week werken, is de zomer mijn heilige koe.
Maar ja, als die zomer eenmaal begonnen is, dan dient zich het tweede probleem aan: de tijd. In Mei lijkt de zomer een eeuwigheid te duren. Drie maanden lang The Today Show kijken, naar Starbucks met vrienden, ronddobberen in het zwembad, en oh ja, ook nog eens wat werken. Het lijkt wel eindeloos. In de eerste week van Juni kan je ook nog steeds vol vetrouwen roepen dat je "heeeerlijk" nog twee maanden vrij hebt. Maar ja, als je dan in een keer in weken moet gaan denken, dan wordt het toch wel heel erg eng. Ondanks dat de gehele Amerikaanse bevolking collectief een moord zou doen voor drie weken vrij, en de meeste Nederlanders vaak ook niet verder komen dan 21 dagen betaald verlof, is drie weken dan gewoon heel erg kort.
En wat ook al niet helpt is dat volgens de staat Georgia de zomer op 1 Augustus is afgelopen. Scholen beginnen die week, universiteitsmedewerkers worden terugverwacht, en colleges beginnen op de 15e. En dit alles terwijl buiten de mussen nog steeds van het dak vallen, het kwik makkelijk boven de veertig graden uitkomt, en alle televisieprogramma's het nog steeds hebben over "the heat of summer". Wie wil er dan weer aan het werk?
Precies.
Niemand.
En ik al helemaal niet.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
From the halls of Montezuma Part II
How do you know when a Marine Educators' Workshop has been successful? When the majority of the educators are wondering what it would be like to partake in the ten-week Officer's Candidate's School (OCS), in spite of all the drilling, the physical exercise, the obstacle course clearly designed by the devil himself, and the almost traumatic experience of eating lunch in the same chow hall as the candidates.
Seriously, in spite of, or perhaps I should say, in line with, all my earlier misgivings, I have to admit that the organizers of the USMC Educators' workshop were very effective. No matter how anti-establishment and peace-loving all the academics were on arrival on Monday, by the time Friday rolled around, we were all convinced that Marine Corps officers were breed a notch above all others.
Now I have to admit that the USMC did just the right things in the right order. On Tuesday, they didn't just show us around The Basic School (the 6-month training course all 2nd lieutenants take upon graduation from OCS), no, they let us play with enormous machine guns, walk around an amphibious vehicle, and mess around with lots and lots of sand during the sand table exercise. As we all know, at one point in their lives, most (if not all) successful academics, were the geeky little kid who never got picked for anything but wanted nothing more than to play with the big kids, and well, the marine corps fed into that need perfectly.
On Wednesday, they further underlined the notion that academics' lives are really not that exciting by having us sit through about three hours of powerpoint presentations held by the Marine Corps University. No one else used slides, or notes, or a lectern, except the organization that is known by the name "university". Coincidence? I think not. Just as I don't think it's a coincidence that they followed up this "death by powerpoint" presentation by a twenty-minute ride in one of the HMX helicopters. Yes, I said HMX. The same squadron that transports the President and all of his "straphangers" as the HMX pilots like to call them. Academics may like to pretend we're all that and a bag of chips by using "doctor" and "professor" as freely as possibly, but no title, tenure, corner officer, or Tue-Wed-Thur teaching schedule is a match to a ride on a helicopter. Nothing.
So by the time our visit to OCS rolled around on Thursday, we were ripe for the picking. Had the USMC taken us to OCS on our first day, we probably would have all scrambled for the next flight back home. And not only that, we would have probably been on the phone to our media contacts ready to file a hot and heavy expose on the the insanity that is the marine corps. However, by now we were so in love with the idea of being a marine corps officer, that the trauma possibly inflicted by OCS only seemed an acceptable payment for all the awesomeness that was to follow.
In short, the educators' workshop did the trick. Well, sort of. You see, the one thing the marine corps couldn't prevent was for us to talk to one another. And as anyone who's been around educators knows, academics love to talk. About everything. Preferably in a sarcastic, ironic, tongue-in-cheek manner. And in Thursday night, we did just that. We did it for so long, in fact, that the dining room staff eventually begged us to move to the bar as they really wanted to go home.
So what did we talk about? The psychology of OCS? The persuasive techniques used by the USMC? The impact of TBS on the formation of future officers? Of course not. We talked about how cool it would be if we all, like the candidates at OCS started talking about ourselves and others in third person, "This Professor feels that this student has not tried their best", or "This Professor feels that the chair is possibly stepping out of line with the chair's decision".
Then we moved on to funny comebacks that the candidates could use for their sergeant instructors, such as, "This candidate feels that the sergeant instructor needed more sleep", or "This candidate thinks that the sergeant instructor got up at the wrong side of the rack" (we were especially tickled by the proper use of naval technology there), and "This candidate thinks the sergeant instructor needs a hug."
Finally, we decided that "sergeant instructor" really wasn't powerful enough, and that the instructors at OCS should really go by a more euphemistic name.
The name we came up with?
Marine Educators.
And I'm pretty sure it was no coincidence that's that what the marine officers had been calling us all week. Secretly, I'm convinced, we're all still that little kid who might be a Professor, but who really wants to be the big bully yelling orders at everyone.
Ooh-rah.
Seriously, in spite of, or perhaps I should say, in line with, all my earlier misgivings, I have to admit that the organizers of the USMC Educators' workshop were very effective. No matter how anti-establishment and peace-loving all the academics were on arrival on Monday, by the time Friday rolled around, we were all convinced that Marine Corps officers were breed a notch above all others.
Now I have to admit that the USMC did just the right things in the right order. On Tuesday, they didn't just show us around The Basic School (the 6-month training course all 2nd lieutenants take upon graduation from OCS), no, they let us play with enormous machine guns, walk around an amphibious vehicle, and mess around with lots and lots of sand during the sand table exercise. As we all know, at one point in their lives, most (if not all) successful academics, were the geeky little kid who never got picked for anything but wanted nothing more than to play with the big kids, and well, the marine corps fed into that need perfectly.
On Wednesday, they further underlined the notion that academics' lives are really not that exciting by having us sit through about three hours of powerpoint presentations held by the Marine Corps University. No one else used slides, or notes, or a lectern, except the organization that is known by the name "university". Coincidence? I think not. Just as I don't think it's a coincidence that they followed up this "death by powerpoint" presentation by a twenty-minute ride in one of the HMX helicopters. Yes, I said HMX. The same squadron that transports the President and all of his "straphangers" as the HMX pilots like to call them. Academics may like to pretend we're all that and a bag of chips by using "doctor" and "professor" as freely as possibly, but no title, tenure, corner officer, or Tue-Wed-Thur teaching schedule is a match to a ride on a helicopter. Nothing.
So by the time our visit to OCS rolled around on Thursday, we were ripe for the picking. Had the USMC taken us to OCS on our first day, we probably would have all scrambled for the next flight back home. And not only that, we would have probably been on the phone to our media contacts ready to file a hot and heavy expose on the the insanity that is the marine corps. However, by now we were so in love with the idea of being a marine corps officer, that the trauma possibly inflicted by OCS only seemed an acceptable payment for all the awesomeness that was to follow.
In short, the educators' workshop did the trick. Well, sort of. You see, the one thing the marine corps couldn't prevent was for us to talk to one another. And as anyone who's been around educators knows, academics love to talk. About everything. Preferably in a sarcastic, ironic, tongue-in-cheek manner. And in Thursday night, we did just that. We did it for so long, in fact, that the dining room staff eventually begged us to move to the bar as they really wanted to go home.
So what did we talk about? The psychology of OCS? The persuasive techniques used by the USMC? The impact of TBS on the formation of future officers? Of course not. We talked about how cool it would be if we all, like the candidates at OCS started talking about ourselves and others in third person, "This Professor feels that this student has not tried their best", or "This Professor feels that the chair is possibly stepping out of line with the chair's decision".
Then we moved on to funny comebacks that the candidates could use for their sergeant instructors, such as, "This candidate feels that the sergeant instructor needed more sleep", or "This candidate thinks that the sergeant instructor got up at the wrong side of the rack" (we were especially tickled by the proper use of naval technology there), and "This candidate thinks the sergeant instructor needs a hug."
Finally, we decided that "sergeant instructor" really wasn't powerful enough, and that the instructors at OCS should really go by a more euphemistic name.
The name we came up with?
Marine Educators.
And I'm pretty sure it was no coincidence that's that what the marine officers had been calling us all week. Secretly, I'm convinced, we're all still that little kid who might be a Professor, but who really wants to be the big bully yelling orders at everyone.
Ooh-rah.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Round 'em up!
So, here I was full of promises about writing on this week's USMC Educators' workshop, and here it's Saturday already. The main problem was, as I was telling one of my fellow educators, that I really, really enjoyed myself, and, people, let's be honest here, what kind of an angle is that for a cynical, snarky blogger such as myself?
You will all be happy to know, however, that I did finally figure out how to make marines laugh. Or at least one of them. On Tuesday, we started with a tour of "The Basic School", where we were first shown the different types of weapons and vehicles the newly commissioned officers used in their field training. One of the vehicles we got to explore was a humvee, which, according to the captain who was our tour guide, cost about $200K without bells and whistles (read: communication equipment), and about $400K fully loaded. Call me Scrooge, but when you consider that most humvees last no more than one six-month deployment, I thought that was a bit of a bad deal, so I said, "Wow. That's pretty wild. Especially when I've heard their resale value is pretty crappy."
Not only did the marine captain laugh, he actually tacked onto my (pretty lame) joke, and said, "Yeah, you know, once you drive them off the lot, they're pretty much worthless."
Success.
Interestingly, of all the things I noticed the most this week, it was what a weird bunch of people us academics truly are. There were about 60 educators, twenty marine officers, and they still struggled to keep us all on the same page. And it wasn't because they didn't have a tight schedule, oh, they did. It also wasn't because they weren't paying attention, because, trust me, they were on us like white on rice. No, it was because every single academic truly is an absent-minded professor.
Take our arrival at The Basic School for instance. We disembarked from the two buses at the edge of the woods (or treeline, as marines like to call any collection of trees), and immediately started to drift all over the place. Some made a beeline for a row of port-a-johns, others wandered off towards stacks of footlockers, others drifted towards the rifle range, while other stood around and stared at an odd bug on the ground, the leaves on the trees, or just out into space. So when our tourguide called out, "OK, round 'em up, people!", he got maybe five people to actually take a few steps in his general direction.
Raising his (truly phenomenal) eyebrows, he tried again, "People, let's round up and get started."
Ten more people joined the now loose circle around the man, but most of us were still wandering around, talking to each other, asking if we'd put on enough bugspray, and if we should leave our water on the bus or not.
Finally, the marine gave up, "Hey! Educators! Round 'em up means you all form a TIGHT circle around me! Not that you continue walking around."
Now we got it.
A few hours later we were allowed to participate in a sand table exercise, or STEX. This basically means you sit on bleachers surrounding a gigantic sand box that is laid out to look like a piece of land with military positions, roads, trees, and water. You are then presented with a tactical situation (this is the enemy position, you have to take it) that you need to solve. The educators were split into groups, and asked to resolve just such a situation. Think of it as super Stratego. Well, the captain who led the exercise started off by asking the very simple question, "What is the enemy's strength"
For those of you who are interested, the answer was also very simple, namely, they're dug in on a hill.
However, the educator who raised her hand instead started provided a long, complicated, multi-paragraph answer that I'm pretty sure used such phrases as "geo-political", but never actually addressed the crux of the matter: the gigantic mountain.
Two days later, on Thursday, we were given a tour of OCS, the officer's candidate school. Unlike many of the other branches, the marine corps' officers' school is very much like enlisted basic training, only worse, at least if I'm to believe the marines who have been through both, and yes, those do exist. There is an insane amount of physical exercise, lots of yelling and screaming, parade drilling, leadership exercises, weapons training, and very little sleep. One of the things that we all noticed immediately was that the candidates were not allowed to use any pronouns, but especially "I" or "me". So instead of saying, "I would like to use the bathroom", they have to say, "This candidate would like to use the bathroom". Of course, if they were to say that to a sergeant instructor, they would get their heads chewed off, so that request would most likely go something like this, "Sergeant instructor, this candidate would like to ask a question. This candidate would like to know if s/he may use the head". And if they're lucky, the sergeant instructor lets them.
Of course, being the academics that we are, we first of all decided that Sergeant instructor is far too straightforward, especially considered the vast amount of euphemisms we'd learned about that week. We therefore came up with "Marine Educators", to better reflect the important job carried out by these fine men and women. And then we came up with some smart comebacks we thought the candidates could use, such as, "Marine Educator, sir, this candidate believes that the marine educator got up at the wrong side of the rack this morning", or "Marine Educator, sir, this candidate believes that the marine educator needs a hug", as obviously that would work.
So yes, we're a very silly bunch. Although you will be happy to know that when we were asked to "round 'em up" on Thursday afternoon, every single one of the sixty or so educators was within three feet of the captain in about ten seconds. So even though we are silly, we can be taught!
You will all be happy to know, however, that I did finally figure out how to make marines laugh. Or at least one of them. On Tuesday, we started with a tour of "The Basic School", where we were first shown the different types of weapons and vehicles the newly commissioned officers used in their field training. One of the vehicles we got to explore was a humvee, which, according to the captain who was our tour guide, cost about $200K without bells and whistles (read: communication equipment), and about $400K fully loaded. Call me Scrooge, but when you consider that most humvees last no more than one six-month deployment, I thought that was a bit of a bad deal, so I said, "Wow. That's pretty wild. Especially when I've heard their resale value is pretty crappy."
Not only did the marine captain laugh, he actually tacked onto my (pretty lame) joke, and said, "Yeah, you know, once you drive them off the lot, they're pretty much worthless."
Success.
Interestingly, of all the things I noticed the most this week, it was what a weird bunch of people us academics truly are. There were about 60 educators, twenty marine officers, and they still struggled to keep us all on the same page. And it wasn't because they didn't have a tight schedule, oh, they did. It also wasn't because they weren't paying attention, because, trust me, they were on us like white on rice. No, it was because every single academic truly is an absent-minded professor.
Take our arrival at The Basic School for instance. We disembarked from the two buses at the edge of the woods (or treeline, as marines like to call any collection of trees), and immediately started to drift all over the place. Some made a beeline for a row of port-a-johns, others wandered off towards stacks of footlockers, others drifted towards the rifle range, while other stood around and stared at an odd bug on the ground, the leaves on the trees, or just out into space. So when our tourguide called out, "OK, round 'em up, people!", he got maybe five people to actually take a few steps in his general direction.
Raising his (truly phenomenal) eyebrows, he tried again, "People, let's round up and get started."
Ten more people joined the now loose circle around the man, but most of us were still wandering around, talking to each other, asking if we'd put on enough bugspray, and if we should leave our water on the bus or not.
Finally, the marine gave up, "Hey! Educators! Round 'em up means you all form a TIGHT circle around me! Not that you continue walking around."
Now we got it.
A few hours later we were allowed to participate in a sand table exercise, or STEX. This basically means you sit on bleachers surrounding a gigantic sand box that is laid out to look like a piece of land with military positions, roads, trees, and water. You are then presented with a tactical situation (this is the enemy position, you have to take it) that you need to solve. The educators were split into groups, and asked to resolve just such a situation. Think of it as super Stratego. Well, the captain who led the exercise started off by asking the very simple question, "What is the enemy's strength"
For those of you who are interested, the answer was also very simple, namely, they're dug in on a hill.
However, the educator who raised her hand instead started provided a long, complicated, multi-paragraph answer that I'm pretty sure used such phrases as "geo-political", but never actually addressed the crux of the matter: the gigantic mountain.
Two days later, on Thursday, we were given a tour of OCS, the officer's candidate school. Unlike many of the other branches, the marine corps' officers' school is very much like enlisted basic training, only worse, at least if I'm to believe the marines who have been through both, and yes, those do exist. There is an insane amount of physical exercise, lots of yelling and screaming, parade drilling, leadership exercises, weapons training, and very little sleep. One of the things that we all noticed immediately was that the candidates were not allowed to use any pronouns, but especially "I" or "me". So instead of saying, "I would like to use the bathroom", they have to say, "This candidate would like to use the bathroom". Of course, if they were to say that to a sergeant instructor, they would get their heads chewed off, so that request would most likely go something like this, "Sergeant instructor, this candidate would like to ask a question. This candidate would like to know if s/he may use the head". And if they're lucky, the sergeant instructor lets them.
Of course, being the academics that we are, we first of all decided that Sergeant instructor is far too straightforward, especially considered the vast amount of euphemisms we'd learned about that week. We therefore came up with "Marine Educators", to better reflect the important job carried out by these fine men and women. And then we came up with some smart comebacks we thought the candidates could use, such as, "Marine Educator, sir, this candidate believes that the marine educator got up at the wrong side of the rack this morning", or "Marine Educator, sir, this candidate believes that the marine educator needs a hug", as obviously that would work.
So yes, we're a very silly bunch. Although you will be happy to know that when we were asked to "round 'em up" on Thursday afternoon, every single one of the sixty or so educators was within three feet of the captain in about ten seconds. So even though we are silly, we can be taught!
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