"You've got to be a little bit more careful, when you talk about the sensitive subject of race."
Everyone's a little bit racist ~ Avenue Q
"I'd like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony! I'd like to hold it in my arms, and keep it company"
I'd like to buy the world a Coke ~ 1970s Coca Cola Commercial
I never realized I was white, until I came to this particular school. Obviously, I was aware of the fact that I had white skin (or pink, or tan, or something in between), but I never thought of myself as a "white woman". I suppose you could argue that makes me obtuse, but I'm more inclined to believe that that's just how it is for white people. In the US, white is the norm, and therefore does not require awareness, while anything else is called "ethnic", is considered an exception, and thus entails a greater awareness.
For the past four years, this is how I start our class discussion on race in my course on ethnic minorities in the media. I never really planned this little speech, but four years ago, when I first taught this class, and asked my students to define "race", I realized how awkward this situation could be. I mean, here I was, the only white professor in our department, teaching the one class that talks about the representation of African Americans in the media. Now it never actually was awkward. At least not for me, as I knew very well that the reason I was teaching this class was that I am the only professor in our department who can say anything sensible about race and media. The fact that I happen to be the only white professor is irrelevant. To me, anyway. But standing there, in 2008, in front of 28 African American students who had all consciously elected to attend an HBCU, I suddenly realized how to them, this might be very relevant indeed.
So I did the only thing I could think of; I was honest. I told them exactly what I just told you. As a white person, I have the incredibly luxury of being unaware of my race, something they don't have. Then I explain how odd it was to realize what it's like to be the minority. And all the interesting things you suddenly run in to.
And, really, it is very odd. Everyone I meet, for one thing, remembers my name. It doesn't matter if they met me once for five seconds in a crowded room, they'll call me by my very long and complicated last name the next time they see me, while I'm desperately trying to remember where on earth I met them. For the longest time I thought that people here just had awesome memories. Or that I was probably being so socially awkward, it was easy to remember me ("oh yeah, that's the woman who (insert random social gaffe here). I remember her!"). But then, last year, when a police officer I had spoken to a week prior called my name across a busy atrium, I suddenly realized how these people all knew who I was: I am the only blond, white woman campus. There are other white women on campus, but none of them have blond straight hair. Just like my friend A tells her blind dates, "I'll be the one Black woman in the bar", I have suddenly become identifiable by my race. Very odd.
I also find myself surprised when I see another white person on campus. And no matter how hard I try not to, I know that my "Hi!" to them is a little more enthusiastic, because, Oh! Wow! There's someone who looks like me! How cool is that! I suddenly understand why, the one time husband-dear and I went to an off-base church, we noticed that all the African Americans (all six of them - out of a 1500 person service) sat together. That doesn't mean I can explain why, but it somehow seems to make sense to me.
So I can understand why, when you attend an HBCU, you might find it slightly strange that the one class that directly addresses sensitive racial issues is taught by someone who is not just not Black, but is actually a member of the race that you know, tried to keep you at the back of the bus for close to a hundred years.
That leaves the professor (i.e., me) with the interesting task of convincing the students that in a class on race, race really should not matter. What matters is expertise. And so far, I've had no problems doing just that. I'm sure it helps that I'm Dutch, brutally honest ("So let's talk about your prejudices"), and asks students to elaborate on everything they come up with, using the ever-dreaded, "Using the theory we just discussed, tell me, why?". And the one year none of those tricks worked, I simply borrowed a milk crate, and carried all the books I had read in relation to race and media into class. Dumping all twenty or so books on my desk, I said, "Once you've read all of those, I will let you challenge my expertise the way you did last class. Until then, if it's not focused on your personal learning process, I don't want to hear it."
And it worked.
Here's to another interesting semester.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
Egg, faces, and bathrooms
This past Friday I had the perfect blog topic, or so I thought. And, believe me, it was perfect. About an hour before my first class of the semester was about to start, I decided it was time to locate this mysterious "Room 240" that had appeared on my schedule for the very first time. In my department, we tend to teach our classes in the same wing (with all the fancypants equipment), and as those room numbers run from 150 to 190, I knew room 240 had to be somewhere on the second floor. But where? So off I went. And very quickly found rooms 240A and 240B.
Room 240A and 240B are the faculty bathrooms.
Yes, I said bathrooms.
Those exact same bathrooms I waxed lyrical about a few years ago, as places of silence, warmth, and with a complete lack of student interruptions. Now although I love those bathrooms, and my opinion of our current administration has been through its ups and downs, I refused to accept that someone, somewhere decided that the best place to meet for our senior capstone course was in the bathroom. Besides, didn't the "A" and "B" clearly indicate that there had to be a non-lettered "Room 240" somewhere in the building?
So I kept looking. And looking. And looking. But no room 240. So I enlisted the help of the dean's secretary, who happened to see me wandering the halls, and we wandered around together for a while, without any luck.
"Yeah, Dr. D.", she eventually sighed, "I hate to say this, but it seems to me like you really are scheduled to teach in the bathroom."
Now don't you agree that that would have made for a great blog post? Can you imagine the sarcasm dripping off this page as I pondered whether to teach both male and female students in the girls' bathroom or whether to separate the class by gender? Or the wrath I would have bestowed upon the new, improved, totally awesome scheduling program so proudly introduced by our administration last year?
Alas, it was not to be. For after I had asked the secretary if she would mind posting a note on both bathroom doors that obviously (and I insisted she include that word), Dr. D.'s class would not be meeting in the bathroom today, and made my way back to my office to email all of my students to meet in my office, I ran into Carrie. Carrie is a very quiet, but incredibly bright student. And right in the middle of my mumbled rant about incompetent schedulers and southern ways to indicate you needed to just quit, she quietly asked, "Uhm, Dr. D? I'm in your three o'clock class, and I was wondering if we were meeting in the Health building."
"No, we're not meeting in the bath...." Wait. Did she just say the health building? That big square monstrosity across the street? I stopped in my tracks, "I'm sorry, Carrie, what did you say?"
"Well, on my schedule, the building code says we're in the health building, but I just wanted to check with you."
The building code, you should know, is a wonderful little three-number code that is added before each room assignment, designated the building said room is in. It's something English professors will dread, as their classes tend to be scheduled all over campus, while lucky faculty members like myself never consider, since we always teach in the same wing of the same building. Always. Except this semester.
So, with the blush creeping on to my neck and cheeks, I checked my schedule, and indeed. Instead of the familiar "228" building code, the code next to the infamous room 240 was "229", a.k.a the health building. So it appeared as though my class wasn't meeting in the bathroom after all.
Do you remember that post I wrote a few months back, about my students not reading their assignments, their books, their notes? Yes, well, it appears that their professor is not much better at it herself.
So much for a cool, ranting blog post.
I'm sorry.
Room 240A and 240B are the faculty bathrooms.
Yes, I said bathrooms.
Those exact same bathrooms I waxed lyrical about a few years ago, as places of silence, warmth, and with a complete lack of student interruptions. Now although I love those bathrooms, and my opinion of our current administration has been through its ups and downs, I refused to accept that someone, somewhere decided that the best place to meet for our senior capstone course was in the bathroom. Besides, didn't the "A" and "B" clearly indicate that there had to be a non-lettered "Room 240" somewhere in the building?
So I kept looking. And looking. And looking. But no room 240. So I enlisted the help of the dean's secretary, who happened to see me wandering the halls, and we wandered around together for a while, without any luck.
"Yeah, Dr. D.", she eventually sighed, "I hate to say this, but it seems to me like you really are scheduled to teach in the bathroom."
Now don't you agree that that would have made for a great blog post? Can you imagine the sarcasm dripping off this page as I pondered whether to teach both male and female students in the girls' bathroom or whether to separate the class by gender? Or the wrath I would have bestowed upon the new, improved, totally awesome scheduling program so proudly introduced by our administration last year?
Alas, it was not to be. For after I had asked the secretary if she would mind posting a note on both bathroom doors that obviously (and I insisted she include that word), Dr. D.'s class would not be meeting in the bathroom today, and made my way back to my office to email all of my students to meet in my office, I ran into Carrie. Carrie is a very quiet, but incredibly bright student. And right in the middle of my mumbled rant about incompetent schedulers and southern ways to indicate you needed to just quit, she quietly asked, "Uhm, Dr. D? I'm in your three o'clock class, and I was wondering if we were meeting in the Health building."
"No, we're not meeting in the bath...." Wait. Did she just say the health building? That big square monstrosity across the street? I stopped in my tracks, "I'm sorry, Carrie, what did you say?"
"Well, on my schedule, the building code says we're in the health building, but I just wanted to check with you."
The building code, you should know, is a wonderful little three-number code that is added before each room assignment, designated the building said room is in. It's something English professors will dread, as their classes tend to be scheduled all over campus, while lucky faculty members like myself never consider, since we always teach in the same wing of the same building. Always. Except this semester.
So, with the blush creeping on to my neck and cheeks, I checked my schedule, and indeed. Instead of the familiar "228" building code, the code next to the infamous room 240 was "229", a.k.a the health building. So it appeared as though my class wasn't meeting in the bathroom after all.
Do you remember that post I wrote a few months back, about my students not reading their assignments, their books, their notes? Yes, well, it appears that their professor is not much better at it herself.
So much for a cool, ranting blog post.
I'm sorry.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
De opkomst van het cynisme
Vier jaar, vijf maanden, vijf dagen, en pak en beet vier uur. Dat is ongeveer hoe lang het heeft geduurd voordat het cynisme over mijn werk toesloeg. En nee, ik was niet eerder cynisch, echt niet. OK, ik schreef wellicht cynische stukjes over de hopeloosheid van sommige studenten en ondersteunend personeel, maar er school altijd ergens een sprankje hoop. Er was humor, zelfspot, of een onderliggend optimisme. En vanaf vandaag zo rond twaalf uur zal het nog hard werken worden om dat vast te houden.
Nu vraagt u zich misschien af of er is groots, meeslepends, monumentaals is gebeurd vandaag dat tot deze vaststelling heeft geleid, en, nee, helaas is dat niet het geval. Gisteren was ik weer begonnen, net als elke eerste week van Januari, met frisse tegenzin, maar stiekem ook wel weer flink wat enthousiasme over hoe ik dit semester de colleges zou veranderen. En vanochtend kwam het cynisme in een keer op zetten. Ik was bezig case studies uit te kiezen voor mijn filosofie college, en was hardop een beetje aan het mummelen, zo van "This one looks boring, oh, that one might be OK. Oh, I bet they'll love that one" (sorry, ik mummel altijd in het Engels, behalve wanneer ik droom over Nederlandse vrienden en familie, en dan mummel ik, volgens manlief, in het Nederlands).
Maar goed, zo was ik gezellig bezig, totdat uit het niets een luide stem in mijn hoofd het vrolijk gemummel overstemde met een donderend, "Ja, doe eens effe normaal, je denkt toch zeker niet dat die studenten van jou dan ook maar een van je case studies leuk gaan vinden he? Je krijgt weer net zoveel gezeur en gezever als vorig jaar. En het jaar daarvoor. En het jaar daarvoor, en daarvoor." Blijkbaar spreekt mijn cynische ik onvervalst Nederlands. Met een licht bekakt accent. Maar de stem was nog niet klaar; "Je weet precies hoe het gaat, "Oh, Dr. D., I couldn't do the case study, because my car broke down." "Oh Dr. D., I couldn't do that thing you assigned, it was JUST TOO HARD! Waarom doe je in hemelsnaam zoveel moeite?".
Sjips. De stem had gewoon gelijk.
Het hielp niet dat ik erna een telefoontje kreeg van onze secretaresse met de vrolijke mededeling dat omdat onze coordinator niet bereikbaar was (lees: hij had zichzelf nog een paar extra ongeoorloofde verlofdaagjes toebedeeld op een mooi, wit, zonnig strand), ik nu al zijn "advisees" zou krijgen, en of ik de vijf die bij hun kantoor stonden, even overnemen.
Oh ja, en ook hielp het telefoontje vijf minuten later niet, van een advisee van mijn coordinator die vroeg wat ze moest doen nu het computerprogramma waarmee je je voor je colleges inschreef eruit lag. En toen een telefoontje van een student die vandaag een formulier van A naar B moest hebben, maar pas Maandag op de uni zou zijn, en of ik dat dus even wilde doen. En toen een vraag van een student waar Professor H. toch was, en of ik wist waneer hij terug kwam, en of ik wist hoe zij hem kon bereiken, en of ik wist wat ze moest doen als Professor H. haar advisor was, en ze toch echt formulier Z nu door hem ondertekend moest hebben.
Meteen kreeg ik allerlei visioenen over hoe het semester weer zou verlopen. En hoe ik er weer allerlei komische blogjes over zou schrijven. En hoe ik weer elke avond doodmoe op de bank zou neervallen.
En op eens was daar het cynisme. En had ik er allemaal even niet zo'n zin meer in.
Dus nu heb ik een taakje voor mezelf, en voor u, mijn altijd geweldig optimistische lezers: Hoe krijg ik dat cynisme weer terug de doos* in? Want uiteraard heeft niemand iets aan een cynische Dr. D., ikzelf nogwel het minste. Alle adviezen zijn welkom.
*van Pandora wel te verstaan.
Nu vraagt u zich misschien af of er is groots, meeslepends, monumentaals is gebeurd vandaag dat tot deze vaststelling heeft geleid, en, nee, helaas is dat niet het geval. Gisteren was ik weer begonnen, net als elke eerste week van Januari, met frisse tegenzin, maar stiekem ook wel weer flink wat enthousiasme over hoe ik dit semester de colleges zou veranderen. En vanochtend kwam het cynisme in een keer op zetten. Ik was bezig case studies uit te kiezen voor mijn filosofie college, en was hardop een beetje aan het mummelen, zo van "This one looks boring, oh, that one might be OK. Oh, I bet they'll love that one" (sorry, ik mummel altijd in het Engels, behalve wanneer ik droom over Nederlandse vrienden en familie, en dan mummel ik, volgens manlief, in het Nederlands).
Maar goed, zo was ik gezellig bezig, totdat uit het niets een luide stem in mijn hoofd het vrolijk gemummel overstemde met een donderend, "Ja, doe eens effe normaal, je denkt toch zeker niet dat die studenten van jou dan ook maar een van je case studies leuk gaan vinden he? Je krijgt weer net zoveel gezeur en gezever als vorig jaar. En het jaar daarvoor. En het jaar daarvoor, en daarvoor." Blijkbaar spreekt mijn cynische ik onvervalst Nederlands. Met een licht bekakt accent. Maar de stem was nog niet klaar; "Je weet precies hoe het gaat, "Oh, Dr. D., I couldn't do the case study, because my car broke down." "Oh Dr. D., I couldn't do that thing you assigned, it was JUST TOO HARD! Waarom doe je in hemelsnaam zoveel moeite?".
Sjips. De stem had gewoon gelijk.
Het hielp niet dat ik erna een telefoontje kreeg van onze secretaresse met de vrolijke mededeling dat omdat onze coordinator niet bereikbaar was (lees: hij had zichzelf nog een paar extra ongeoorloofde verlofdaagjes toebedeeld op een mooi, wit, zonnig strand), ik nu al zijn "advisees" zou krijgen, en of ik de vijf die bij hun kantoor stonden, even overnemen.
Oh ja, en ook hielp het telefoontje vijf minuten later niet, van een advisee van mijn coordinator die vroeg wat ze moest doen nu het computerprogramma waarmee je je voor je colleges inschreef eruit lag. En toen een telefoontje van een student die vandaag een formulier van A naar B moest hebben, maar pas Maandag op de uni zou zijn, en of ik dat dus even wilde doen. En toen een vraag van een student waar Professor H. toch was, en of ik wist waneer hij terug kwam, en of ik wist hoe zij hem kon bereiken, en of ik wist wat ze moest doen als Professor H. haar advisor was, en ze toch echt formulier Z nu door hem ondertekend moest hebben.
Meteen kreeg ik allerlei visioenen over hoe het semester weer zou verlopen. En hoe ik er weer allerlei komische blogjes over zou schrijven. En hoe ik weer elke avond doodmoe op de bank zou neervallen.
En op eens was daar het cynisme. En had ik er allemaal even niet zo'n zin meer in.
Dus nu heb ik een taakje voor mezelf, en voor u, mijn altijd geweldig optimistische lezers: Hoe krijg ik dat cynisme weer terug de doos* in? Want uiteraard heeft niemand iets aan een cynische Dr. D., ikzelf nogwel het minste. Alle adviezen zijn welkom.
*van Pandora wel te verstaan.
Monday, January 2, 2012
The first
All it takes is a few grills, one enormously varied collection of fish, one fire pit, eight assorted neighbors and their children, a variety of alcoholic beverages, and before you know it, poof! another year has passed by. I was debating writing one of those nostalgic "oh, look at all the cool stuff I did in 2011" posts yesterday, but then an invitation to a friend's house and a fondue party got in the way, and it never happened. As I'm fairly certain that blog etiquette eschews writing a nostalgic post recapturing all those winning moments any later than the first of the year, and I really don't have enough winning moments to write about anyway, I threw that idea out the window.
But then I realized that today is the beautiful date of 1/2/12, and I really had to post something on that day. Now for those of you living in countries where they actually organize dates in a logical, hierarchical manner (you know, day, month, year), my apologies. I realize you have to wait a whole month before you all get to write 1/2/12, so I'm sorry for whetting your appetite this early on.
However, when posting on the -second- day of the year, a day which was pretty much spent doing nothing (and battling an epic storm on a 30 mile bike ride), what is there to write about, besides some sort of entertaining analysis of the previous year? So, as I was doing the dishes just now, I realized that although I talk to you guys about all the races we do, the papers I present, my students, the review-nightmares I go through, I never really talk about my smaller, yet equally important triumphs. Upon consideration, I have done a number of things in the past year that I never thought I would do, and what better to way to waste the next five minutes of your life than to read about them.
1. I've started to bake. For real. As in from scratch, with recipes that involve more than "add water an two eggs to content bag and stir". As in I now have several index cards written by me in my recipe book (and in case anyone is interested in a good carrot cake, apple pie, or peanut butter cookie recipe, I got them!). And to top it all off, I just, after finishing up another bag of chocolate-covered pretzels, decided that is going to be my next project.
2. I am the proud owner of a sewing machine. I don't know how to use it, and I have still to put on my buttons, or sew up my own throw pillows (why struggle when one's husband is so skilled with needle and thread), but, people, there is a sewing machine in my house. And I've voiced a desire to learn how to use it. And as my mother can tell you, that has been a long time coming. I'm not sure when I'll find the time to piece all those quilts I will learn how to make, but, people, there is a sewing machine in my office. That in itself is a miracle.
3. I'm sort of over the baby thing. Not sure why or how, but this summer I realized that for the first time in two years I was really OK with the whole "you can't have any kids" reality. I still don't do baby showers, and please don't ask me to change your baby's diaper, because, yeah, I won't (seriously, if I can't have the pleasures, why would anyone think I'd love to share in the misery?), but I can actually walk into a kids' clothes store without tearing up, and revel in the fact that if I don't sleep well, it's all on me.
4. I am finally the proud owner of a well-organized dresser. You may remember that last year, one of my new year's resolutions was to organize all of my pantyhose and knee-highs. Well, not only am I now the proud owner of a well-organized pantyhose-drawer, but thanks to a sudden outburst in organizational madness, the other five drawers could serve as models in an Ikea catalog. There's enough little containers and boxes to keep several toddlers occupied for an entire Christmas morning, and although sometimes getting out a specific pair of pajamas requires moving the contents of the entire drawer the floor, it's organized.
5. Those scars I earned at that adventure race back in 2010? The one that involved bushwacking through acres of thistles and brambles where my legs came away looking like a patchwork quilt? Well, thanks to some serious anti-stretchmark cream (and thanks to #3, I no longer get upset when purchasing it), they're gone. I can now show my legs without wondering what people will make of all the lines and scratches, or worrying that the sun will permanently burn them into my skin.
Well, there you have it, 2011 summarized in five minor triumphs. I would love to tell you I have some seriously lofty goals for 2012, but apart from winning the lottery so I can pay a chauffeur to drive me to work every day, I'm really just fine.
Happy belated new year!
But then I realized that today is the beautiful date of 1/2/12, and I really had to post something on that day. Now for those of you living in countries where they actually organize dates in a logical, hierarchical manner (you know, day, month, year), my apologies. I realize you have to wait a whole month before you all get to write 1/2/12, so I'm sorry for whetting your appetite this early on.
However, when posting on the -second- day of the year, a day which was pretty much spent doing nothing (and battling an epic storm on a 30 mile bike ride), what is there to write about, besides some sort of entertaining analysis of the previous year? So, as I was doing the dishes just now, I realized that although I talk to you guys about all the races we do, the papers I present, my students, the review-nightmares I go through, I never really talk about my smaller, yet equally important triumphs. Upon consideration, I have done a number of things in the past year that I never thought I would do, and what better to way to waste the next five minutes of your life than to read about them.
1. I've started to bake. For real. As in from scratch, with recipes that involve more than "add water an two eggs to content bag and stir". As in I now have several index cards written by me in my recipe book (and in case anyone is interested in a good carrot cake, apple pie, or peanut butter cookie recipe, I got them!). And to top it all off, I just, after finishing up another bag of chocolate-covered pretzels, decided that is going to be my next project.
2. I am the proud owner of a sewing machine. I don't know how to use it, and I have still to put on my buttons, or sew up my own throw pillows (why struggle when one's husband is so skilled with needle and thread), but, people, there is a sewing machine in my house. And I've voiced a desire to learn how to use it. And as my mother can tell you, that has been a long time coming. I'm not sure when I'll find the time to piece all those quilts I will learn how to make, but, people, there is a sewing machine in my office. That in itself is a miracle.
3. I'm sort of over the baby thing. Not sure why or how, but this summer I realized that for the first time in two years I was really OK with the whole "you can't have any kids" reality. I still don't do baby showers, and please don't ask me to change your baby's diaper, because, yeah, I won't (seriously, if I can't have the pleasures, why would anyone think I'd love to share in the misery?), but I can actually walk into a kids' clothes store without tearing up, and revel in the fact that if I don't sleep well, it's all on me.
4. I am finally the proud owner of a well-organized dresser. You may remember that last year, one of my new year's resolutions was to organize all of my pantyhose and knee-highs. Well, not only am I now the proud owner of a well-organized pantyhose-drawer, but thanks to a sudden outburst in organizational madness, the other five drawers could serve as models in an Ikea catalog. There's enough little containers and boxes to keep several toddlers occupied for an entire Christmas morning, and although sometimes getting out a specific pair of pajamas requires moving the contents of the entire drawer the floor, it's organized.
5. Those scars I earned at that adventure race back in 2010? The one that involved bushwacking through acres of thistles and brambles where my legs came away looking like a patchwork quilt? Well, thanks to some serious anti-stretchmark cream (and thanks to #3, I no longer get upset when purchasing it), they're gone. I can now show my legs without wondering what people will make of all the lines and scratches, or worrying that the sun will permanently burn them into my skin.
Well, there you have it, 2011 summarized in five minor triumphs. I would love to tell you I have some seriously lofty goals for 2012, but apart from winning the lottery so I can pay a chauffeur to drive me to work every day, I'm really just fine.
Happy belated new year!
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Pajama day
If there is one thing American Christmas movies lie about, it's about Christmas Day itself. Most movies get the lead-up into Christmas right; lots of shopping, decorations and Christmas music abound, there are lots of Christmas parties to attend, and neighbors and friends exchange presents and baked goods. Most movies even manage to capture Christmas Eve quite accurately: when visiting family, this is usually when most people arrive, a lot of Americans do go to a candlelight service, and most families set out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for Santa before going to bed. But then there's Christmas Day. For those of you not intimately familiar with a typical American Christmas Day, allow me to enlighten you.
First, Christmas in America tends to start a few hours before the crack of dawn.Honestly, I'm not sure which American came up with the idea of opening presents in the morning, as opposed to a more relaxed start time of sometime after dinner, but whoever this unfortunate soul is, they should obviously have their head checked. Even when you have children whom you would think are way too old to get up early for Christmas, they will surprise you. This year, I jokingly told Jimmie he could not wake us up before six am, but could not believe my eyes when the now positively bear-sized teenager came bounding into our room at 6:08am, hollering it was Christmas morning, time to open the presents, and we'd better not complain as he had waited until after six.
So all those movies you've seen where entire families are gathered the Christmas tree with light coming int through the windows, looking refreshed and awake? Yep, it's a lie. Most American Christmases start off with various older family members stumbling from their beds, pulling on robes or hoodies, trying to shield their eyes from the bright lights on the Christmas tree, and telling their children that, no, we definitely may not start opening anything until the grown-ups have had coffee, and yes, really.
Second, most Christmas movies I'm familiar with tend to skip straight from the opening of presents to the preparation of Christmas dinner. I'm guessing this is because the filmmakers don't want all y'all Europeans to know about the best part of the day. Or perhaps because they're slightly embarrassed by what Americans do during most of that holiest of holy days, namely, lounge around. In their pajams. Unlike European Christmasses, where people will, after a fancy candlelight-filled breakfast, run upstairs to take a shower and put on their Christmas best, and then sit around in that same Christmas best all day, most Americans (myself included) love nothing better than to play with their new toys, watch a host of Christmas movies, possibly take a nap or two, all whilst still in their pajamas. And you know what's even worse? A lot of Americans (again, myself included) buy or receive special Christmas pajamas. I kid you not.
Now, don't worry, as someone who used to be an outsider, I know this is quite a tough pill to swallow. No shiny patent leather shoes, no pretty skirts or ties, no cute dresses, just fleece pants and a sweatshirt. At first it seems nothing like Christmas, but let me tell you, it. Is. Awesome.
And finally, although most movies love to show you how all Americans get dressed up for their big Christmas dinner, which is usually attended by lots of well-dressed extended family members, this, once again, isn't entirely true either. You see, most Americans live way too far away from their family to just show up for dinner. If you visit family for Christmas, you've probably been there for Christmas morning as well, so the chances of you dressing up are, I would guess, 50/50. Take our family, for instance. Last year, when we visited my in-laws, we dressed up for dinner. This year, on the other hand, I believe only husband-dear and mother-in-law bothered to change out of their jammies. Once again: Awesome.
Oh, and on a side-note, do you remember how all those dinners are always held while it's dark outside? Yeah, not true either. For a reason that must only be revealed to Americans born in this country (as I'm still clueless), most Americans eat their Christmas dinner in the afternoon. Yes, the afternoon. No, I don't know why. Yes, it's very strange to call it dinner if it's held at around 2pm. Yes, it really messes up your eating pattern for the rest of the day. No, you don't ever get used to it. But yes, you can still use candles and render the whole occasion "gezellig".
So, there you have it, the three lies about Christmas Day Hollywood loves to share over and over again.
You're welcome!
First, Christmas in America tends to start a few hours before the crack of dawn.Honestly, I'm not sure which American came up with the idea of opening presents in the morning, as opposed to a more relaxed start time of sometime after dinner, but whoever this unfortunate soul is, they should obviously have their head checked. Even when you have children whom you would think are way too old to get up early for Christmas, they will surprise you. This year, I jokingly told Jimmie he could not wake us up before six am, but could not believe my eyes when the now positively bear-sized teenager came bounding into our room at 6:08am, hollering it was Christmas morning, time to open the presents, and we'd better not complain as he had waited until after six.
So all those movies you've seen where entire families are gathered the Christmas tree with light coming int through the windows, looking refreshed and awake? Yep, it's a lie. Most American Christmases start off with various older family members stumbling from their beds, pulling on robes or hoodies, trying to shield their eyes from the bright lights on the Christmas tree, and telling their children that, no, we definitely may not start opening anything until the grown-ups have had coffee, and yes, really.
Second, most Christmas movies I'm familiar with tend to skip straight from the opening of presents to the preparation of Christmas dinner. I'm guessing this is because the filmmakers don't want all y'all Europeans to know about the best part of the day. Or perhaps because they're slightly embarrassed by what Americans do during most of that holiest of holy days, namely, lounge around. In their pajams. Unlike European Christmasses, where people will, after a fancy candlelight-filled breakfast, run upstairs to take a shower and put on their Christmas best, and then sit around in that same Christmas best all day, most Americans (myself included) love nothing better than to play with their new toys, watch a host of Christmas movies, possibly take a nap or two, all whilst still in their pajamas. And you know what's even worse? A lot of Americans (again, myself included) buy or receive special Christmas pajamas. I kid you not.
Now, don't worry, as someone who used to be an outsider, I know this is quite a tough pill to swallow. No shiny patent leather shoes, no pretty skirts or ties, no cute dresses, just fleece pants and a sweatshirt. At first it seems nothing like Christmas, but let me tell you, it. Is. Awesome.
And finally, although most movies love to show you how all Americans get dressed up for their big Christmas dinner, which is usually attended by lots of well-dressed extended family members, this, once again, isn't entirely true either. You see, most Americans live way too far away from their family to just show up for dinner. If you visit family for Christmas, you've probably been there for Christmas morning as well, so the chances of you dressing up are, I would guess, 50/50. Take our family, for instance. Last year, when we visited my in-laws, we dressed up for dinner. This year, on the other hand, I believe only husband-dear and mother-in-law bothered to change out of their jammies. Once again: Awesome.
Oh, and on a side-note, do you remember how all those dinners are always held while it's dark outside? Yeah, not true either. For a reason that must only be revealed to Americans born in this country (as I'm still clueless), most Americans eat their Christmas dinner in the afternoon. Yes, the afternoon. No, I don't know why. Yes, it's very strange to call it dinner if it's held at around 2pm. Yes, it really messes up your eating pattern for the rest of the day. No, you don't ever get used to it. But yes, you can still use candles and render the whole occasion "gezellig".
So, there you have it, the three lies about Christmas Day Hollywood loves to share over and over again.
You're welcome!
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Merry, merry, merry Christmas
"And so this is Christmas"
John Lennon & Yoko Ono
So, the day we've (or at least every single retailer in the western world) has been looking forward to since mid-October is finally upon us.
Christmas is here!
I have to admit that Christmas is possibly my most favorite holiday of the year. Yes, that makes me a dork, and yes, I'm totally OK with that. I'm the person who will play Christmas music in her car, turn the lights on anytime she's home, and insist certain traditions are kept in place, no matter how old I am, where we live, or what we're doing. I figure that my cynical attitude throughout the year allows me this level of geekiness where Christmas is concerned. Now I'm not sure I can say what it is about Christmas that I like so much, but I would guess it has something to do with all the lights everywhere, the music, the joy of giving, hanging out with family, and the endless baking of goodies.
Now I realize that not everyone might be as in love with Christmas as I am. Some of you may actually celebrate other holidays around this time, some may not think of Christmas as anything more than a great opportunity to buy more stuff and eat lots of food, and some might just despise anything related to the holidays in general (and I know at least one of my readers is nodding in wild agreement right now), in spite of all those things, I hope that you will take this day (or this very moment, or just a quick second, really, anything you can spare), to be happy. Just happy. Forget about that horrible Christmas sweater you just pulled out of its wrapping, forget about the fact that you may have a huge Christmas dinner to cook, forget about the fact that you just heard Mariah Carey's "All I want for Christmas" for the fifth time in an hour, forget that you have a family to pacify, and that you might have a few kids bouncing around, in the midst of the biggest sugar-high of the year. Forget about all of it. And just enjoy the moment. For today there are no deadlines, no bosses, no errands, no meetings, it's just and those you (hopefully) love and hold dear. And that doesn't happen very often. Enjoy it while you can.
So may your tree well-decorated, your stockings well-stuffed, your presents fill all your heart's desire (or at least some of it), your Christmas movies sappy and happy, your dinner scrumptious, your post-dinner nap refreshing, and your family well-behaved.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
John Lennon & Yoko Ono
So, the day we've (or at least every single retailer in the western world) has been looking forward to since mid-October is finally upon us.
Christmas is here!
I have to admit that Christmas is possibly my most favorite holiday of the year. Yes, that makes me a dork, and yes, I'm totally OK with that. I'm the person who will play Christmas music in her car, turn the lights on anytime she's home, and insist certain traditions are kept in place, no matter how old I am, where we live, or what we're doing. I figure that my cynical attitude throughout the year allows me this level of geekiness where Christmas is concerned. Now I'm not sure I can say what it is about Christmas that I like so much, but I would guess it has something to do with all the lights everywhere, the music, the joy of giving, hanging out with family, and the endless baking of goodies.
Now I realize that not everyone might be as in love with Christmas as I am. Some of you may actually celebrate other holidays around this time, some may not think of Christmas as anything more than a great opportunity to buy more stuff and eat lots of food, and some might just despise anything related to the holidays in general (and I know at least one of my readers is nodding in wild agreement right now), in spite of all those things, I hope that you will take this day (or this very moment, or just a quick second, really, anything you can spare), to be happy. Just happy. Forget about that horrible Christmas sweater you just pulled out of its wrapping, forget about the fact that you may have a huge Christmas dinner to cook, forget about the fact that you just heard Mariah Carey's "All I want for Christmas" for the fifth time in an hour, forget that you have a family to pacify, and that you might have a few kids bouncing around, in the midst of the biggest sugar-high of the year. Forget about all of it. And just enjoy the moment. For today there are no deadlines, no bosses, no errands, no meetings, it's just and those you (hopefully) love and hold dear. And that doesn't happen very often. Enjoy it while you can.
So may your tree well-decorated, your stockings well-stuffed, your presents fill all your heart's desire (or at least some of it), your Christmas movies sappy and happy, your dinner scrumptious, your post-dinner nap refreshing, and your family well-behaved.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Bankhangtijd-maximalisatie
Ik dacht altijd dat ik best wel goed in plannen was. Op mijn werk organiseer ik vergaderingen, colleges, papers nakijken, spreekuren altijd prima tot een goed-lopende dag, en komt het maar weinig voor dat ik niet langer werk dan gepland was. Dat de geplande werkdag soms 10 uur duurt, dat is dan misschien wel jammer, maar in negen van de tien keer dus wel volgens de planning.
Maar sinds ik kerstvakantie heb, en nu full-time als "homemaker" aan de slag ben, ben ik toch gaan twijfelen aan mijn eigen organisatiekunde. En dan vooral omtrent het inplannen van de beroemde "errands", d.w.z., de tripjes naar allerlei winkels en afspraken. Want mensenkinderen, wat kunnen die errands lang duren zeg. Jeetje mina. Neem afgelopen dinsdag bijvoorbeeld. De identiteitskaart van de kinderen zou verlopen, dus ik moest met manlief afspreken op de basis. Daarna zou ik wat spullen afgeven bij Goodwill, en de kinderen naar de kapper nemen. Ieder normaal denkend mens, zo lijkt mij, gaat er vanuit dat je als je om acht uur 's ochtends met manlief afspreekt, je ruim voor de koffie weer thuis bent. Nou niet dus. Half een dames en heren. Vier-en-een-half uur later.
En zo gaat het dus al de hele week. Je gaat "even" wat pumpkin breads bakken, en voor je het weet moet je ook nog naar de supermarkt, want je bent iets vergeten, belt manlief dat-ie later thuis komt, en of jij wilt koken, bedenk je dat helemaal geen ondergoed meer hebt, en dus echt -moet- wassen, en besef je, wanneer je door de strepen op de spiegel je eigen reflectie niet meer goed ziet, het ook nog eens echt tijd is om de badkamer te soppen.
Mijn "bankhang" tijd is dus ernstig ingekort de laatste dagen, en u begrijpt, daar word ik niet blij van. Want mijn bankhang tijd is heilig. Heilig.
Dus toen ik gisteren, tijdens weer een errand (gek! word ik er van), in een schroef reed, en manlief na een kleine inspectie vaststelde dat de band echt een lek had, maakte ik een plan. Een plan ter maximalisatie van mijn bankhangtijd vandaag. Ik ben vanochtend om zes uur opgestaan, stond om zeven uur bij de bandenspecialist, lag om acht uur in het zwembad, en stond om negen uur in de winkel. Het is nu tien uur, en ik zit op de bank. En daar blijf ik minstens tot de lunch zitten. Naar kerstverlichting staren.
Zo dan.
Maar sinds ik kerstvakantie heb, en nu full-time als "homemaker" aan de slag ben, ben ik toch gaan twijfelen aan mijn eigen organisatiekunde. En dan vooral omtrent het inplannen van de beroemde "errands", d.w.z., de tripjes naar allerlei winkels en afspraken. Want mensenkinderen, wat kunnen die errands lang duren zeg. Jeetje mina. Neem afgelopen dinsdag bijvoorbeeld. De identiteitskaart van de kinderen zou verlopen, dus ik moest met manlief afspreken op de basis. Daarna zou ik wat spullen afgeven bij Goodwill, en de kinderen naar de kapper nemen. Ieder normaal denkend mens, zo lijkt mij, gaat er vanuit dat je als je om acht uur 's ochtends met manlief afspreekt, je ruim voor de koffie weer thuis bent. Nou niet dus. Half een dames en heren. Vier-en-een-half uur later.
En zo gaat het dus al de hele week. Je gaat "even" wat pumpkin breads bakken, en voor je het weet moet je ook nog naar de supermarkt, want je bent iets vergeten, belt manlief dat-ie later thuis komt, en of jij wilt koken, bedenk je dat helemaal geen ondergoed meer hebt, en dus echt -moet- wassen, en besef je, wanneer je door de strepen op de spiegel je eigen reflectie niet meer goed ziet, het ook nog eens echt tijd is om de badkamer te soppen.
Mijn "bankhang" tijd is dus ernstig ingekort de laatste dagen, en u begrijpt, daar word ik niet blij van. Want mijn bankhang tijd is heilig. Heilig.
Dus toen ik gisteren, tijdens weer een errand (gek! word ik er van), in een schroef reed, en manlief na een kleine inspectie vaststelde dat de band echt een lek had, maakte ik een plan. Een plan ter maximalisatie van mijn bankhangtijd vandaag. Ik ben vanochtend om zes uur opgestaan, stond om zeven uur bij de bandenspecialist, lag om acht uur in het zwembad, en stond om negen uur in de winkel. Het is nu tien uur, en ik zit op de bank. En daar blijf ik minstens tot de lunch zitten. Naar kerstverlichting staren.
Zo dan.
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