Thanksgiving 2008

Sweet potatoes, corn, turkey dressing, giblet gravy, rolls, corn casserole, green bean casserole, deviled eggs, assorted beans, candied yams, chicken and dumplings, honey-glazed spiral-cut ham, mashed potatoes, and two turkeys, one smoked and one baked.

And that wasn't all. For desert we had:
pecan pie, pumpkin pie, cherry pie, carrot cake, apple raisin walnut pie, mince meat pie, lemon meringue pie, chocolate ice box pie, and ice cream.

And of course this being my "country" relatives, we had beer and paintball too.

The "perfect" Thanksgiving. Now someone roll me home please.

National Day of Listening

Yesterday, as I was sitting in the studio of our student-run radio station, taping a segment of a talk show, I suddenly realized how much people talk and how little they listen. For the first time that day, I found myself really making a conscious effort to listen to what our guest had to say, without thinking about what I could say to make the conversation more interesting, funny, or enjoyable.

Now I don’t want all of you to think that I’m one of those people who pretends to listen and then doesn’t. I don’t do that. Well, except maybe when my husband is talking about his wild plans to purchase a boat again. Or when a student comes in with an excuse. Or when my co-worker Steve wants to talk about assigning square footage in the new building again. In those cases I nod and smile and then forget all about it. But in most other cases, I listen. I do. Just not all the time.

However, living in a part of the world where asking how someone is and then not waiting for the answer is perfectly normal, I have begun to wonder how often we, or I, actually listen to people. How often have you said “How are you?”, “That’s just great!”, or “I’m so sorry” today, while you were really thinking about something else? If you live in the south, I will bet my husband’s yet to be bought boat that it was at least once. It seems as though conversations down here are about establishing the feel of a relationship so much more than they are about actually getting to know people. And the social scientist in me thinks that is a missed opportunity.

As I’ve mentioned before, I spend at least two hours each day listening to NPR. Without wanting to go into my unparalleled adoration for NPR once again, I do want to point out how much I enjoy just listening to their content. NPR is different in that it doesn’t just present quick snippets of news, but it also airs segments on very mundane topics such “Life in a town where the textile industry shut down”, or “Dating among Hindustani in the US”. Segments which provide a brief glimpse into people’s daily lives, and allows listeners to hear their voices and walk in their shoes for just a few minutes. One my favorite segments is something called “StoryCorps”, a series where each week a regular person talks about a special event or struggle in their life.

Every time I hear a new StoryCorps fragment, I realize how important it is to listen while you still can. My maternal grandmother, Truus, lived through the second world war, and was never given an opportunity to talk about the trauma she lived through. The horrors of evacuation, of losing her home, not knowing if her family was alright, of spending three years in another part of the country with people she did not know and whose religion she did not share. She would always drop snippets of memories here and there, but no one ever truly listened. And then one summer, right after college graduation, I, a newly minted social scientist, told my grandmother I would bring in a tape recorder and she could tell me her entire life story. My grandmother seemed so excited. But it never happened. I got a job, went to work, forgot all about my promise, and three months later my grandmother died. And no one ever got to listen to her story.

This Friday has been proclaimed the National Day of Listening. A day in which people are encouraged to truly listen to those they love, and maybe even those they don’t know that well. I’m a little embarrassed to think of all those times I have thought of people who just jabbered on as a nuisance. I guess all they wanted was someone to listen to them. So this Thanksgiving holiday, I am going to make a conscious effort to really listen. And yes, Steve, next time you come in with building plans, I promise I will listen to you too.

Over hardlopen

Ik baal. Ik baal omdat gisteren tijdens het hardlopen mijn linkerknie het heeft begeven. Ik weet het, dit gaat niet over wonen in Amerika, het heeft niks te maken met het werken op een Amerikaanse universiteit, en zegt ook al helemaal niks over de ups en downs van een multicultureel huwelijk. Maar “write what you know” is mijn motto, dus vandaar dat ik het vandaag dus even over mijn linkerknie wil hebben. Een klaarblijkelijk te vaak genegeerd lichaamsdeel.

Sinds het begin van mijn promotietraject is fanatiek sporten mijn passie. Ik kwam er vrij snel achter dat zonder een grote passie naast mijn werk ik binnen de korste keren overwerkt achter de geraniums zou zitten, en dus werd sporten hobby nummer 1. Het begon met fitness, maar de prijzen van de sportschool en steeds dezelfde oefeningen doen begon al snel te vervelen. Toen ontdekte ik karate. Heerlijk twee a drie keer per week tekeer gaan in een veel te koude ruimte onder het gekreet van een ogenschijnlijke superlieve Japanse opa, die echter binnen een mum van tijd de grootste lummel van de dojo op de vloer kon krijgen. En enkele jaren later ontdekte ik hardlopen. Manlief is altijd een fanatiek hardloper geweest, dus toen wij elkaar leerden kennen was het niet lang voordat we samen gingen hardlopen.

Aangezien ik sinds onze terugkeer naar de VS nog geen echt fanatieke dojo heb kunnen vinden, ben ik sinds anderhalf jaar een “one sport athlete”. Maar hardlopen is meer dan een sport, het is, zoals een t-shirt dat ik laatst zag zei “my therapy”. Het is mijn zen-moment, mijn comfort zone, mijn “walk and talk with God”, mijn even-lekker-met-mezelf-alleen uurtje. En ik vind het heerlijk om te kijken hoe ver ik kan gaan. Liep ik eerst alleen 5k races, dit jaar ben ik meer op afstanden gaan trainen. Zo heb ik in April de 15k in de kersenbloesem gelopen, en terwijl ik in Nederland was deze zomer heb ik er even een 10k doorgejaagd. En nu ben ik dus aan het trainen voor een halve marathon. Dat houdt in dat ik elke zondag een lange loop doe, en door de week een korte (5k) en een middellange afstand (8-10k).

Gisteren zou ik dus voor de tweede week op rij 11 mijl lopen. Maar na 4 mijl besloot mijn knie dat dat toch echt niet zou gaan gebeuren deze week. Het begon met een onschuldige “ache”. Even voor de duidelijkheid; hardlopen betekent het hebben van “aches”, of pijntjes. Je kleine teennagel snijdt in de ernaast liggende teen, je kuitspier is “tight”, je schouders zijn stijf, het hoort er allemaal bij. En dus loop je (ik, we) door deze pijntjes heen. Maar deze keer was het geen pijntje. De buitenkant van knie leek wel in brand te staan, en dus moest ik na een mijl van toch nog proberen, vloeken en verbijten het toch echt opgeven en omdraaien. En de vier mijl terug naar huis lopen.

Stiekem hoopte ik dat het vandaag over zou zijn. Maar helaas pindakaas. Ik ben met de lift naar mijn kantoor gegaan omdat ik geen trap opkan, en vrees het ergste. Online lees ik allemaal enge dingen over ITB en ontstekingen en, het allerergste, rusthouden. Niet hardlopen?! Wat moet ik dan? Het klinkt raar, ik weet het. Maar manlief verwoorde het gisteren perfect; “When you’re always out and about, and doing things for other people, running is really all you have.”

Ik weet het. Er is niks aan te doen. Ik moet luisteren naar mijn lichaam. Mijn lijft heeft rust nodig. Hebben we nog meer platitudes? Oh ja, het gaat echt wel weer over. Het is allemaal waar. Maar ik kan jullie verzekeren dat ik, bij de gedachte dat ik nu dus vanavond maar moet gaan –fietsen-, nu al verschrikkelijk chagrijnig word. Het is een beetje als die hele oude Nederlandse reclame: “Weet waar je NL voor staat? Juist! Niet Lopen!”. Inderdaad.

Here's your sign: you're busy!

You know you’re really too busy when:

You start to talk in terms of minutes; “I’ll have that for you in a minute”, “Give me fifteen seconds and I will be ready”, “I am going to be with you in under thirty seconds”.

You hear a message from a student just asking you to call them back, and you hit
“7” (delete) before they’re finished telling you their number. You figure that if it’s really important, they’ll take out the time to come and see you.

You start to consider putting up signs on your office door that say things like “Grading. Do not disturb. If you do, your grade may be the one to suffer”, and “Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part”.

You have not had a proper phone conversation with a loved on for a week straight. This in spite of the fact that they do call at least once a day.

When a co-worker tells to you to read the third line the last paragraph of a paper, your mind is so preoccupied with ten other things, you end up reading the last line in the third paragraph, and wondering why he’s so worked about it.

You see a student come into your office from the corner of your eye, use your head to gesture for them to have a seat since you’re on the phone with another student and typing up an email.

You wonder why your stomach is growling, and then realize it’s almost 3, and you still haven’t had your lunch yet.

You start saying “no” to students and leave it at that.

You then don’t even care about the “deer in the headlights” look that students will give you.

You won’t let yourself watch TV at night, because there are far better things to do, like grading papers or preparing final exams.

You haven’t seen daylight hit your bedroom in at least four days.

And finally:
You can’t even bother to write a proper post for your blog!

Little puppies...

...don't stay little nearly long enough!

when I finally got our first pictures of Zoe developed last week, I was amazed at how much she has grown. Although she's still very much a puppy, she's definitely no longer the tiny little thing we brought home in August. Her visit to the vet confirmed this; on our first visit, Zoe weighed all of six pounds, and last week she was up to thirty! It's no wonder I have a hard time carrying her around these days. Our little girl is growing up fast; we haven't had an accident inside the house in weeks (watch her mess up tonight), she has been sleeping through the night for the longest time now, and two weeks ago, successfully went through puppy graduation. Time just goes by way too fast.

But just because she's getting bigger, doesn't mean she's not lovable, or we're not proud of her anymore. And to underline that, I've enclosed some pictures below.


If I hide under this pillow, they can't see me here, and I won't get in trouble for sitting on the bed!


Right, and I'm wearing this annoying cap why again?

Authenticity

Political correctness is getting on my nerves. There. I know it’s blunt, and politically incorrect, but it’s the truth. And although I did think about saying it nicely, or perhaps in less blatant terms, I decided that was too much work. And I honestly am tired of having to worry about how I phrase every other concept. Admittedly, I’m sure the original intentions of political correctness were great. But lately, however, I really feel like it’s gotten out of hand. I mean, when “overweight” has become rude, and phrases like “blind” or “a lazy student” are considered unacceptable, what are we doing to ourselves?

Now I understand that when it comes to sensitive issues such as race, religion, or even health, it’s important to take people’s feelings into account. Obviously, it’s not cool to use words like “colored” for African Americans, since words like that hold far too many negative connotations. And I think we can all see why calling gay people “queer” if you’re not gay yourself is offensive. And despite my blunt honesty, I am all about making sure I don’t hurt anyone’s feelings. After all, I don’t like to be called a “bleeding-hart tree-hugger” either (although you are all free to call me short and skinny).

My main beef with political correctness is that it can make addressing important issues feel like verbal acrobatics. How can you address race relations if you don’t know whether your black counterpart prefers “African American” or “black”? How can you talk about gay marriage when you’re not sure if your friend is a gay woman or a lesbian? I’ve come to the point now where I say both and ask the people I’m talking to which they prefer. I was actually thinking that the perfect solution would be to, prior to each conversation, hand out a little questionnaire where people can check which phrase they prefer you use. That way you can be sure you won’t feel like you’re offending anyone. Seriously, sometimes it seems as though we’re more worried about how we phrase things than what we actually say. And how conducive is that to our society?

I have to tell you though that the proverbial straw for me was the ongoing brouhaha over “Merry Christmas”. Apparently some organizations, people, and even corporations decided that since not all of their customers are Christian, “Happy Holidays” would be more suitable. Honestly, that’s fine by me, although I do wonder if they thought of those groups who don’t believe in any kind of holidays, such as the Jehova’s Witnesses. But since nobody asked me, I’m not going to complain. However, when people started to suggest that it might be better to not wish others a Merry Christmas, since I’m not always aware of everyone’s religious preferences and thus might offend them, I decided I had had enough with the whole political correctness thing. I mean, I celebrate Christmas, why can’t I wish that spirit on other people? And seriously, I can use all the good wishes that are out there, so if an atheist were to wish me a wonderful December filled with pointless fairytale beliefs, I would probably be happy with that too.

So I thought about it, and here is my solution: let’s all just be who we are. Be authentic. If you’re a Christian, wish everyone Merry Christmas, but be prepared to have people tell you they don’t do Christmas, and then be cool about it. If you talk about a sensitive issue, do your best to use the term you think works best, but don’t agonize about the million and one ways in which you may offend someone. If you do your best to be sensitive to people’s needs and hurts, that should be good enough for everyone.

It's raining, it's pouring

To say that I used to hate rain when I lived in Holland would be a true understatement. I didn’t just dislike rain, I detested it. Those endless days of grey skies with never-ending drizzle that would soak you right through the bone would always have me wishing for a life on a sunny beach, in the snowy mountains, on a frozen fjord, heck, even on the tornado-filled plains, anywhere but in the rain.

Of course, I didn’t mind an occasional rainy Sunday. You know, one of those days where you don’t have anywhere to be, you can stay in bed and listen to the rain pattering on the roof, or sit on the couch, light some candles, and enjoy the coziness of being inside where it’s nice and warm. However, there is no such thing as “an occasional rainy Sunday” in Holland. A rainy Sunday will almost always translate into a rainy Monday, probably will also entail a rainy Tuesday, and may even extend into Wednesday. If you’re lucky, the rain will persist all the way through the next Sunday, only to clear up in time for you to go to work. Honestly, when we lived in Holland (and in Germany too actually), there would be days and days without even a ray of sunshine. You would be surrounded by heavy grey clouds and outbursts of rain for weeks on end. Sure, the countryside was nice and green as a result, but eventually, even the happiest people were ready to migrate to sunnier places.

Now if you’ve ever lived in Holland or Germany, you know that the main problem is not so much the dreariness of all the rain, although admittedly, it doesn’t exactly help the whole situation. The reason why people there dislike rain with such intensity is the fact that daily life is set up in such a way that when it rains, you will get wet. And probably very much so, and very often too. Now, in a way, I blame the Dutch themselves for this. People in Holland, as I’ve mentioned before, love their bicycles. They will ride them everywhere, albeit sometimes out of sheer necessity, because there may not be any parking where they work, or because traffic is simply too bad. But that means that when it rains, and you have to go to work, you will get soaked. Some people get smart about this, and make sure they have a rainproof jacket on at all times, and a pair of rainproof pants with them when they’re on their bikes. In spite of all those precautions though, there is no guarantee the rain won’t seep through your shoes, or your hood won’t blow off your head, and you’ll get wet anyway. And then there are some people who aren’t that lucky (or well-prepared, depending on your perspective), and will thus have to endure wet pants, wet hair, wet shoes, and wet socks at work. I can’t count the number of times I saw very important deans and professors walk into the department looking more like a drowned cat than an important public figure. If you’ve ever wondered why Dutch women don’t sport the beautiful hairdos often favored by women down here, think bicycling to work in the rain. Fortunately, everybody does dry eventually, and usually right in time to discover that it’s still raining when it’s time to go home.

Now let’s say you are one of the lucky ones, and you take your car to work. Congratulations, you won’t walk into work looking a drowned animal. However, since Holland is not known for its spacious parking lots with enough room for everyone inside the building they are serving, and these lots are usually placed in a strategic position where they don’t interfere with the aesthetics of the building (read: really far away), you will still not be able to escape the continual rain. Yes, that is adding insult to injury, but there you have it.

Ever since I moved to Georgia, I don’t mind rain anymore. Obviously, it doesn’t rain far as often as it does in Holland, and there’s also no need to ever really get wet. As I mentioned a few months ago, only homeless people, people without a license, and crazy Dutch women use their bikes to actually go places, most everyone else uses their car to get around. So when it does rain, like today, I just walk into our garage, hop in the car, drive to my destination warm and dry, and once I get there, take a few quick steps and find myself in a nice and dry building. It’s wonderful.

I have to admit though that rain in Georgia is a whole ‘nother experience. Rain usually equals mugginess, you know, the real southern humidity. The kind that feels like you’ve just stepped into a Turkish steambath with all your clothes on. So this morning when we woke up, there was a fog-like mist everywhere. It wasn’t actual fog, it was just steam coming from the wet ground that really had no place to go, because it was so humid already. The window in my office is all covered in condensation this morning, and I don’t think one of my wing mirrors ever de-fogged. Like I said; it’s interesting. But you know what, for a change I’m not complaining. I know that the sun will be very likely to shine again tomorrow, and I will take all the humidity in the world for that.