Indoctri..squirrel!

For those of you who fortunate enough to not be confronted with news about the ongoing, seemingly never-ending battle for the Republican Presidential nominee, first of all: a heartfelt congratulations. I am certain that unlike the rest of us, you still have faith in the democratic system, and think of the upcoming Presidential election with nothing but wide-eyed anticipation. Second, and this can be seen as both a blessing or a curse, you have probably also missed the second faux-pas of the century by Presidential hopeful Rick Santorum. Yes, the second. The first "oh dear Lord what did he just say" moment was a few weeks ago, when Mr. Santorum decided to use the Netherlands as an example why euthanasia is wrong. And evil. And really on a par with geriatric genocide. The second gaffe of the day occurred last week, when Santorum decided to tackle Obama's perspective on college education.

Before I go any further, however, a brief disclaimer might be in order.
As you have probably noticed, I try to be decidedly a-political on this blog. I avoid talking about politics, just because things get polarized in a heartbeat, and before you know it, your quaint little blog has been taken over by a flame war between the hippy-skippers on the left and the bible-beaters on the right. For this one particular post, however, I am making an exception. And not because I dislike Santorum, or have a preference for any of the other candidates, or because I do really like Santorum, and think all the others are losers, and am trying to hide it by writing a vitriol-filled post about him.  I am making an exception solely based on the, well, wonderment I experienced when I first heard Mr. Santorum's view on college education.

You see, Rick Santorum, former senator of Pennsylvania, believes that the only reason President Obama wants every American child to be able to go to college is so that they can be "indoctrinated to a secular world view". In fact, according to Rick Santorum, colleges can be best described as "indoctrination mills". (sources can be found here and here). Now leaving aside the fact that most research has found this claim to be untrue (see here, for instance), let's talk about this for a moment.

To sum it all up, according to Rick Santorum, I as a faculty member, try to consciously or unconsciously indoctrinate my students into not believing (for the sake of the argument, I'm going to assume Rick, as the conservative Christian that he is, is not too concerned about Muslim or Hindu students losing their faith, but is instead worried about good Christian kids being turned away from God, Jesus, the whole nine yards). There are several obvious problems with that. First, I believe myself. As do many other faculty members with me. Why would I want to change my students' beliefs if I believe the same thing? Second, I don't really talk about religion in my classes. I'm a Professor in Mass Communication, and believe it or not, I only get paid to talk about what I know. Which happens to be mass communication, not religion. And third, my job as a university Professor is to teach students to think critically. In fact, I know I have successfully done my job only when students challenge a statement made by me, using the theories I introduced to them earlier in the semester. It would seem that that goes directly against the notion of indoctrination. Unless Rick Santorum honestly believes I use some sort of reverse psychology, where I tell students to believe in God, tell them that the Christian way is the only way, and then only give points if they unknowingly challenge that, using theories I taught them. Or not. Oy. I just made my head hurt.

But, Rick, may I call you Rick? Rick, you and I both know that's not why I'm writing this blog. You have obviously never been a Professor. Or worked in academics. Or in education in general. For had you had any experience in this field you would have known your statement is not so much untrue as it is absolutely preposterous. Indoctrinate my students? Really, Rick?

You want to know what teaching at the college level is like? Honey, let's talk about stapling. So the syllabus tells them, literally, "Staple your paper in the left hand corner". I remind them in class, "Please staple your paper. No paper clips, no corners folded over, no fancy folders. Just a staple." And what do I get? Three stapled papers, three without anything, four with the corner folded over, four in folders so large the papers won't fit in my bag, and three students forgot to print their paper out at all. And if you think that's it, wait until I tell them to read a certain chapter in class. I will finish the announcement with, "So don't forget, it will be on the midterm", and then all of a sudden, students wake up; "What did we have to do?", "Did we have to read something?", "Is there a midterm?", "Oh, wait there's a midterm? When? What's on it?".
And sweetie, those are the good classes.

My average student has an attention span that's about fifteen minutes long. If you use video, you might be able to extend that with an additional five minutes, but that's about it. They need potty breaks, phone breaks, texting breaks, get-a-snack-breaks every thirty minutes. They will get distracted by a woman in a red coat walking by an open classroom door. They will wander in ten minutes late, completely surprised to find class has already started. Do you have any children, Rick sweetie darling? If you do, you might have watched the movie "Up" with them. You know the dog in that movie? The one that when he sees a squirrel, he completely forgets what he's doing, where he is, and is only capable of panting "squirrel!" before leaping off to chase it? That dog? Yeah, that's what it's like to teach in higher education these days.

So indoctrination, I don't think so.

Ontwend

Als er een waarheid als een koe is, dan is het wel dat ik gek ben op drop. Zeg maar gerust verzot. En een van de grote problemen waar ik altijd tegenloop als ik weer eens in het buitenland woon is dat ze daar of helemaal geen drop kennen, of drop die zo vies zoet is dat het de naam drop eigenlijk niet eens verdient. Drop moet hard, zout, salmiak, of in de vorm van een auto zijn, anders is het geen drop. Maar goed, dat kennen ze alleen in Nederland.

Gelukkig heb ik ondertussen al heel wat oplossingen gevonden. Nederlandse vrienden en familie sturen zo en nu dan wat op, er zit soms een Nederlands winkeltje in buurt, en sinds de opkomst van het internet, is er overal wel drop te bestellen. Mits je bereid bent een dollar of acht voor een klein zakje kokkindjes te betalen, dat wel. Maar goed, meestal zit ik nooit meer dan een maand of wat zonder drop. En, het is echt waar, ook voor de echte dropverslaafde went ook dit.

Alleen heb ik sinds kort een veel groter probleem. Ik ontdekte het voor de kerst, toen mijn nichtje en een goede vriend samenspanden om mij, tijdens zijn vakantie aan de westkust, een hele doos met drop op te sturen. En afgelopen weekend, toen dezelfde vriend me weer een survival pakketje opstuurde, kon ik het toch echt niet meer ontkennen.
Ik ben drop ontwend.

Niet de smaak, oh nee. Er is nog steeds niet zo heerlijk als na twee maanden zonder een zout dropje in je mond te steken. Maar de hoeveelheid. Vroeger at ik rustig een hele zak dropvisjes of een doos autodrop in een keer leeg. Soms twee keer, maar dan had je het ook wel gehad. Als ik drop in mijn bezit had, dan hield ik altijd een waar drop-fest: boek erbij, bak met dropjes op schoot, en eten maar.  Maar ja, sinds kort zit ik dus na drie dropjes gewoon helemaal vol. En wat nog erger is, krijg ik ook enorme dorst (want ja, al dat heerlijke, slechte zout he?). Mijn smaakpappillen willen echt wel meer, maar mijn maag trekt het niet. Hoe triest kan een mens zijn. Kan je niet eens meer behoorlijk jezelf ongans eten aan een partij drop. Dat is toch wel het begin van het einde hoor. Ik bedoel, hoe weet je of je echt aan het on-Nederlandsen bent? Nou, here's your sign, zoals ze hier in Amerika zo mooi zeggen. Het is volgens mij toch echt begonnen.

En wat doe ik? Ik prop mezelf gewoon alsnog vol met drop, dorst of niet. Ontwenning, ik dacht het niet.

Congratulations...

With your sister's cousin's birthday!

The Dutch have a wide variety of odd quirks. From eating salty licorice, to loving nothing better than raw herring, to the inability to keep one's opinion to oneself, to the complete lack of shame or embarrassment when telling someone "we can't do that"; the list just goes on and on. But these are what I would like to call "manifest" quirks. Manifest as in, quirks that anyone who spends a decent amount of time in that little low lying nation in Western Europe, or among the natives of that little country, will eventually pick up on. The "latent" quirks are the ones that are harder to nice. These are those funky little habits that you really only notice if you're married to one of them Dutch folk, or you, like me, teach a class on culture and the media, and are faced with a class full of students from a completely different culture than your own. One of these odd, culturally determined behaviors, is the Dutch ritual surrounding birthday wishes.

Here in the US, if it's someone's birthday and if you remember, you might call out a "happy birthday!", and there's happiness all around. Seriously, unless I've been walking around completely oblivious, that's really all it takes over here. Now in the Netherlands, birthday wishing is taken a whole lot more seriously. Very seriously. It's such a detail-oriented business, in fact, that I'm surprised no one has ever taken the time to write a handy little manual for foreigners considering a move to the Netherlands. In lieu of that gap, I thus present you: DixieChick's rules to a happy Dutch birthday!

First of all, there is no "if you remember" in the Dutch world of birthdays. The fact that those cute "It was your birthday and I forgot!" cards that do so well over here, are few and far between in the country-half-under-the-sea should be a giveaway. Forgetting someone's birthday is simply not an option among the Dutch, and doing so will result in a level of social pariah-ship one will not soon forget (although exceptions are made for uninformed foreigners. Once).  Fortunately, all Dutch homes are outfitted with a birthday calendar (a perennial calendar meant only to record people's birthdays and anniversaries), that is hung in a central location (the downstairs half bath), so no one will ever forget anyone's birthday. And let's say you don't particularly care for the whole "you must remember everyone's birthday and send them a card" ritual, and thus refuse to purchase a birthday calendar, your Dutch family will buy one for you, and present it to you, how appropriate, on your birthday. If you then proceed to not hang it in a place where everyone is able to double-check that they made it on the calendar, you will be reminded of that social gaffe every time you have Dutch company over. Trust me, it's true.

Second, there is a entire collection of social rules and codes about how to go about wishing someone a happy birthday. The correct terminology to use is "gefeliciteerd", which roughly translates to "congratulations". While in the US, "congratulations" is only used for a very impressive personal achievement, and birthdays are not viewed as such, the Dutch heartily disagree. And so every year, husband-dear manages to ask me, "So what am I congratulating you with? The fact that you managed to make it one more year? Good job, honey!"
But we're not done. If you know someone well (and how well is, unfortunately, never specified), you must give them the mandatory three "air" kisses (left cheek-right cheek-left cheek - don't mess up, or you'll be left in a really awkward situation). Funnily, although I know several Dutch people who hate this habit so much, they refuse to tell people the date of their birthday, this habit is paramount to a proper execution of a Dutch birthday wishing ritual. But, as husband-dear will confirm, you can figure this one out rather quickly. Or, in case you're completely lost, just let the other party make the first move, and follow along (although again, do note that anything other than a kiss on the cheek is really not acceptable).
The one thing about birthday wishes that still throws poor husband-dear, and most Americans I know, is the requirement to also bestow your heartfelt congratulations on the birthday boy/girl's parents, significant other, children, and other close relatives. So imagine your typical Dutch birthday party. Everyone is sitting in a circle, and you walk in. You first kiss the birthday boy/girl, and wish her/him "Gefeliciteerd!", then you move on to their partner, kiss them too (well, except if it's her husband, and you're a guy, as that's still a no-no in ever-tolerant Holland), and congratulate them with their partner's birthday. Then you rinse and repeat for their parents, brothers, and sisters, and other assorted family members. Interestingly, if you are a family member of the birthday boy/girl, at one point in the family hierarchy, family members (usually those further removed from the birthday boy/girl than you are) will start congratulating you in return. Protocol dictates that you shouldn't sit down until you've congratulated/accepted congratulations from everyone in the circle, so you can imagine that at parties where people don't all arrive at once, most of the guests spend the  better part of the night standing up, then sitting down, then standing up, then sitting down, ad nauseam.

Third, leave your birthday cards at home. While Americans love their birthday cards, and some, like me, attach as much value to the card as they do to the present, Dutch people will only send cards if they cannot make it your birthday party. And in that case, let me just prepare you, the cards will be small (about the size of an index card), non-descript (they usually contain balloons, animals, or flowers), and will contain the briefest of messages ("Gefeliciteerd!"). There are no cards for husbands, wives, sisters, brothers, mothers, teachers, best friends, or neighbors, just like there no cards that sing, make music or allow you to record their voice, or cards that contain full-length poetry, declarations of love, double entendres, or funny statements about the age you've just attained. As the Dutch are not big on expressing their love for one another anyway (the three kisses-thing aside), it's no surprise that cards are just not a big deal.

Fourth, the same no-nonsense approach applies to the wrapping of your present. Most stores will giftwrap your presents for you, and that's what most people use. No need for giftbags, tissue paper, bows, glitters, ribbon, or any of the other accessories that Americans like to use to pimp their presents. If you went to the V&D and they put an orange and grey checkered paper around your gift, that will be perfectly acceptable.

So, to summarize, the main points of Dutch birthday celebrations: 1) Don't forget them; 2) Congratulate the birthday boy/girl and everyone on their family tree with three hearty but airy kisses (except if you're a guy); 3) No cards necessary, and 4) No fancy wrapping either. Oh, and 5) although my birthday is in less than two months, please note that as a bonafide Dutch-American, these rules no longer apply to me. Except #1.

Here's your sign..

...that you really, really need to think about turning in that driver's license.

It's when you're doing one of two things. You're either sitting a stop sign, waiting to turn left on a four-lane, divided highway. There's a woman in spandex and a bright red jacket on a road bike across the road, but she's gotten there after you, and so she waits. For you. But so do you. And you wait. And wait.

Or, in the second scenario, you're driving on said four-lane divided highway, pull into the left turn lane, since you want to, you know, make a left turn. You look to your right, only to find a bright red car there, waiting at a stop sign to turn left onto the highway you're about to leave. And on your left is a short woman, still in spandex and a bright red jacket, on a bike. She's also at a stop sign, and she's waiting. For you. But you don't know what to do, so you wait.

So there you both are. You're waiting, since you're not sure what to do. I mean, it was complicated enough to make a left turn with a second car also wanting to make a left turn, only, oh dear sweet Jesus, a different left turn from yours, but now there's a woman on a BIKE there too. A WOMAN on a BIKE, people. Dear sweet Jesus Mary mother of God, what shall you do?!

Obviously, you do what any self-respecting southern driver would do. Nothing.

And it's not until you see the cyclist open her mouth and say something that looks suspiciously like "Oh dear Lord!", that you realize she's waiting on you. But still you don't move. Because what if, what IF she decides to fly out in front you just as you're about to pull out too. Dear me, no.

But then the cyclists raises her hands. And you notice she's wearing bright blue gloves. Gloves which gesture to the driver at the stop sign to wait, and which then impatiently motion you, the driver in the left turn lane, to turn left. You hesitate. The motioning continues, and so you, very, very slowly, just like your momma taught you, when she taught you how to drive in Meemaw's Lincoln, turn left. And then the cyclists motions at the car at the stop sign. The car who has been waiting there for a good five minutes. A sharp flick of the hand motions it to get a move on too. Suddenly worried that this short, helmet-wearing cyclist might turn out to be an undercover cop, you finally locate the gas pedal, and turn left.

If that happens to you, that's your sign. You need to stop driving and purchase yourself a bike. Because if you need me to tell you when to pull out and when to stop, you really, really, have a problem.

Valentine Tales

Although husband-dear and I, practical beings that we are, celebrated Valentine's Day this weekend with a romantic dinner, candlelight, and some dancing, we couldn't let today go by unnoticed. So I spent a good five minutes last night using a dry erase marker to cover our bathroom mirror in about a hundred "I heart U"'s. When husband-dear came home, he did the manly grinning nod thing to show his approval, and said, "That is so sweet."

Writing "I heart U" (and the "heart" is obviously replaced with a drawing of an actual heart) to each other has somewhat of a history with husband-dear and I. When husband-dear and I had been dating for a while (give or take, oh, nine months), and I was starting to feel like I would be telling him I loved him while he was asleep forever, husband-dear finally overcame his "OMG if I say I love you it's forever and ever and ever" fear.
Well, somewhat.
We were lying around after a morning spent go-carting with the boys, when husband-dear ran his hand across my back. At first he just drew really big circles, and then I felt his hand write "I heart U". I popped my head up, stared at then still boyfriend-dear, and although I wanted to say something, anything (like, oh, I don't know "I love you too"), I was afraid I had somehow misread his hand, and so I kept quiet.

Later that day, I finally mustered up the courage to bring it up, and in my best imitation of a third grader, I said, "You wrote I love you on my back, today"
Husband-dear replied, "No, I wrote I heart you." He grinned.
"You wrote...what?" I made a face and punched him in the arm, "You're such a dork."
He grinned again, "OK, I wrote I love you. " He paused, "I love you."
"Well, I love you." It felt so great to finally say it aloud.

Now, years later, we still write "I heart U" to one another, in our best imitation of two love-struck teenagers. So last night, as husband-dear was admiring my handiwork, I said, "You know, I bet you we are the only married couple who uses that as shorthand."
"Uh-uh" Husband-dear has long learned that sometimes letting me ramble is the safest course of action.

And that's when the Valentine's spirit went kind of Alien-Predator-Star-Wars.

"So, you know, we could use "I heart U" as a code to recognize each other." I added.
"We sure could." husband-dear, I'm pretty sure, was not listening.
"Like, let's say that our country was overrun by body snatchers, and we were worried that one of us might have been taken over by the body snatchers, we could ask the other to write "I love you". If they write "I heart U", they're still them. If they write out "I love you", then they're really a body snatcher."
"Well, "Husband-dear nodded, "You know, if we're ever facing the body snatchers, that sounds like a swell idea. I vote in favor."
"Cool." I continued, "Ooh, I'm going to blog about this."
"You can't do that!" husband-dear protested.
"Why not?"
"Well, let's say that the body snatchers are already here? Then they'd know our secret code." Husband-dear nodded with the grin I swear he reserves especially for me.
"Oh whatever."
"No, really. Don't underestimate the body snatchers."

So, if you're a body snatcher: Go. Away. If you're not: Happy Valentine's Day!

Tough love

This morning I found the following jewel in my email:

"I know I am going to get a zero, although I wanted to get my topic reviewed if possible. I will turn in a hard copy in class on Monday."

No signature, no reference to a specific class, this was it.

Fortunately for this particular student, I read a lot of Miss Marple mysteries when I was a kid, and that combined with my students' habits to assume I know every single one of them, their schedule, their life stories, as well as their personal idiosyncrasies ("you know I hate gmail!"), means that my power of induction are unsurpassed. Hence, based on his unique last name (which was actually part of his email address - excuse me while I pick myself off the floor), his reference to a class on Monday (which reduces the possible number of classes down to three), as well as his use of the phrase "my topic", made it very easy for me to determine that he was talking about the "write a paragraph about the topic you would like to research this semester" assignment that was due last week.

Admittedly, I admire this student's desire to receive feedback. He obviously realizes that without proper feedback, he'll have no idea whether the topic he's about to work with for the next thirteen weeks is any good or not. Although realistically he would have found out next week when he needed to turn in six peer-reviewed articles on said topic, and he might have received a terse, "don't think this topic is do-able in this time frame" or a "great topic!" note on his work, I can understand his desire to be on top of his stuff.

So that leaves me with the $64,000 question: Why did said student not turn in his work on time? I looked at his topic, and the one-sentence topic could not have taken more than about a second of his precious time. Unless he was in the hospital or in prison, there is  no reason why he could have not sent this email a week earlier. Even if he was off campus remembering the death of his beloved guinnea pig Mr. Twinkles, or helping his best friend's cousin's girlfriend move across the state, WiFi is pretty much omnipresent, and thus the topic could have been sent, on time, with the click of a button.

Unless, of course, unless said student is not as academically inclined as he'd like me to believe.
Hm.
Now there's a thought.

So, after four-and-a-half-years of dealing with late work, dead guinneapigs, moving cousins, broken parole, tough judges, and mysterious illnesses, all of which have led to me losing sleep, losing time with my family, and spending way too much energy trying to fix students' problems or mistakes, this is my standard answer to such requests:

"Good morning (student name),

Thank you for your email. Although I appreciate you turning in a topic, I set deadlines so I have time to grade everyone's work. Work turned in after the deadline will thus not be graded.

Thank you,

Dr. D"

Yes, there's not a lot of carebear-stare-unicorns-rainbows-flowers-candy-land about that response, but you know what, it's midterms, I'm swamped, and you're a grown-up.
So just deal.

Bij een gebrek aan winter

Gisteren onderweg naar huis zag ik de eerste narcissen in de berm opkomen. En ik zou zweren dat ik, terwijl ik achter mijn bureau zit, toch heel duidelijk grote rode knoppen aan de boom voor de bibliotheek zie. Nu wil ik niet lastig doen hoor, maar het is hier ook pas 8 Februari, net als in de rest van de wereld. En volgens mij bevind Georgia zich nog steeds op het noordelijk halfrond. En toch lijken we ongeveer twee weken van het begin van de lente verwijderd te zijn. En voordat alle arme Hollanders die al weken creperen van de kou nu gaan roepen dat dit ge-wel-dig is, dat is het dus niet.

Een paar jaar terug hadden we namelijk ook zo'n afwezige winter. Zo eentje waarbij het twee keer 's nachts vroor, en dat was het dan. Waarbij eind Maart alle bomen alweer vol met grote, groene bladeren zaten. Het was mooi hoor. En warm, dat ook. En het rook heerlijk, zeker. Maar twee maanden later kwamen we om in de kakkerlakken, muggen, rode mieren, wespen, en allerlei andere gemuteerde versies van vliegend ongedierte. Het was een gevecht zonder einde, waarbij de invallende winter uiteindelijk tot een staakt-het-vuren heeft geleid.

Ik zeg gevecht, maar het was eerder een complete nucleaire oorlog, want insecten in de VS zijn precies zoals de rest van het land: Groot. De kakkerlakken zijn het formaat van je duim, de muggen laten plekken achter de grootte van een poffertje, en een gemiddelde wesp ziet eruit als een vliegende hamster. Toen ik gisteren dus zag dat de "fire ant" hopen tegen de veranda aan, die we vorig jaar zo draconisch uitgeroeid hadden, alweer een langzame "comeback" aan het maken waren, voelde ik het al weer aankomen. Het wordt weer zo'n heerlijk "buggy summer". Zo eentje waarbij je maar beter niet kan ademhalen met je mond open als je buiten bent.

En toen het lokale nieuws aankondigde dat de kans op bosbranden vertienvoudigd was vanwege de overmatig snelle groei van klein gewas, en het enorme gebrek aan regen, kon ik mijn lol helemaal niet meer op. Een sigaret, een vonk van een vrachtwagen, en dan is de apocalypse echt daar.

Dus.
Ik wil graag nog een paar weken winter. Met wat nachtvorst, temperaturen rond het vriespunt, misschien zelfs wat neerslag. Genoeg om al die nare vliegende en kruipende mutanten naar de eeuwige mierenhopen te sturen, en er voor te zorgen dat het platteland hier niet in een soort zuid-Frankrijk-maar-dan-zonder-strand-en-lavendel veranderd.
Bij voorbaat hartelijk dank