It's a little odd to return to the world of blogging after two glorious weeks away on the last day of the year. I mean, what are you going to write about? Those two glorious weeks, which definitely deserve at least one smashing review? Or the entire previous year, which appears to be tradition among bloggers, obscure television shows, and Facebook pages?
Obviously, if I had my act together as a blogger, as so many of my favorite writers do, I would have been blogging while on vacation, and would be all caught up right now, ready to review the year. But unlike all you talented bloggers, I can't do that. Although I bring every single wireless device in my possession, and scout out wireless internet like a squirrel does his nuts, I just can't seem to sit down, empty my head, and write a poignant yet funny piece about what I've been up to. This appears to be mainly because, well, I'm still up to it, and I just don't want to step out of the moment to write about it. Moreover, as we all know, once I step out of the moment to write about it, I become this cynical, critical misanthrope, and how on earth can I enjoy my time away when I'm complaining about say, the aforementioned lack of wireless internet?
At any rate, I now owe you a discussion of a wide variety of things, from Dutch running attire, to navigating through Belgian cities using their many church spires, to German behavior in airports. Who knows, I might even throw some pictures your way. I know, crazy times.
Anyway, we came home on Thursday, and ever since we arrived back home, I've been telling my husband, the kids, and possibly even the dogs, that 2012 has definitely earned a place in the top-3 of best years of the past decade (and then possibly adding on that therefore we should be grateful, because you know, I do try to be pedagogical every once in a whole). Let's do a quick overview, shall we?
In 2012...... I am still married to my best friend; I crashed my bike on some railroad tracks, and all I have to show for it is a very dangerous looking scar; I rode along fields and fields of blossoming peach trees; I saw Jimmie practice and practice and practice, and get into the high school marching band; I got to watch my husband skimboard with his best friend from high school for the first time since husband-dear left for the Air Force; I completed my first half-ironman; I guided six students through their first successful undergraduate conference presentation; I finally beat the curse of the fourth place, and placed second, second, and first in all three triathlons I competed in; I walked along the Great Wall and wandered through the Forbidden City; I learned how to order breakfast in Chinese; I walked around a Chinese university's campus as though I belonged there; I looked at the Chinese coast from an old Taiwanese defense bunker; I developed a favorite among all the Japanese candy I ate; I completed my tenure and promotion portfolio; One of my articles got accepted for publication; I went to more high school football games to see the marching band than I ever imagined possible; I made new friends while volunteering at the concession stand; I learned that the promotion and tenture committee really, really, really liked my portfolio; I got hit by an inattentive driver while riding my bike, and got to experience my very first ambulance ride; I dressed up for international education week, and had all of my students laugh at me; I called campus police on a rowdy student, counseled a few more, and had one student go into labor in the middle of class, all in one semester; I got to take a picture with the Tow-Mater truck at the Disney resort we stayed at; I watched my tough husband and oldest son smile and laugh at the antics of a Disney parade; I took my vertigo-suffering father in law on the Tower of Terror; I ordered wine in Italy, and drank it in Germany, all in the same half hour; I turned my grades early; I grew my hair out longer than it has ever been; I baked hundreds of cookies, pies, and cakes, and shared very little outside my family; I went to see my family for the first time in 18 months; Husband-dear and I spent a few days meandering through Bruges; Not one piece of luggage was lost throughout all our travels; I drank enough coffee to fill a small lake; I drove about 32000 miles to and from work; I finally got an Iphone; I loved on my husband, the kids, and the puppies: I laughed, I cried, I spoke up when it was needed and when I probably should have kept quiet, and embarrassed myself and/or others in countless situations; I adjusted my catchphrase, "You can take my anywhere, but only once", to "You can take me anywhere. Twice. Once to introduce me, and once to apologize"; I learned how to change a flat tire on my bicycle and promptly forgot; I enjoyed all of husband-dear's martini's....
2012, I really can't complain.
I hope your year was as enjoyable as mine, and wish you all the very best for 2013!
Monday, December 31, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Forty-seven points
My annual Christmas break is possibly my most favorite time of the year. It's the three (or four, depending on how Christmas falls, and how much time off the Board of Regents needs that year) when I feel truly free. Whenever I'm faced with three months of nothing, which happens every year in the first week of May, my OCD/overachiever neurosis will kick in, and I start saying things like, "Why don't I renovate the bonus room? I have so much time off!", or "Geez, three months is way too long to just sit around, I think I'll volunteer for a six-week study abroad to China." The bottom line is that free time just scares me to death.
So Christmas break, with its three (or four) weeks off, is much easier for ants-in-their-pants people like me to handle. It's too short to tackle any major projects, a feat aided by the fact that several days are "lost" to things like Christmas and New Year's (and so the painting of the quarter rounds will have to wait until summer), and too long to stay stuck in the work flow, which often happens during Spring Break. During that one week in March, I need to literally leave the country if I want to relax, because if I don't, I will end up writing conference papers and prepping classes, because "When I get back to work, do you know how much stuff I have to do?". In short, like Goldilocks' porridge, Christmas break is perfect.
Now the purpose of this lengthy introduction about the awesomeness that is Christmas break was to lead into a brief kvetch-fest about the 47-or-so-points to-do list that somehow popped into existence when my mind woke up from its finals-grading-induced haze, and realized, hey! We're going on a trip! And so we should really take care of all those things that have been left unfinished for the past months! Things like hemming that skirt, taking out the dry cleaning, dusting the light fixtures, getting pictures developed, upgrading various iDevices, and on and on and on. This means that after spending an hour each morning reveling in the fact that it's Christmas break, and I get to sit on the couch, sip my tea and watch CBS This Morning while around me the Christmas lights are twinkling, I turn to my multi-day, multi-page to-do list, and get to work. There are trips to CVS, to Kroger, to the BX, the base pool and/or gym, the bank, the tire rotation place, the dollar store, and back to CVS because the commissary doesn't carry Excedrin anymore.
This to-do list thing isn't a first either. Lately, whenever we travel anywhere, there are to-do lists days in advance. I remember when we used to just pack up the night before, double check if the stove was off and the door was locked, and leave. Now, leaving the house has turned into a near-military operation. There are checklists, pack lists, assigned responsibilities (you call the kennel to verify the dogs' shot records are in order, and I will get the oil in the car changed), reminder, and occasional pow-wows about who-what-where. In all fairness to us, though, we will be traveling on different days, almost a week apart, so some communication is necessary unless we want to get the tires rotated twice. But still. Sometimes I wonder how all those people who book last minute flights to exotic, faraway places do it and manage to enjoy their trip. I mean, with my luck, and lack of lists, I'd forget my bathing suit, or my ski suit, or something equally relevant to said last-minute adventure. And I'd spend the entire vacation worrying about whether the dogs' shots were up to date, and we'd remembered to turn the alarm on.
So yeah, last minute trips don't work for us. And we're probably slight over-organized. But heck, if you need help invading a small country or dealing with the aftermath of a natural disaster, we're your men! And woman, of course.
So Christmas break, with its three (or four) weeks off, is much easier for ants-in-their-pants people like me to handle. It's too short to tackle any major projects, a feat aided by the fact that several days are "lost" to things like Christmas and New Year's (and so the painting of the quarter rounds will have to wait until summer), and too long to stay stuck in the work flow, which often happens during Spring Break. During that one week in March, I need to literally leave the country if I want to relax, because if I don't, I will end up writing conference papers and prepping classes, because "When I get back to work, do you know how much stuff I have to do?". In short, like Goldilocks' porridge, Christmas break is perfect.
Now the purpose of this lengthy introduction about the awesomeness that is Christmas break was to lead into a brief kvetch-fest about the 47-or-so-points to-do list that somehow popped into existence when my mind woke up from its finals-grading-induced haze, and realized, hey! We're going on a trip! And so we should really take care of all those things that have been left unfinished for the past months! Things like hemming that skirt, taking out the dry cleaning, dusting the light fixtures, getting pictures developed, upgrading various iDevices, and on and on and on. This means that after spending an hour each morning reveling in the fact that it's Christmas break, and I get to sit on the couch, sip my tea and watch CBS This Morning while around me the Christmas lights are twinkling, I turn to my multi-day, multi-page to-do list, and get to work. There are trips to CVS, to Kroger, to the BX, the base pool and/or gym, the bank, the tire rotation place, the dollar store, and back to CVS because the commissary doesn't carry Excedrin anymore.
This to-do list thing isn't a first either. Lately, whenever we travel anywhere, there are to-do lists days in advance. I remember when we used to just pack up the night before, double check if the stove was off and the door was locked, and leave. Now, leaving the house has turned into a near-military operation. There are checklists, pack lists, assigned responsibilities (you call the kennel to verify the dogs' shot records are in order, and I will get the oil in the car changed), reminder, and occasional pow-wows about who-what-where. In all fairness to us, though, we will be traveling on different days, almost a week apart, so some communication is necessary unless we want to get the tires rotated twice. But still. Sometimes I wonder how all those people who book last minute flights to exotic, faraway places do it and manage to enjoy their trip. I mean, with my luck, and lack of lists, I'd forget my bathing suit, or my ski suit, or something equally relevant to said last-minute adventure. And I'd spend the entire vacation worrying about whether the dogs' shots were up to date, and we'd remembered to turn the alarm on.
So yeah, last minute trips don't work for us. And we're probably slight over-organized. But heck, if you need help invading a small country or dealing with the aftermath of a natural disaster, we're your men! And woman, of course.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Pumpkin bread revisited
You may remember that last year, when Jill invited me over to her house to bake pumpkin bread together, I accidentally purchased the wrong ingredients. Because I went to school for close to 22 years, reading short little labels, such as the ones used normal food products such as "pumpkin mix" has become quite the challenge for me, and so I showed up at her house with two cans of pumpkin pie mix. Fortunately, Jill does possess common sense, and she was able to rescue the pumpkin bread by reducing some of the other ingredients.
So this year, when I decided to make pumpkin bread to give to our co-workers and neighbors, I made doubly sure my husband knew he had to purchase "pumpkin mix", and not "pumpkin pie mix". I underlined it on the grocery list, I told him in person, and when he called while in the store, I reminded him again. Delegation, people, is a lot of work. But, he succeeded (naturally), and came home with two cans of pumpkin mix. Excellent.
That Saturday (this would be last week), when I decided that if I graded one more paper my brain was going to explode, and that baking would be the one thing to restore my sanity, husband-dear requested if I would mind baking an extra loaf for him to take to work. Absolutely not. I had, after all, two cans of pumpkin mix, and I would simply double the recipe.
So off I went. I pulled out my recipe book full of slightly stained index cards, and found the recipe that Jill had written out for me the previous year. Three-and-a-half cups of flour became seven cups, four cups of sugar became six-and-a-half cups sugar, and one-and-half teaspoons of cinnamon became five. Math is relative, when baking, obviously. As the ingredients filled up our mammoth 16-cup mixing bowl, a sliver of doubt started to creep into my blissfully Christmas-filled mind. Did we really use that many ingredients last year? Did it really take this much to make two loaves of pumpkin bread? Really? But, dedicated as I was, I kept going, pulled out a smaller bowl, and added a moat of water, four eggs, a ridiculous amount of oil, and two full cans of pumkin. And just as I was staring at the two completely full bowls, wondering how I was ever going to mix them, I decided to flip over the index card. And there were the final instructions, including the underlined statement: "Makes TWO loaves (and in case of smaller pans: THREE)".
Holy pumpkin mix, Batman. I had just made enough batter for six loaves of pumpkin bread. SIX. More importantly, however, I had also just made enough batter to where none of our bowls where big enough to hold the combined concoction.
Being the independent, well-educated woman that I am, I of course had a solution on hand. I called on husband-dear.
"Can you find a bucket and clean it for me?"
"Why?"
I showed him the two bowls of batter, "The recipe was enough for two loaves already. Or three, in our case, since our bread pans are smaller than Jill's."
"And?"
"And I doubled the recipe. This is six loaves of pumpkin bread. And that" I pointed at the huge red bowl, "is our biggest mixing bowl."
I would love to tell you that husband-dear didn't laugh, but he did. Once he was done laughing, we began the hunt for a "really, really big container". Since husband-dear's American standards for food hygiene precluded using a bucket that had ever come in contact with cleaning products, even if said bucket were to be washed out with water, he eventually decided on the pot we usually use for low country boil, Dutch mashed potatoes, and other dishes that require a ridiculously large pot. I then used a four-cup measuring beaker to combine and the two bowls, while husband-dear hunted for baking pans that would work for pumpkin bread. We only have two bread pans, and so we had some interesting decisions to make for the other four loaves. A bundt-shaped pan? Or a casserole dish? Glass or china? We ended up settling on some old casserole dishes, at which point the two hour bakefest it took to get all six loaves done began. As did the extensive washing of bowls, pots, and other utensils.
So yes, I did finally make "normal" pumpkin bread this year. And I was able to make lots and lots and lots of people happy with a couple of slices. But if there is one lesson to be learned, it's that I really, really should start to do a better job reading instructions.
So this year, when I decided to make pumpkin bread to give to our co-workers and neighbors, I made doubly sure my husband knew he had to purchase "pumpkin mix", and not "pumpkin pie mix". I underlined it on the grocery list, I told him in person, and when he called while in the store, I reminded him again. Delegation, people, is a lot of work. But, he succeeded (naturally), and came home with two cans of pumpkin mix. Excellent.
That Saturday (this would be last week), when I decided that if I graded one more paper my brain was going to explode, and that baking would be the one thing to restore my sanity, husband-dear requested if I would mind baking an extra loaf for him to take to work. Absolutely not. I had, after all, two cans of pumpkin mix, and I would simply double the recipe.
So off I went. I pulled out my recipe book full of slightly stained index cards, and found the recipe that Jill had written out for me the previous year. Three-and-a-half cups of flour became seven cups, four cups of sugar became six-and-a-half cups sugar, and one-and-half teaspoons of cinnamon became five. Math is relative, when baking, obviously. As the ingredients filled up our mammoth 16-cup mixing bowl, a sliver of doubt started to creep into my blissfully Christmas-filled mind. Did we really use that many ingredients last year? Did it really take this much to make two loaves of pumpkin bread? Really? But, dedicated as I was, I kept going, pulled out a smaller bowl, and added a moat of water, four eggs, a ridiculous amount of oil, and two full cans of pumkin. And just as I was staring at the two completely full bowls, wondering how I was ever going to mix them, I decided to flip over the index card. And there were the final instructions, including the underlined statement: "Makes TWO loaves (and in case of smaller pans: THREE)".
Holy pumpkin mix, Batman. I had just made enough batter for six loaves of pumpkin bread. SIX. More importantly, however, I had also just made enough batter to where none of our bowls where big enough to hold the combined concoction.
Being the independent, well-educated woman that I am, I of course had a solution on hand. I called on husband-dear.
"Can you find a bucket and clean it for me?"
"Why?"
I showed him the two bowls of batter, "The recipe was enough for two loaves already. Or three, in our case, since our bread pans are smaller than Jill's."
"And?"
"And I doubled the recipe. This is six loaves of pumpkin bread. And that" I pointed at the huge red bowl, "is our biggest mixing bowl."
I would love to tell you that husband-dear didn't laugh, but he did. Once he was done laughing, we began the hunt for a "really, really big container". Since husband-dear's American standards for food hygiene precluded using a bucket that had ever come in contact with cleaning products, even if said bucket were to be washed out with water, he eventually decided on the pot we usually use for low country boil, Dutch mashed potatoes, and other dishes that require a ridiculously large pot. I then used a four-cup measuring beaker to combine and the two bowls, while husband-dear hunted for baking pans that would work for pumpkin bread. We only have two bread pans, and so we had some interesting decisions to make for the other four loaves. A bundt-shaped pan? Or a casserole dish? Glass or china? We ended up settling on some old casserole dishes, at which point the two hour bakefest it took to get all six loaves done began. As did the extensive washing of bowls, pots, and other utensils.
So yes, I did finally make "normal" pumpkin bread this year. And I was able to make lots and lots and lots of people happy with a couple of slices. But if there is one lesson to be learned, it's that I really, really should start to do a better job reading instructions.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Grading, grading, grading, gra-done!
In previous semesters, I always made sure to not turn in my final grades until the day they were due. I'm not sure why I did this, because in all cases, I was done grading the day of the last final, and could have turned in my final grades the very next day. Instead, I would draw out the grading process, take long lunch breaks, long coffee breaks, go home on time, and do whatever it took to turn in my grades with all of my other, far-more-harried colleagues on Friday.
Why? You may ask. Well, I'm not entirely certain myself, but two reasons come to mind. First, I felt bad for turning in grades early and, not having a reason to be at work anymore, skipping out of work the days before commencement. Missing work are two words that just don't go together in the Dixiechick lexicon. Second, I didn't want people to think that the reason I was able to turn my work in early was because I'm one of those slacker professor who doesn't "do" final papers and whose finals are nothing more than twenty true/false questions. In case you were wondering, yes, I am aware that I am possibly crazy for thinking these things. Especially considering the fact that unlike my harried colleagues, I spent the weeks and weekends prior to finals furiously grading papers, senior theses, and final projects. While I don't know what my fellow professors do in the weekends leading up to finals, I do know that my family has dubbed the last two weekends before commencement my "hell weekends" (which, yes, always include either Thanksgiving or my birthday, thankyouverymuch), since I spend at least several hours each day up to my elbows in grading, creating finals, and calculating final grades.
So this semester I decided to change things up. And I started by turning in my grades when I was done grading, that is, on Wednesday right after lunch. When I triumphantly exited the department office, and ran into two fellow professors who sighed that they had yet to start grading, I realized that my fear of looking like a slacker all those years was completely unfounded. I'll refrain from passing judgment, but let's just say, I wasn't the one slacking. So instead of driving into work yesterday to work on my grading a little and look busy, I sat on the couch and watched the entire Today show. And today, there's no need to drive to work, make a great show of printing out my final grades and roll book, and turn them in, nope. My plans for today include printing out the pictures I took at Disney and going for a swim. And possibly doing some laundry. Maybe. And the lesson learned? Caring about what other people think is never worth as much as having two days to yourself. Ever.
While we're talking about change, I'd also like to talk about next semester. Next semester, people, is going to be different. Not just because I -finally- implemented the changes in deadlines I should have made five years ago, so that not all papers are due in the last week of class, but also because I got a grant and have received 50% release time. Fifty percent release time, for those of you wondering, equals two classes, which means that next spring I will only be teaching two classes. Two. Not four, or five, or even six, nope. Two. And the even better news is that I got to pick the two I wanted to teach. That, my dear readers, is the bees' knees of academics, the cat's pajamas of scholarly life. It's right up there with paid sabbaticals and book royalties.
Now this doesn't mean I get to spend the other twenty hours of the week sitting around drinking coffee. No, instead of teaching and dealing with important questions such as "why do we have to write two papers?", and "why is this class so hard?", I get to develop a cross-disciplinary research initiative in the field of health communication. None of us on the grant are exactly sure what we'll be doing, but our first task (after I get to furnish my...wait for it...new office) is to developed measurable outcomes, so I'm sure we'll be fine.
So I am excited this semester is over? Yes, three times yes. I weather a tenure portfolio deadline, conducted a large scale quantitative survey, taught five classes, dealt with a child in marching band, two major meltdowns, and one student going into early labor, so I am ready for a break. But I can also assure you that I am more than ready to come back in 2013.
Why? You may ask. Well, I'm not entirely certain myself, but two reasons come to mind. First, I felt bad for turning in grades early and, not having a reason to be at work anymore, skipping out of work the days before commencement. Missing work are two words that just don't go together in the Dixiechick lexicon. Second, I didn't want people to think that the reason I was able to turn my work in early was because I'm one of those slacker professor who doesn't "do" final papers and whose finals are nothing more than twenty true/false questions. In case you were wondering, yes, I am aware that I am possibly crazy for thinking these things. Especially considering the fact that unlike my harried colleagues, I spent the weeks and weekends prior to finals furiously grading papers, senior theses, and final projects. While I don't know what my fellow professors do in the weekends leading up to finals, I do know that my family has dubbed the last two weekends before commencement my "hell weekends" (which, yes, always include either Thanksgiving or my birthday, thankyouverymuch), since I spend at least several hours each day up to my elbows in grading, creating finals, and calculating final grades.
So this semester I decided to change things up. And I started by turning in my grades when I was done grading, that is, on Wednesday right after lunch. When I triumphantly exited the department office, and ran into two fellow professors who sighed that they had yet to start grading, I realized that my fear of looking like a slacker all those years was completely unfounded. I'll refrain from passing judgment, but let's just say, I wasn't the one slacking. So instead of driving into work yesterday to work on my grading a little and look busy, I sat on the couch and watched the entire Today show. And today, there's no need to drive to work, make a great show of printing out my final grades and roll book, and turn them in, nope. My plans for today include printing out the pictures I took at Disney and going for a swim. And possibly doing some laundry. Maybe. And the lesson learned? Caring about what other people think is never worth as much as having two days to yourself. Ever.
While we're talking about change, I'd also like to talk about next semester. Next semester, people, is going to be different. Not just because I -finally- implemented the changes in deadlines I should have made five years ago, so that not all papers are due in the last week of class, but also because I got a grant and have received 50% release time. Fifty percent release time, for those of you wondering, equals two classes, which means that next spring I will only be teaching two classes. Two. Not four, or five, or even six, nope. Two. And the even better news is that I got to pick the two I wanted to teach. That, my dear readers, is the bees' knees of academics, the cat's pajamas of scholarly life. It's right up there with paid sabbaticals and book royalties.
Now this doesn't mean I get to spend the other twenty hours of the week sitting around drinking coffee. No, instead of teaching and dealing with important questions such as "why do we have to write two papers?", and "why is this class so hard?", I get to develop a cross-disciplinary research initiative in the field of health communication. None of us on the grant are exactly sure what we'll be doing, but our first task (after I get to furnish my...wait for it...new office) is to developed measurable outcomes, so I'm sure we'll be fine.
So I am excited this semester is over? Yes, three times yes. I weather a tenure portfolio deadline, conducted a large scale quantitative survey, taught five classes, dealt with a child in marching band, two major meltdowns, and one student going into early labor, so I am ready for a break. But I can also assure you that I am more than ready to come back in 2013.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Sinterklaas, wie kent hem niet?
Met als risico dat ik half Nederland over me heen krijg (nou ja, de dertien mensen die mijn blog lezen dan), maar ik ben er dit jaar echt uit: Zwarte Pieten kunnen niet meer. Blanke mensen omkleden in felgekleurde apepakkies, zwarte maillots, volsmeren met zwarte schoenpoets, en ze dan allerlei rare trucjes laten uithalen, dat kan in mijn wereld nu dus echt niet meer.
Sorry.
Ik weet dat voor de meeste Nederlanders de Zwarte Piet zo'n beetje heilig is deze tijd van het jaar, maar als rasechte NederAmerikaan kan ik er dus niet meer goed tegen, al die plaatjes van blanke mensen die lijken op een kruising tussen de tenenkrommende Sjimmie en gezellig racistische Sambo. Toen ik dit weekend Facebook opende, en een foto van mijn nichtje verkleed als Zwarte Piet zag, toen wist ik het, dit kan echt niet meer anno 2012. Sorry, geweldig nichtje van me.
Als ik eerlijk ben dan was Zwarte Piet al langer in een doorn in mijn oog. Dat krijg je, als je dankzij een Amerikaanse school bekend bent met het fenomeen "blackface", en het daarmee samenhangend racisme. Dan wordt het verdomd moeilijk, zelfs voor een jongere Dixiechick, om een grappende en grollende blanke man met zwarte make up en panties als een cultureel idiosyncrasie te zien. Want waarom moet de man perse zwart zijn? En waarom doet hij altijd alsof hij zo dom is? Maar ach, je verhuist weer eens terug naar Nederland, en je valt na een Sinterklaas feest of twee weer in de comfortabele gedachtengang dat dit "gewoon" een Nederlands fenomeen is. Eentje die natuurlijk niks te maken heeft met racisme, of blackface, or allerlei andere rare zaken. Zwarte Piet is gewoon een typisch Nederlands verschijnsel. Net zoiets als dijken, drop, en homosexuele paren die kinderen mogen adopteren.
Maar ja, een verhuizing naar het zuiden van de VS, waar de vrees voor racisme en alle daarmee samenhangende sociale verschijnselen nog steeds nadrukkelijk aanwezig is, en het hele fenomeen wordt in een keer minder makkelijk te verexcuseren. Je hoeft maar een keer les te geven over blackface aan een college zaal vol met African Americans, en je snapt meteen waarom. Want ondanks alle Nederlandse redeneringen over culturele eigenheid en relativiteit en weet-ik-veel-wat is the bottomline gewoon dat er hele groepen mensen zijn, zowel binnen als buiten Nederland die dit beledigend vinden.
Wil ik nu beweren dat ik vind dat Zwarte Piet afgeschaft moet worden? Jongens, ik zou niet durven. Ik heb nog steeds geen skinny jeans gekocht, draag nog steeds een muts als het koud is, zeg "sorry" als iemand tegen mij aan loopt, en ben dus ondertussen zo'n nep-Hollander geworden, dat ik al helemaal geen oordeel mag vellen over zo'n oer-Hollandse kwestie. Dus als jullie daar in Nederland blij worden van zwart-geschminkte blanke mannen en vrouwen die zich voordoen als de grootste lolbroeken ooit, gekleed in een bijpasselijk clown-achtig kostuum, dan ga vooral los, zou ik zeggen.
Maar voor mij hoeft het niet meer zo.
Wat natuurlijk niet wil zeggen dat ik hier de pepernoten, schuimdieren, en chocolade latters niet enorm mis.
Sorry.
Ik weet dat voor de meeste Nederlanders de Zwarte Piet zo'n beetje heilig is deze tijd van het jaar, maar als rasechte NederAmerikaan kan ik er dus niet meer goed tegen, al die plaatjes van blanke mensen die lijken op een kruising tussen de tenenkrommende Sjimmie en gezellig racistische Sambo. Toen ik dit weekend Facebook opende, en een foto van mijn nichtje verkleed als Zwarte Piet zag, toen wist ik het, dit kan echt niet meer anno 2012. Sorry, geweldig nichtje van me.
Als ik eerlijk ben dan was Zwarte Piet al langer in een doorn in mijn oog. Dat krijg je, als je dankzij een Amerikaanse school bekend bent met het fenomeen "blackface", en het daarmee samenhangend racisme. Dan wordt het verdomd moeilijk, zelfs voor een jongere Dixiechick, om een grappende en grollende blanke man met zwarte make up en panties als een cultureel idiosyncrasie te zien. Want waarom moet de man perse zwart zijn? En waarom doet hij altijd alsof hij zo dom is? Maar ach, je verhuist weer eens terug naar Nederland, en je valt na een Sinterklaas feest of twee weer in de comfortabele gedachtengang dat dit "gewoon" een Nederlands fenomeen is. Eentje die natuurlijk niks te maken heeft met racisme, of blackface, or allerlei andere rare zaken. Zwarte Piet is gewoon een typisch Nederlands verschijnsel. Net zoiets als dijken, drop, en homosexuele paren die kinderen mogen adopteren.
Maar ja, een verhuizing naar het zuiden van de VS, waar de vrees voor racisme en alle daarmee samenhangende sociale verschijnselen nog steeds nadrukkelijk aanwezig is, en het hele fenomeen wordt in een keer minder makkelijk te verexcuseren. Je hoeft maar een keer les te geven over blackface aan een college zaal vol met African Americans, en je snapt meteen waarom. Want ondanks alle Nederlandse redeneringen over culturele eigenheid en relativiteit en weet-ik-veel-wat is the bottomline gewoon dat er hele groepen mensen zijn, zowel binnen als buiten Nederland die dit beledigend vinden.
Wil ik nu beweren dat ik vind dat Zwarte Piet afgeschaft moet worden? Jongens, ik zou niet durven. Ik heb nog steeds geen skinny jeans gekocht, draag nog steeds een muts als het koud is, zeg "sorry" als iemand tegen mij aan loopt, en ben dus ondertussen zo'n nep-Hollander geworden, dat ik al helemaal geen oordeel mag vellen over zo'n oer-Hollandse kwestie. Dus als jullie daar in Nederland blij worden van zwart-geschminkte blanke mannen en vrouwen die zich voordoen als de grootste lolbroeken ooit, gekleed in een bijpasselijk clown-achtig kostuum, dan ga vooral los, zou ik zeggen.
Maar voor mij hoeft het niet meer zo.
Wat natuurlijk niet wil zeggen dat ik hier de pepernoten, schuimdieren, en chocolade latters niet enorm mis.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
The happiest place on earth
The title is, for once, not a sarcastic reference to the place I call my hometown. In fact, I actually have nothing sarcastic or cynical to say in this post at all, which is probably why it took me so long to write it. I know, who are you and what did you to Dixiechick, right? But seriously, the reason for my title is the fact that I, husband-dear, our darling offspring, as well as my in-laws, spent Thanksgiving break at Disney World. And it was truly magical. The rides, the parades, the landscaping, the cone-shaped lampshades in our hotel room, the endless suspension of disbelief, it was all absolutely wonderful. I mean, all I really should be telling you is that although I brought all of the grading I usually complete over Thanksgiving break (about two days' worth), it stayed inside its bag, next to my suitcase in our room. Untouched. For four whole days. That right there says it all.
I had only been to a Disney park twice before: once to Disney world in the mid-80s, and once to Disneyland Paris in the early 2000s, so my expectations were based on little more than warm, fuzzy memories and the tendency to say "Mag-EEK KEENgdome". Revisiting a park when your memories are so picture-perfect, but either so long ago, or related to a park on another continent is always dangerous. What if your memory glossed over the less than enjoyable parts? What if you looked at your scrapbook so much you don't remember all the not-so-great stuff? What if the park in Paris really is the better version? Fortunately, I had so much grading to do in the weeks leading up to our trip that I had pretty much forgotten we were going had little time to consider things like this. Instead, on Wednesday night, I turned into a Tasmanian devil, threw some underwear and shirts into a suitcase, and pronounced myself ready to go.
Thinking back, I realize that there is one less-than-glowing thing I can tell you about our trip to Disney world.
Sorry.
It was, unfortunately, also the first thing we did on our trip: getting there. I'm not sure why, but for some reason unknown to mere mortals, Disney resorts are pretty much, like Hogwarts, unplottable. The hotel we were heading to had two different addresses listed on its own website, our GPS couldn't find it, and Mapquest wasn't too certain about the location either. After a not-too-reassuring phone call to Disney reservations, where an agent happily told me that "We hear this all the time!", we went on our slightly-less merry way.
Fortunately, my phone did seem to know where it was going, although it completely disagreed with Mapquest. Now I have not navigated us/myself through most of Europe, the eastern part of the United States, and various parts of China to let a measly trip to Orlando get me down, so I went to work, pulling out the various maps we had stowed in our car, and tried to get a grip on the layout of the happiest, or most mysterious if you will, place on earth. And after some triangulation with a Florida map, our GPS, my phone app,and some serious anxiety-driven kvetching, I figured out that you could indeed get there from here, and plotted a route. All questions and queries about toll roads, short cuts, and alternative routes were quickly quelled with a stern, "I set up the route, and this is how we're driving", and away we went. Almost merrily.
And once we got there, it was all quickly forgotten. When we walked into Magic Kingdom that afternoon, we walked right into the "Make your dreams come true"/"Believe in your dreams"/ "Just dream already, dammit!" parade (OK, so I might have made the last one up, but I can't remember the name of the parade for the life of me), and the magic was born. We laughed at Stitch, yo-ho-ho-ed our way through the Pirates of the Carribean, made a mandatory nuisance call to my friend Shelly during the It's a Small World Ride, and loved the Thunder Mountain Railroad (which in my memory had real water spilling over it, which was either a figment of my imagination, or has since been turned into the wafting smoke they use now). We watched the Electric parade, listened to a group of southerners sitting behind us complain about the fact that ZOMG President Obama was now featured in the Hall of Presidents, and bought Disney jackets when the weather proved a little colder than we expected.
The magic continued throughout the next two days, with us mastering the fastpass system at Hollywood studios, Epcot, and the Animal Kingdom so that we got to ride some our favorite rides not once, but twice. I got to wow Jimmie with my knowledge of the Lights, Motor, Action! show, sing along with Aerosmith on the Rock n Roller Coaster, speak Italian at Epcot, hug a cast member, marvel at the fact that the Canadian pavilion still has the same 360 degrees film it did twenty-six years ago, have a glass of wine in Germany, and freak out at the "bugs" crawling under your legs in the "It's a bug life" show.
So, I'm sorry. I have nothing negative to say about my Disney experience. I suppose the one thing I could come up with was the fact that the cast members at our hotel would wish each guest a "colorful day" and tell them, "sketch ya later!", but you know, that's just cute.
Again, my apologies. Tomorrow, we will return to our normal programming.
I had only been to a Disney park twice before: once to Disney world in the mid-80s, and once to Disneyland Paris in the early 2000s, so my expectations were based on little more than warm, fuzzy memories and the tendency to say "Mag-EEK KEENgdome". Revisiting a park when your memories are so picture-perfect, but either so long ago, or related to a park on another continent is always dangerous. What if your memory glossed over the less than enjoyable parts? What if you looked at your scrapbook so much you don't remember all the not-so-great stuff? What if the park in Paris really is the better version? Fortunately, I had so much grading to do in the weeks leading up to our trip that I
Thinking back, I realize that there is one less-than-glowing thing I can tell you about our trip to Disney world.
Sorry.
It was, unfortunately, also the first thing we did on our trip: getting there. I'm not sure why, but for some reason unknown to mere mortals, Disney resorts are pretty much, like Hogwarts, unplottable. The hotel we were heading to had two different addresses listed on its own website, our GPS couldn't find it, and Mapquest wasn't too certain about the location either. After a not-too-reassuring phone call to Disney reservations, where an agent happily told me that "We hear this all the time!", we went on our slightly-less merry way.
Fortunately, my phone did seem to know where it was going, although it completely disagreed with Mapquest. Now I have not navigated us/myself through most of Europe, the eastern part of the United States, and various parts of China to let a measly trip to Orlando get me down, so I went to work, pulling out the various maps we had stowed in our car, and tried to get a grip on the layout of the happiest, or most mysterious if you will, place on earth. And after some triangulation with a Florida map, our GPS, my phone app,
And once we got there, it was all quickly forgotten. When we walked into Magic Kingdom that afternoon, we walked right into the "Make your dreams come true"/"Believe in your dreams"/ "Just dream already, dammit!" parade (OK, so I might have made the last one up, but I can't remember the name of the parade for the life of me), and the magic was born. We laughed at Stitch, yo-ho-ho-ed our way through the Pirates of the Carribean, made a mandatory nuisance call to my friend Shelly during the It's a Small World Ride, and loved the Thunder Mountain Railroad (which in my memory had real water spilling over it, which was either a figment of my imagination, or has since been turned into the wafting smoke they use now). We watched the Electric parade, listened to a group of southerners sitting behind us complain about the fact that ZOMG President Obama was now featured in the Hall of Presidents, and bought Disney jackets when the weather proved a little colder than we expected.
The magic continued throughout the next two days, with us mastering the fastpass system at Hollywood studios, Epcot, and the Animal Kingdom so that we got to ride some our favorite rides not once, but twice. I got to wow Jimmie with my knowledge of the Lights, Motor, Action! show, sing along with Aerosmith on the Rock n Roller Coaster, speak Italian at Epcot, hug a cast member, marvel at the fact that the Canadian pavilion still has the same 360 degrees film it did twenty-six years ago, have a glass of wine in Germany, and freak out at the "bugs" crawling under your legs in the "It's a bug life" show.
So, I'm sorry. I have nothing negative to say about my Disney experience. I suppose the one thing I could come up with was the fact that the cast members at our hotel would wish each guest a "colorful day" and tell them, "sketch ya later!", but you know, that's just cute.
Again, my apologies. Tomorrow, we will return to our normal programming.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
What's in a name?
I've never thought of my name as particularly strange, odd, or Dutch for that matter. In fact, I remember, at a very young age, being grateful for the fact that my name was not only internationally accepted, but also fairly common in various countries. This gratitude wasn't so much related to any sort of linguistic awareness on my part, oh no, it was directly correlated to the fact that I, unlike my less fortunate (but more creatively named) younger brother, never had any problems finding a necklace, bracelet, rock, or keychain with my name on it regardless of which country I was in.
Now since I am kind of weird about privacy and this blog (I sincerely hope no one has seriously entertained the thought that I have two boys named "Ozzie" and "Jimmie" respectively), let me just tell that my name is old, very Jewish, and one I share with both a woman described in the biblical apocrypha as seducing and then beheading the enemy, as well as a woman playing a somewhat overworked mother in one of the corniest sitcoms to come out of the 1980s. It's popular among Dutch girls born in the 1970s, as well as a large number of Jewish girls living on the east coast of the US, while its abbreviated version seems to have been quite the fad among women born during the 1930s and 1940s.
At any rate, I've never had any problems with my first name, spelling, pronunciation, nada. Well, that is, until I moved to Georgia. Ever since moving here, whenever I introduce myself, the conversation always ends up going something like this (and for the sake of privacy, I'll be ancient seductress, OK? I mean, I suppose I could have picked 1980s sitcom actress, but that's just ridiculously long),
"Hi, I'm husband-dear, and this is my wife, ancient seductress*"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Ancient seductress*"
"How do you spell that?"
"A-n-c.."(you get the idea)
"Ooooh, OK. Seducy!"
"Uhm, no, Seductress"
Yes, annoying. And also slightly confusing, since I've never had this problem before. Ever. The only issue I've ever had to battle is people abbreviating my name without asking first. Now, to be fair, the problem has really only been with truly native Georgians. Most military folk, academics, and people who have lived or traveled out of state get my name the first time around. But whenever I visit local events, churches, or restaurants, getting my name straight always turns into a ridiculously elaborate song and dance. I'm not sure if it's the fact that my name simply isn't very common in the south, or people are so used to hearing girls' names ending in "y" or "a", but it's a very strange experience to have to repeat your name two or three times before people realize what it is.
So this past Sunday, after another unsuccessful attempt to get a southern couple at a church we were visiting to grasp my name on the first try, I decided that this was just getting ridiculous.
"I think I'm going to change my name to something easy and simple." I told husband-dear
"Yeah, like your middle name."
I scowled, "My middle name is four syllables long. I don't think so. No, something simple."
"Simple. Because your first name isn't simple enough."
"Apparently not. I think I'm going to with Katie."
"Katie?"
"Yes, Katie. It's simple, short, and everyone gets it."
"Katie. Oh-kay."
Obviously, I wasn't entirely serious, as the thought of having to explain, after that first meeting, that my real first name wasn't Katie, but that that was just a name I had made up to ease the art of initial introductions, was too weird even for me. But as we headed out to brunch, I decided to give my little experiment a go anyway. After all, Georgian maitre d's' inability to understand my first name on the first attempt has always been a real source of frustration. I mean, why should anyone have to go through the trouble of spelling their name, or even worse, have to resort to giving their husband's name because "Ancient Seductress" is just not a name these lovely locals have ever heard before? We can't all be Madisons, Michelles, and Brittanys. So, I figured, if I couldn't introduce myself to people who might turn out to be new friends as Katie, I could at least ease the pain of getting my name put on a wait list.
"Hi, welcome to IHOP, how many in your party?"
"Six"
"Okay. And what's your name?"
The moment of truth, "Katie"
"OK. And how do you spell that?"
Oh.
My.
Stars.
Now since I am kind of weird about privacy and this blog (I sincerely hope no one has seriously entertained the thought that I have two boys named "Ozzie" and "Jimmie" respectively), let me just tell that my name is old, very Jewish, and one I share with both a woman described in the biblical apocrypha as seducing and then beheading the enemy, as well as a woman playing a somewhat overworked mother in one of the corniest sitcoms to come out of the 1980s. It's popular among Dutch girls born in the 1970s, as well as a large number of Jewish girls living on the east coast of the US, while its abbreviated version seems to have been quite the fad among women born during the 1930s and 1940s.
At any rate, I've never had any problems with my first name, spelling, pronunciation, nada. Well, that is, until I moved to Georgia. Ever since moving here, whenever I introduce myself, the conversation always ends up going something like this (and for the sake of privacy, I'll be ancient seductress, OK? I mean, I suppose I could have picked 1980s sitcom actress, but that's just ridiculously long),
"Hi, I'm husband-dear, and this is my wife, ancient seductress*"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Ancient seductress*"
"How do you spell that?"
"A-n-c.."(you get the idea)
"Ooooh, OK. Seducy!"
"Uhm, no, Seductress"
Yes, annoying. And also slightly confusing, since I've never had this problem before. Ever. The only issue I've ever had to battle is people abbreviating my name without asking first. Now, to be fair, the problem has really only been with truly native Georgians. Most military folk, academics, and people who have lived or traveled out of state get my name the first time around. But whenever I visit local events, churches, or restaurants, getting my name straight always turns into a ridiculously elaborate song and dance. I'm not sure if it's the fact that my name simply isn't very common in the south, or people are so used to hearing girls' names ending in "y" or "a", but it's a very strange experience to have to repeat your name two or three times before people realize what it is.
So this past Sunday, after another unsuccessful attempt to get a southern couple at a church we were visiting to grasp my name on the first try, I decided that this was just getting ridiculous.
"I think I'm going to change my name to something easy and simple." I told husband-dear
"Yeah, like your middle name."
I scowled, "My middle name is four syllables long. I don't think so. No, something simple."
"Simple. Because your first name isn't simple enough."
"Apparently not. I think I'm going to with Katie."
"Katie?"
"Yes, Katie. It's simple, short, and everyone gets it."
"Katie. Oh-kay."
Obviously, I wasn't entirely serious, as the thought of having to explain, after that first meeting, that my real first name wasn't Katie, but that that was just a name I had made up to ease the art of initial introductions, was too weird even for me. But as we headed out to brunch, I decided to give my little experiment a go anyway. After all, Georgian maitre d's' inability to understand my first name on the first attempt has always been a real source of frustration. I mean, why should anyone have to go through the trouble of spelling their name, or even worse, have to resort to giving their husband's name because "Ancient Seductress" is just not a name these lovely locals have ever heard before? We can't all be Madisons, Michelles, and Brittanys. So, I figured, if I couldn't introduce myself to people who might turn out to be new friends as Katie, I could at least ease the pain of getting my name put on a wait list.
"Hi, welcome to IHOP, how many in your party?"
"Six"
"Okay. And what's your name?"
The moment of truth, "Katie"
"OK. And how do you spell that?"
Oh.
My.
Stars.
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