black and (A)broad

I like sports as much as the next woman, especially during play-off time or the Olympics. I cut my teeth on the basics of football and basketball early on as a pom-pon girl at Northview Jr. High in Indianapolis. We Falconettes sat on the bleachers right behind the cheerleaders, chanting, screaming and clapping our boys on to victory or defeat. As a flag girl at North Central High School, the actual sports took a back seat to looking cute in my short, flouncy skirt and ogling the boys climbing the bleachers to better watch the game. At Indiana University I hoped to trade in my girlhood props for a pair of knee-length white patent leather boots and sexy red leotard that the school’s dance corps, the Redsteppers, donned. I ended up twirling flags again in a heavy polyester A-line skirt that reached my ankles, white clodhoppers and a hat that Napoleon would have been proud of.

I was a sophomore at IU in 1987, the year Bobby Knight coached the Indiana Hoosiers to their fifth NCAA championship. I was living in Indianapolis when the Colts sneaked out of Baltimore in the middle of the night to move to their new home town. Too bad I wasn’t there 20 years later when they won the Super Bowl in 2007. Sports in Indiana even have a Dutch connection. Arie Luyendyk of Sommelsdijk, South Holland, won the Indianapolis 500 in 1990 and again in 1997. And who could forget the Dunkin’ Dutchman, Rik Smits of Eindhoven who played out his NBA career with the Indiana Pacers?

Football and basketball are as American as you can get, so why is this American woman gettin’ all excited about soccer? My two teams are playing in the FIFA World Cup, of course. This is one of the three events (the other two being Queen’s Day on April 30^th and the European Cup every two years) when Dutch people confirm my opinion that they’re the most supportive fans in the world. Fans all over the country put on orange T-shirts, dresses, shorts or hats and paint miniature Dutch flags on their cheeks. In honor of the Orange Machine’s debut this afternoon against Denmark, schools are suspending lessons at 1:00 pm (at least in Voorschoten, where I live) so that the kiddies won’t miss out on any of the excitement.

I’ve never been a soccer fan. I’d always considered it a silly game. How much skill does it take to kick a ball around? How much fun can a ball sport that doesn’t allow the players to hand-le the ball be? How hard is it to run up and down the field in hopes of getting one kick in? A lot and very. Now, I can’t get into the ins and outs of soccer, but I can say this: watching a bunch of men with thick, muscular legs passing, stealing and driving their little ball toward the goal is as exciting as it gets, especially when a country pulls together to root on their national team.

Just like in America, where young neighborhood kids can be seen on basketball courts and on little league football and baseball teams, Dutch kids (young and old) spend their lunch breaks and afternoon playtime kicking around a soccer ball. In the 10 years I’ve lived in Holland, I’ve probably racked up hours standing by my living room window watching the neighborhood kids engaged in spontaneous mock soccer matches. After watching Bend It Like Beckham years ago, I longed to have a little girl who was as passionate about the game as Juliet and Jessminder were. Alas, my oldest girl has already decided that soccer is stupid and would rather learn field hockey.

No matter.

At this point in the game, I’m still trying to explain to her why I keep saying soccer “when it’s called football, Mama”. Attempts to explain the difference between American football and football fall on deaf ears, which is understandable because my kids have never seen the former. So, whether I’m speaking Dutch or English, I make it a point to refuse to say football. Call it a last-ditch attempt to hold on to a piece of my American sports identity that I can pass, with hands or feet, to my children.

I just hope and pray my dual identity isn’t put to the test in a match between Holland and America!

Tags: Add new tag, black woman, Dutch culture, overseas living
Posted in Dutch culture, cultural stuff | 4 Comments »

My oldest daughter keeps informing her little sister that spring’s almost here. Her declaration falls on skeptical ears.

“Mama, isn’t spring coming next week?”

I turn sad eyes outside. I must disappoint her. “No, Chloe-bear,” I reply. “Spring’s a long, long way off.”

Around this time of year, when Dutch people ask me what I miss most about the States, my answer is always the same: blue skies.

“In Indiana, where I’m from,” I explain, “winters are long and cold. But, no matter how cold, windy and miserable winter may be, the skies are clear and the sun likes to shine.”

During the wet, gray days that accompany Dutch winters, I’ve taken to bringing up my spirits by focusing on the things I love about living here. We’ve had a lot of snow and ice this winter, which has been unusual since I’ve been here. Many Dutch people still brave the slippery bike paths, as many don’t have cars. Others have taken to transporting their children around on sleds. What a brilliant idea!

I got our sled out of the shed, where it’s been hiding ever since my husband got it as a gift last year, and pulled my kids on it through the schoolyard. Not only did they get a kick out of riding on it, I didn’t have to carry Paige, who was afraid of falling.

I’m actually a bit disappointed all the snow and ice are melting away that little bit of winter fun. But, I’ve promised myself to get through these long days by focusing on other reasons to appreciate winter in Holland. What are you doing?

Posted in Dutch culture, Lazy Dayz | 8 Comments »

June 21st is supposed to be the longest day of the year, but not this year. December 31st stole that honor. In Holland this day is distinguished by what Julie Duke, a British woman and lovely writer in my Life Story writing circle, describes as being “beseiged all day by something that sounded like the intermittent gunfire of trench warfare, culminating in the outbreak of World War 3 at midnight!!”

Firecrackers. All day long. Fireworks. All night long. I only go outside when absolutely necessary, and unfortunately a minor emergency arose that necessitated my stepping out of doors. Hubby ran out of frosting about a third of the way through helping the girls decorate their gingerbread house (a thoughtful gift from Denise one of my dearest friends). As I quickly cycled to town, I passed groups of young boys, usually in three’s or four’s, who’d randomly throw a firecracker, seemingly with little regard to who may be in the vicinity. On every other corner stood hapless teens and younger children setting off fireworks. This latter group of unsupervised children have always put me on edge.

Chloe is terrified of the day-long bangs and booms that accompany Oud en Nieuw (New Year’s Eve). I got smart this year and bought a package of earplugs for her, but that didn’t stop her from walking around with her hands covering her ears. Paige copied her sister and ran desperately to me and literally jumped into my lap whenever a particularly loud clap struck, which was frequent. Hubby and I did everything we could think of to distract their attention from the outside noise: decorating the gingerbread house, singing and dancing to their favorite CDs, watching a favorite movie, coloring, etc. It all worked, I must say, but it was temporary. We even went to a friend’s house at around 8.00pm in the hope that a new environment might distract them enough to sleep. We left at 10.00.

When they finally fell asleep at 10.30, hubby and I sat on the couch and opened a bottle of champagne. For the first time in over ten years, we’d be bringing in the New Year, just the two of us and sober! Not my idea of a fun time on the one night per year that having fun is obligatory. At about 11.55 both kids woke up, so we decided to bring them downstairs with us, knowing that at 12.05 all hell would break loose, which it did.

As I sat on the couch with a sleeping Paige cuddled up in my arms, I looked over at Chloe, sitting on Vinz’s lap with her hands still covering her ears and her long legs dangling over the side of the chair, I realized I didn’t want to be anywhere other than where I was, comforting my children while colors danced in the air. This is where my life has brought me so far, and I love it.

That said, I was never so happy to see a day end, which of course, it made January 1st all the sweeter. Vinz had to go to the office for a bit, and I spent the morning cleaning the kitchen, while the girls colored and watched TV. We spent the afternoon at my sister-in-law’s snacking and drinking champagne (but not too much!) before coming home, eating, and putting the girls to bed.

2009 was a relatively quiet year for my family. We’ve had many blessings and countless beautiful moments. We’ve fared well in the midst of the global economic crisis and dodged the swine flu. We cried at Obama’s inauguration and cried at Michael Jackson’s funeral. We traveled to Portugal, Italy and twice to Austria. We worked hard and spent lots of time with our friends. We’re hopeful that 2010 will be just as beautiful and filled with as many (or more) blessings than the one we just said good-bye to.

Best wishes for 2010 to you all. I hope you have the best year yet.

Posted in Dutch culture | 8 Comments »

Last week marked my 10^th anniversary of living in the Netherlands. Gefeliciteerd, congratulations to me!

3,650 days I’ve cycled in the rain (a good thousand of those days with at least one child strapped in a seat either on the handlebars or behind me), attempted to speak Dutch without making a fool of myself, eaten stompoot (traditional meal made with mashed potatoes, kale or any other green, leafy veggie and bacon bits served with smoked sausage or meatballs), partaken in the Koninginnedag festivities (celebration of the queen’s birthday when the Dutch dress up in orange, hold yard sales and drink) and celebrated Sinterklaas (St. Nicholas Day).

Actually, that’s not true: I’ve always stood on the sideline of December 5^th, when Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet come banging on the door and leave a sack of presents and other goodies to kiddies who are, by that time, bouncing off the walls in anticipation. Honestly, it took me a couple of years to get over the whole Black Pete/blackface controversy, which I blogged about last year ago, but I have moved beyond it. And, boy, am I glad I have because for the first time in ten years, I finally understand the thrill of it.

Chloe, Paige and Friend in Piet and Sint Hats

I owe that to my six-year-old daughter, Chloë, whose enthusiasm and matter-of-fact explanations about everything leading up to the big day (tomorrow) have been as infectious as the swine flu, which she may have just had. She’s even spread it to her two-year-old sister Paige, who, even though she has no clue what it’s really all about, she jumps up and down when she gets a present in her shoe because Chloë jumps up and down. In fact, Chloë and I baked peppernoten (spiced cookies that Pete throws to the kiddies) yesterday and plan to bake more this afternoon.

I can’t wait until tomorrow when the day will culminate in a new tradition that hubby and I are creating in our own little American/Dutch, black/white/mixed family. Right before dinner hubby and I are going to sit at the table and play a couple of games with our little girls. Then we’re going to clear the table and lay out our hot plate, which we only seem to use at this time of year, and grill our pieces of peppers, mushrooms, zucchini, chicken breast, sausage, hamburger and steak – Bennihana style.

Then I’m going to make up a batch of homemade eggnog, and as I’m adding the cognac – whiskey for hubby – the neighbors will bang on front door, pretending to be the Klaas. Chloë and Paige will scream and jump up and down and race to open the door. The gleam of utter pleasure in their little eyes as together they yell out their thanks to Sinterklaas and drag the bag of presents into the living room is what the day is all about.

Sometimes we Americans – black and white – living here get too caught up in imposing racism on a custom that may or may not be deserving of it. We could try focusing less on that, and when we do our attention will be freed up to be placed on the sheer joy of the season. We’ll be able to devote our attention to creating new traditions that bump out the old negativity.

Sunday morning, December 6^th, after Sinterklaas, his horse Americo and Pete have boarded the steamboat and are on their way back to Spain, hubby and I will take our precious girls to the garden center to buy a beautiful Christmas tree. As we’re decorating it later, we’ll drink up whatever’s left of the eggnog, I’ll put on my Christmas Carol playlist and pass along to my girls a bit of my culture. That’s what I’ve learned in the last ten years, and that’s what I want them to carry into the future.

Posted in Dutch culture | 16 Comments »

I’ve heard it said that when Dutch people travel, they’re not always respectful of their destination country. I suppose they’re rowdy, rude and engage in rogue-like behavior. Over the years I’ve pooh-poohed that away seeing as any tourist is not necessarily the best representative of his/her home country. Even when a friend of mine jokingly commented that “We’re smart enough not to shit in our own backyard”, I laughed it off as … well … I don’t know what.

All summer I’ve had to put up with my neighbors’ cats shittin’ in my backyard, and every time I see a pile I fume because I have to scoop it up. Now, I still have a child in diapers so I clean a fair amount of poop on a daily basis; I don’t feel like I should have to go outside, in my own backyard, and have to clean up the neighbors’ cats’ shit. Why don’t these people keep their cats inside? What’s the point of having a pet if it’s running wild outside all day doing its business in other people’s yards?

I don’t have anything against cats even though I’m not a pet owner. If I were to get a pet, it would be a nice big hairy dog, but that’s beside the point. I’ve done a number of things to prevent cats from crapping in the bushes, in the grass or on the stones. I’ve put coffee grounds all over the place, but it doesn’t seem to work. Hubby even bought me a water gun, a big one that you have to cock in order to build up pressure. I could zap one of those sons of b****** from a mile away with this baby. The problem is, as soon as I open the back door, the stinky little offender hears it and runs away before I cock it even once. Chloe and her friends have gotten more use out of that water gun than I ever have. Once, out of desperation, I scooped up a pile and tossed it over the fence into my next-door neighbor’s yard. But, I’ve noticed there are multiple cats using my facilities, so I can’t always rely on that solution.

My father-in-law (and conspirator in devising ways to scare off cats) bought this contraption that is hooked up to the water sprinkler in the yard. There’s an attached motion detector that gets activated whenever a cat waltzes by. The poor, unsuspecting critter gets blasted with water (moo hoo hoo haaa). My father-in-law has become such an expert in this field that every so often he moves the sprinkler to another patch of garden thereby preventing those would-be smart aleck cats from memorizing the system. He says that they’re now afraid to even think about stepping one paw in his yard.

Being the compassionate person he is, he bought a “Bird and Cat Scare Sprinkler with Motion Sensor” for me. Alas, hubby sadly explained that our sprinkler system is such that this little bit of brilliance wouldn’t be possible in our yard. It figures.

I’ve considered talking to various neighbors about this issue, but honestly, what would I say? “keep your f****** cat inside” wouldn’t get us anywhere. Then again, if it’s true that the Dutch themselves don’t shit in their own yards, why would they let their cats?

Posted in Dutch culture | 9 Comments »

A reader is thinking of taking a transfer with her job in the States to Amsterdam. She asked me if I could give her some information about the cost of living here. This is my response to her.

I don’t think knowing the cost of living is as important as asking yourself how you expect to live in Amsterdam. I’m not sure what your lifestyle is at the moment, but chances are, it won’t be the same living in another country. That doesn’t mean it’ll be better or worse, it’ll just be different. Write down what you currently spend your money on. Do you have a car payment? What about car insurance? Do you eat out a lot? Do you have credit card debt? Student loans? These are your fixed expenses, which to a certain extent determine your lifestyle. Make sure you’re realistic about how you spend your money so you won’t have any surprises when you get here.

Secondly, make sure you ask your employer how your salary will be determined. Will your current salary be converted to euros? If so, keep in mind that the euro is worth more than the dollar right now. So, if you’re currently making 3,000 dollars per month gross, you’ll only be making 2,088 euros. That’s a big difference. Be sure you’re clear on that.

Keep in mind that income tax here is generally higher. Let’s assume you’ll be paying 42% income tax (it could be as low as 32% or as high as 52%!). That’s a lot higher than what you’re probably paying now. Are you being transferred by your company? If so, you might be eligible for a tax break. You’d have to apply for the “30% tax ruling”. If you are granted this break, you’ll be taxed only on 70% of your gross salary. The 30% will then be added back. So, let’s say you make 1,000 euros gross per month. You’d be taxed at 42% on 700, which means you’d net €406. Three hundred euros (the 30%) would then be added back onto your net pay, bringing it back up to €706. So, (only) if your company is transferring you, be sure you ask about this tax break when you get over here.

Housing is pretty expensive in Amsterdam. On top of that, I’m not sure how plentiful it is. My husband’s always telling me there’s a shortage of housing here because the population is so dense, especially in the big cities. A friend of mine moved there a few years ago, and one of her biggest worries was housing. She used her network to find her current rental. My only suggestion would be to check the internet. Sorry I can’t be more helpful. You should live in Amsterdam, though, because you won’t have to worry about language. People there are used to tourists so they generally speak English wherever you go in the city.

Electricity is also very expensive here. One constant point of contention between my husband and I is over the heat. I’ve had to learn to wear thick sweaters, socks and warm house shoes in the winter. I’m also known to wrap a blanket around myself when I sit down at night to watch tv. If you hate being cold, bring lots of warm clothing and turn down the heat. You’ll save big time!

Insurance is pretty reasonable. A friend of mine, who is also an expat, pays about €150 per month, and that’s for the top insurance package. You won’t need to worry about pre-existing conditions clauses or anything like that.

Part of American culture involves eating out, sometimes 3 meals a day. Especially if you’re single, it’s usually much easier (and sometimes cheaper) to eat out. The Dutch typically eat at home, which means restaurants tend to be a bit pricier. If you can cook, you’ll save a lot of cash - even if you’re single! For example, instead of going to the grocery store to buy a package of chicken breasts that you can’t eat all by yourself, you can go to a butcher and buy 1 breast for your dinner. Same thing with veggies. You tend to waste a lot less, which means you have more money to spend elsewhere. I spend about 150 euros per week on groceries. That’s for a family of two adults and two small kids and includes diapers, drink boxes, deodorant, shampoo, etc. We also shop at the most expensive supermarket because it’s the most convenient and has all the brands we like. You can go to cheaper stores.

You won’t need a car here. Buy yourself a used bike and a train/tram/metro pass, and you can go anywhere you need to go. Public transportation is excellent here.

Do you like to go to bars? Well then you’re in luck. Beer and wine cost maybe 3 – 4 euros. Mixed drinks are very expensive, so I wouldn’t suggest you make a habit of drinking martinis. If that’s your thing, you’d be better off buying your vodka from a liquor store and drinking at home. There’s a lot going on in Amsterdam entertainment-wise, much of which is free, so I don’t think your social life will be a big burden.

check out www.expatica.nl for more information about living in Holland.

I hope I’ve answered your questions. Please feel welcome to ask if your have other questions.

Posted in Dutch culture, Geen categorie | 9 Comments »

here I come. I PASSED MY LANGUAGE TEST!!!!!!!

Next stop: Dutch passport.

Posted in Dutch culture | 9 Comments »

There’s nothing really new about eating raw fish. I mean, after I’d gotten my mind wrapped around people eating sushi, I figured this eating habit wouldn’t get to me. The Dutch showed me just how wrong I was.

A couple of weeks ago the four of us went to the harbor town Scheveningen (just try pronouncing it) to check out the events surrounding Flag Day or Flaggetjes Dag in Dutch. Every year around this time excitement fills the air and signs (decorated with orange, blue and white flags) proclaiming New Dutch Herring or Hollands Nieuwe Haring fill the streets and sidewalks.

Yes, now more than any time of year, I bear witness to the peculiar way the Dutch have of eating their fresh harvest of herring. At least the Japanese had the decency to disguise the rawness; they cut the flesh up into bite-sized pieces and even package it up in sticky rice or algae. Not so the Dutch, who are known for their…uhh…thrifty ways.

My parents-in-law were kind enough to demonstrate the eating of this delicacy.



Since I moved here almost 10 years ago, my hubby has been trying to get me to at least take one bite of herring.

“But it’s raw,” I always whine.

“No. The insides of the herring are cleaned out, all except the pancreas, whose enzymes sort of cure the fish, so technically it’s not raw,” he responds smugly.

(I’ve heard of a self-cleaning oven and a self-defrost freezer…but a self-cooking fish?)

“Listen here hubby,” I shoot back, “I don’t see no corn meal; ain’t no hot fryin’ pan; ain’t no grease. So…there you go.”

I’ve integrated into Dutch culture all right, but, as Dirty Harry once said, “A (wo)man’s gotta know his limitations”.

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Posted in Dutch culture | 13 Comments »

Just when parents all over The Netherlands thought it was safe to put their feet up after a long day, they’re startled back into their weary bodies by the chattering of little voices. They run upstairs to see if their toddlers are standing up in their beds making conversation with the stuffed animals strewn about the floor. Assured that their little rugrats are tucked in and taking that nightly train to dreamland, they shuffle back down to find the dents their tired butts have made in the couch. But before they wrap their fingers around their entertainment for the evening (read the remote control), the little voices have grown louder. They peek around the curtain, and what do their eyes behold? At least a hundred school-aged kids walking the (rainy) streets of their neighborhood.

Yes, it’s that time of year again when kids from 4 - 12 participate in the “avond vier dagen” or the four-day walk. Ok, so “avond” actually means “evening”, and they don’t actually walk for four days. These kids do, however, walk 5km or 10km for four consecutive days. This is the one time of year when parents bend their strict bedtime regime and allow their children to go back outside after dinner and hang out with their chums. Chloe’s walking with papa as I post this message.

I’ve asked various Dutch people what the point of this event is because in some cities, like Nijmegen, even adults participate. They all agreed on one thing: kids walk for the “gezelligheid” or the atmosphere. Paige and I accompanied Chloe and papa to the starting point, and the level of excitement was at an all-time high. Kids squealed in delight as they saw classmates they only recently bid farewell to at the end of the school day or friends they only see during arranged playdates. Paige was so caught up in the fun I had to drag her (literally) off to bed!

Besides the exercise and a little medal when they’ve walked all four days, these kids get something priceless from the “avond vier dagen”: they get bragging rights! They get to tell grandma and grandpa that they actually walked 20km. Mom and dad get a pooped child that thankfully falls into bed and goes right off to sleep. Everybody wins from this brilliant initiative from the Dutch.

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Posted in Dutch culture | 6 Comments »

Normally, when I write about Dutch culture, either I focus on the positive side or I try to see the humorous side of the negatives. Well, this morning I’m going to complain, pure and simple.

The Dutch are a good bunch of people, and I like them, until they get on their bikes (this is a whole other post) or have to wait in line. In America proper social behavior dictates that when confronted by a line - long or short - we go to the end of it and wait our turn. In Holland this doesn’t always happens. Even worse, when it does, no one says anything.

This morning I decided to take Paige to the walk-in hour that our family physician holds every morning from 8.15 - 9.00. Now, in order to service the maximum 8 patients that are allowed to walk in, each consult should be no more than 5 minutes. This is what’s posted in the house rules. Each of the 5 patients ahead of me were with the doctor for at least 10 minutes; one took 15 minutes. So as I was in the middle of making an appointment for the next day (I’d already been waiting 45 minutes and still had to drop Paige off at daycare and get to my appointment at the physical therapist on the other side of town. Of course, I’d chosen to cycle!) another lady walked in, and as soon as the doctor entered the waiting room to call the next patient, she jumped up and started asking a question. The doctor took 5 minutes to answer her question and afterwards began asking the secretary, who was making my appointment, to do something for this lady. What did I do? I went all passive-aggressive and huffed and puffed and left.

I made it to the physical therapist’s and had a nice session and left calm and composed. So, I decided to go to the bakery and buy a loaf of bread so my daughter could have a sandwich at lunch. Of course, there were about four other customers ahead of me and one lady behind the counter. I felt myself getting ancy as I watched the customer being waited on lay all her coins on the counter and count out her change - not once but twice. In the meantime another worker came out of the back room and proceeded to stock the cooler. At that point another woman walked in and proceeded to the head of the line. Having finished putting cake in the cooler, the worker went back behind the counter. Do you think she helped a customer? No, she went and got more cakes for the cooler. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the coin lady was leaving and the lady who’d cut had ordered a cookie and was paying for it.

No more passive-aggressive behavior for this black woman because I walked up and said “Mame”. She didn’t turn around to face me. I said it a bit louder, “Mame, we’ve all been standing in line; you need to stand in line, too,” at which point she grabbed her cookie and left, without a backward glance. The lady standing behind me muttered that she was glad I said something and that the cookie lady’s behavior was “anti-social”. Whatever.

If you’re going to be inconsiderate, at least have the guts to own up to what you’ve done. Anyway, that’s the end of my little rant. Thanks for listening. I feel better now.

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Posted in Dutch culture | 13 Comments »

Today I’m taking my first formal step towards becoming a Dutch citizen. In order to get a passport, I have to take and pass a Dutch language exam or a “culture” exam not unlike the one given in America. I’ve chosen the NT2 Staatsexamen or the language test. Am I nervous? No way. In fact, when my husband asked me that over the breakfast table, I laughed haughtily, reminding him that I used to be a professional student. As the time for me to head out to Amsterdam inches closer, the butterflies flutter faster.

When I first moved here almost 10 years ago, I scoffed at the mere idea of taking a Dutch citizen. “I’m American through and through,” I’d profess to my in-laws. Several years later, sitting in City Hall across from the civil servant who was administering our “ondertrouw” (filling out of official documents before marrrying), my husband and I discussed this very possibility. “Now’s a good time to consider it,” we were informed, “and since you’re marrying a Dutch national, you’ll get citizenship automatically after living here 5 years.”

Of course, we were too busy planning our wedding and preparing for our first child so I didn’t pursue it. The next thing we knew, the rules had changed and I’d actually have to do something to get a passport, something like take a test. In the meantime, my husband, Chloe, and I traveled to Brazil to stay with some friends of ours. Our friends, one Dutch the other Brazilian, were certain I’d already gotten a Dutch passport. They told me that we didn’t need visas. Well, come to find out, my Dutch husband and half-Dutch daughter didn’t, but I, an American through and through, needed one. And why did I find this out the Sunday before we were flying out…on Tuesday? So, I spent the entire day on Monday trying to get an expedited visa. We called all three of our friends who work for KLM to see if they could help us, but to no avail. It wasn’t to be. I dropped off my husband and daughter at Schiphol airport the next morning and didn’t fly out myself until the following day. Oh, and not only did I have to pay 100 euros for a visa, but I had to buy a one-way ticket to Brazil for about 700 euros!!!!

So, here I am about to take this test that, if I pass, will be all I need to get a passport. I’ve been assured that since my husband is Dutch, I can hold on to my American passport as well, which I plan to do with everything that I am.

Wish me success!

Posted in Dutch culture | 13 Comments »

You know, I’ve been pretty good with this whole living abroad thing if I do say so myself. I’ve been through all the stages of culture shock (at least those I learned about on Wikipedia) and would indeed call myself cosmopolitan. I have three bikes, for God’s sake, and I use them all. I even cycle around town with one kid on the front and one in the back. Not only am I used to the notorious Dutch directness, I find myself telling it like it is. Because of this feat, one of my neighbors has made me an honorary Dutchie. I speak this hard-ass language. Sure I make lots of mistakes, but I can hold my own in most environments. Americans…the Dutch people have gotten me eating chocolate sprinkles on bread. Come on. I’m even used to the 9 months of gray skies and rain we enjoy in these nether lands.

But for the life of me I can’t get used to being sick here. And it’s the Dutch people’s fault.

Back in America the only time I ever took medicine was when I had the flu or a flu-like cold. I would start with the vitamin C cure. As soon as I felt the slightest of symptoms, I would take about 2,000 mg three times a day for two days, which worked when I took those six pills in time. Do you know that in Holland I’ve yet to find a pharmacy or drug store that sells vitamin C tablets in dosages higher than 100 mg? Yes, I’ve counted out and taken 60 pills. Unbelievable.

A few years back I got a bad case of the flu ( I obviously hadn’t taken my vitamin C in time). After a couple of days, I resolved to drag my aching body off the couch, go to the pharmacy, and get some drugs. Imagine my delight when I saw a box with a steaming mug on it. Yes. I got home, got back into my pyjamas. As the water boiled I looked at the “indications” paper as I usually do before taking medicine. I shouldn’t have. Do you know what the Dutch version of flu medicine is? Well, let me tell you. It’s paracetomol (similar to Tylenol) and vitamin C. Doh.

Now I can appreciate and even applaud the Dutch medical mentality of letting your immune system deal with viruses and the such, but not when I’m suffering with the flu-like cold - as I have been for the past few days.

Whenever I go back to the States, I make sure I stock up on some real flu medicine, so I went to my bathroom, opened up the medicine cabinet, and grabbed the box of CVS flu stuff. I checked the expiration date, as I always do before taking any medicine. I shouldn’t have.

Would someone please come and put me out of my misery.

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One of the aspects of Dutch culture that I adore is how school lunch breaks are arranged. On the two days that baby Paige does not go to daycare, I pick Chloe up and bring her home for lunch. She usually brings a little friend with her, and there I stand in the kitchen for the next 20 minutes or so making “boterhammen” for them. A “boterham” is the Dutch word for sandwich, ususally translated simply as “bread”, made with liverworst, salami, cheese spread, Nutella, chocolate sprinkles, etc. A “boterham” is generally washed down with “limonade”, which is more or less the same as kool-aid. Then they color, play, or just watch tv until it’s time to take them back.

In the last few years this system has been implicated as one of the obstacles keeping Dutch mothers out of the full-time workforce. Picking up your kids for lunch in the middle of the day naturally gets in the way of working full time. Still, instead of criticizing these women for putting their families at the top of their priority lists, I think they - we- should be applauded. Now, I come from a country in which your career is an intrinsic part of your identity, and even before I had children I’d already decided to never put them in daycare 5 days per week for forty hours. (Lest I be accused of saying that those who do make that decision are bad parents, let me clarify that that decision works for my family. More power to you if the former works well for your family - I ain’t mad at you [and it's none of my F*&%^&G business anyway]. Never in my wildest dreams did I foresee myself volunteering as a lunch mother (”overblijf moeder). Yes, once a month I go to my daughter’s school and supervise the children who stay at school for lunch because both their parents work. I love it, and when Chloe sees me walking toward the lunchroom she is so proud and excited that her mother is there. You couldn’t pay me enough money to give that up. In what other country besides Holland could I keep that particular promise to myself and my kids?

I may be one of the lucky ones in that I’ve found what I hope is the beginning of a fulfilling and lucrative career: writing, which I can do at home. That said, many of the mothers at Chloe’s school manage to work part time and have time for their kids. Holland gives us the best of both worlds.

I know it’s trite, but I’m going to write it anyway: when I’m on my deathbed, I don’t think I’ll lament not spending the majority of my waking hours working for a company that doesn’t put my family at the top of its priority list. Years from now when I look back at pictures like this

I’m going to be even more thankful that I was able to choose for myself AND for my kids.

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Q: How far can chocolate cake batter splatter?
A: Roughly the distance between the mixing bowl and my new white sweat pants.

Indeed, I decided to take a break from writing seeing as I’d managed to start a draft of “Sauerkraut and Brussels Sprouts” another chapter of my memoir. As I had dinner food on my mind, I figured I’d bake a nice cake. As I was measuring, sifting, and beating I was struck by how relaxed I become when I bake or cook (if I have the time and space, meaning no kiddies pulling at my apron strings. Sorry. I just couldn’t resist). Anyway, I got to reflecting on how far this little girl from Indiana has come, and I don’t mean only geographically. My older sister Felicia always cooked so I didn’t have to – nor did I want to. The only meal I could make was bacon and scrambled eggs. When I was thirty, I went to Alcala de Henares, Spain for about seven months to prepare for my doctoral comps and begin research on my dissertation. I had very little money so I had to buy groceries and actually cook. That was seven months of fried potatoes (my sister made them all the time; I watched), pasta, and fresh fruit. I realized I liked knowing exactly what I was putting into my body. Then we moved to Holland. I quickly learned just how cultural eating out is. Let me put it like this: during the three weeks we were in America visiting family last summer, we ate out more than we did the entire year at home. Each time I go home, though, I realize I’m not missing out on much by cooking at home because the food in restaurants isn’t all that (unless it’s a fancy one). And, I’ve discovered a new side of myself, the side that loves trying out new recipes, “foreign” cuisines, and baking.
Yes, I’ve come a long way, but apparently not long enough yet to invest in a good apron!

Posted in Dutch culture, Reflections | 2 Comments »

Where’s it written you HAVE to skate when canals freeze over?

OOPS!!

Piece of Cake

Bye Bye Now

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It’s been below freezing for at least a week, and for the second time I’ve done the imaginable: ice skated on the frozen canals with my kids and husband. Well, only our five-year-old actually put on her new ice skates and skated. The rest of us (papa, Paige, and me) just walked along the ice with Chloe.

My husband leaned over and said with a nostalgic smile, “Now, this is how I spent my winters as a child.” And, by the end of the afternoon, I was cold but refreshed. There’s just something about that cold, crisp winter air!

Chloe was having a bit of trouble getting started, so an older Dutch woman suggested we let her push a small chair along the ice; that way she’d have something to hold on to while practicing her stroke. You know it’s culturally engrained when you’re on the train to The Hague and you see little kids on ice skates pushing a chair on the ice!

I’ve lived here for almost ten years, and this is the first time it’s been below freezing for more than a couple days at a time, which means it’s the first time I’ve had the pleasure to experience this little bit of Dutch culture.

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We brought in the New Year like we have for the last five years since we had Chloe: we invite a few friends over, snack, and drink champagne, cava (Spanish bubbly), and prosecco (Italian bubbly). We don’t brave the wild streets of Amsterdam or The Hague because some people tend to go a little crazy with the fireworks. Authorities close off mail boxes and lock down metal containers to prevent enthusiasts from blowing them up. Even though packs of teeny boppers walking through the neighborhood flicking firecrackers through the air as they would a cigarette butt grates on my nerves, I love the fireworks at midnight. When the clock strikes twelve, I put on my favorite version of Auld Lang Syne (I so miss hearing this song and singing it along with the crowd) and sing to myself as I wish my husband and friends a happy New Year with the customary kisses, alternating cheeks three times. Then we all throw on our coats and go outside to watch the show - and put on one of our own. People shoot off fireworks for the next hour, and it’s a magnificent display of the Dutch letting go. Most of the neighbors are also standing outside watching, so we make the rounds, giving our best wishes and filling up our champagne glasses!

This morning Chloe and I woke up around 10.00 am (Vinz had morning duty with Paige at 8.30 hee, hee, hee) to a feast of homemade banana buttermilk pancakes and scrambled eggs. We’ll slowly get moving and go to my sister-in-law’s in The Hague where we might make our way to the beach to watch the New Year’s dive. Crazy Dutch people take off their clothes, run across the sand, and dive into the cold-ass North Sea. Shoot, I might even put this on my list of things to do before I lose my guts. For now, I’ll just watch. Anyway, I’d like to wish you all the happiest of New Years.

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You know, I try not to bitch too much about the weather in Holland, partly because it’s become rather trite to do so and because it doesn’t help. I’m gonna bitch about it anyway. It’s been cold here the past few days, and I can’t say as I mind cold weather here because temperatures don’t compare to the blistering cold, ample snow, and annoying ice storms I survived growing up in Indiana. When temps go below freezing here you can be assured of two things: sun and blue skies. The problem I have with cold weather now has nothing to with being outside in it. No, I dread these low temps because my house is so cold. I mean damn. Since we’ve been back from vacation, I’ve begun my pre-bedtime ritual of breathing deeply to mentally prepare myself for putting my pyjamas on. I swear, just the thought of those couple of seconds between ripping my shirt and sweater off - the ones that have stayed close to my body and benefitted from my warmth - and cramming my arms and head into a pyjama top gets me to cussin’ and fussin’ about my choice of living arrangements.

Years ago Vinz bought me the lovliest, most thoughtful Christmas gift ever: an electric blanket, and I’m sorry to say that, yes, in these desperate times I prefer to cuddle up by myself on my own side of the bed in the heat of old E.B. Vinz always jokes that December through May marks his celibate period because I always whine about getting turned on when E.B. hasn’t been. I always give him the death look, but then he reminds me that our children were born in September and May…you do the math!! He still makes me laugh.

I’ve noticed that the Dutch, Germans, and Austrians prefer sleeping in a cold bedroom (I’ve even heard that Norwegians let their babies nap outside in the winter). The thing with the Dutch is that they take this attitude further into the day. The few times we eat out, for example, I have to have a table near the back because in many restaurants (at least during the day) the door is left open - for generating fresh air, of course. Just this year I’ve managed to win two battles with my husband: the first is putting the heat on higher than the standard 19 degrees C (roughly 68 F). The second is sleeping with the window closed. During these cold-ass days, Vinz and I have the same conversation as we prepare to retire for the night. I begin by asking him how he could sleep in nothing more than his sexy little boxers and tee-shirt. He fires back that he can’t even find me in my long sleeves, pyjamas, blanket, and comforter. Then, I cringe as he slides into his ice-cold bed. He puts one finger on my deliciously-warmed mattress and spits out “Bah”, the Dutch version of “yuck.” And then we laugh.

I’ve been up for two hours now; it’s almost 8.15 am, and the living room is just now heating up. My hands are cold, and I’m tired of the blanket slipping down around my thick robe everytime I shift around on this cold, wood dining room chair. I never thought I’d wish for rain, which is what happens as soon as the temps rise!

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Aaaahhhhh. That glorious time of year is once again upon us. Pepernoten (tiny spiced cookies) are strewn all over the place, random shoes seem to walk themselves into stores where they wait to be filled with wat lekkers (usually pepernoten or candy) or a small gift. Talk of Sinterklaas (St. Nicholas or Santa Claus, but also eponymous for the celebration itself) fills the air as do threats from parents of ne’er-do-well kiddies that old St. Nick won’t bring them anything if their misbehavior continues. Sinterklaas has just traveled by steamboat all the way from Spain with his white horse Amerigo and his helper Zwarte Piet (Black Pete). For your average Dutch person, Sinterklaas is unthinkable without Black Pete – skipping about, entertaining the little ones, and throwing out wat lekkers – dressed up in medieval Turkish or Moorish costume, black curly wig, face painted with thick black paint, and bright red lipstick.

Since I moved here nearly ten years ago, I’ve been dreading hearing the words uttered by my children: “Mama. Can I have a Black Pete costume? Can I get my face painted black?” Back then, I swore my answer would be a plain, simple “hell naw”. This is what I’ve explained to my Dutch husband, family, and friends: when I see Black Pete throwing treats around to the kiddies, adorning wrapping paper, or decorating shop windows I’m reminded of a deeply painful period in American history. For me Black Pete is little more than blackface.

Invariably, they argue that Black Pete is deeply rooted in Dutch culture and just plain fun, to which I counter that blackface minstrelsy, from where the present-day image of Black Pete, with his coal-black face, bright red lips, and wooly hair, derives is, unfortunately, a dark legacy from the US. Through blackface minstrelsy this caricature of black people was legitimated on stages all over America seeing as it reaffirmed what white society thought of blacks anyway. The shows, in which white performers donned black face paint, bright red lipstick, and the attire typical of black slaves and mimed their movements, music, and speech depicting them as child-like fools, swept across the country from 1830 and was exported to western European countries around the middle of the century.

These shows claimed to give an authentic glimpse of plantation life and were pretty convincing, especially during this time of heightened awareness of racial issues due to activity surrounding slavery and abolition. Whites embraced the stereotypes of blacks as comical characters, holding on to their belief that blacks, child-like in nature, were well suited for slavery while they were naturally the masters and superior beings. This is the cultural milieu surrounding the Dutch immortalization of blackface in the figure of Black Pete. Before Jan Schenkman’s classic children’s text, Sint Nikolaas en zijn knecht (Saint Nicholas and His Servant), published ca. 1850, St. Nicholas’s helper was described as the black slave whose freedom the saint bought. And that’s if we don’t include the pagan roots of the Sinterklaas celebration, which, in my opinion, is much more colorful, as it were.

The mythology goes something like this. Odin (or Woden in Dutch), a chief god descending from Norse mythology, was a robust figure with a long white beard sporting a mantle, a pointy cap, and brandishing a spear. As he is associated with the mythical Wild Hunt (the carrying off the dead or in pursuit of some maiden or another and is the source of thunder), he purportedly flew through the sky on an eight-legged white horse accompanied by his servant, an assistant, and two ravens (alternately two demons) who informed him about the deeds (especially the misdeeds) of mankind. In medieval celebrations of this god, offerings to him and his horse were left by the chimney, in exchange for which he would leave gifts. This pagan god was so vivid in the imaginary of the people, a day of the week became his namesake: Wednesday (or woensdag in Dutch). The advent of Christianity would displace this pagan celebration in favor of Christmas, but never replace it, as we see today in Sinterklaas.

Not to be outdone, St. Nicholas of the Christian faith contributes to this holiday. He was born to a wealthy Lycian family in the third century. His devoutness and charitable acts earned him the bishopric (his family ties probably didn’t hurt) when he was nineteen. He was beloved for his generosity (he bought and freed a slave, who in gratitude chose to serve Nicholas) and was said to have performed miracles. His memory is recalled today in the eponymous celebration that takes place on December 5th, the day before his death.

Recently in Holland, people of Surinamese and Caribbean background – and Americans - are speaking out against Black Pete because of the negative stereotypes he embodies. The Dutch response (read white people) is generally defensive. “We’re not racist; it doesn’t mean anything; it’s a part of Dutch culture; Pete’s face is black because he’s come down the dirty chimney” are some of the comments I’ve heard since I’ve been here. So, here’s the €10,000 question: is Black Pete a symbol of hidden Dutch racism? My answer is ambivalent at best.

On the one hand I have to consider how I’ve been treated in The Netherlands. Much to my surprise I was accepted into my husband’s family from day one. Even before we were married, his parents introduced me as their daughter-in-law, not, incidentally, as their son’s girlfriend. I was welcomed in his sister’s home until we found a place of our own – six months later. I was really a guest: I wasn’t asked to clean, do dishes, iron, etc. My brother-in-law cooked dinner for us every night. I remember winning tickets to Disneyland in Paris in a raffle. One of the kids yelled, “That’s my aunt!” I was accepted immediately within my husband’s social circle. As a couple, we’ve never been the target of racial slurs or attacks. In fact, I’m on guard only when we’re together in America.

I don’t believe the Dutch are parodying blacks when they smear black paint all over their faces and overdo the bright red lipstick. I’ve learned to look at the wider context and consider other images of blacks. On Dutch television, for example, I’ve seen many positive images of blacks, some things I would never see in America. Black couples are shown inquiring about a mortgage. A black father is seen having an intimate, loving moment with his black baby in a commercial for baby lotion. Many black movies are shown on Dutch prime time television. The Dutch seem to be genuinely interested in black American culture and consider it to be what makes America so appealing.

When people see my little mixed kids they only marvel at their curly hair. Instead of backhanded disapproval, usually housed in the hardships my interracial kids will suffer, the Dutch are only impressed that my husband and I are raising them to be bilingual. So, when I look at this, from such a personal perspective, I’m hard pressed to assign racist intentions in Black Pete.

On the other hand, I can’t deny Dutch history anymore than I can American. They could not colonize the East Indies nor enslave the West Indies (Suriname, Curacao, Bonaire, St. Eustatius, St. Maarten, Saba, and Aruba) without employing a hefty racist ideology to justify their presence. Of course, the Dutch are quick to deny their ancestors’ role as the oppressor. Rationalizations such as the Dutch weren’t as cruel as the Spanish, they weren’t involved with the slave trade as long as the French, or they didn’t ship as many Africans as the English abound. They also make sure I know that Surname has been offered their independence repeatedly, but they turn it down. According to the Dutch, Surinamese nationals like holding a Dutch passport, relocating to Holland for a university-level education, and they simply don’t want the responsibility that independence would bring. The Dutch education system, formal and informal, seems to have glossed over Dutch colonial history, and the gravest problem I see is that the Dutch don’t question it. Nor do they question Black Pete, even amidst the reproach he inspires.

What would make me happy around this time next year? Go easy on the black paint. If black is supposed to represent soot from the chimney, could we lightly dust our faces with a little chalk…and lose the red lipstick altogether. In fact, this is a compromise I’m willing to make when my daughter asks if she can dress up as Black Pete.

sources: www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/foster/sfeature/sf_minstrelsy.html
www.docentenplein.nl/vakinfo/sng.htm
www.geschiedenis.nl
krant.telegraaf.nl/krant/ditjaar/sint00/teksten/sint.geschiedenis.html

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I’ve been living in The Netherlands now for 10 years, and not once have I ever heard of the delightful St. Martin’s day, celebrated here on Nov. 11th. Armed with paper lanterns, Chloe and Charlotte, her best friend, spent an hour ringing the doorbells of houses with candles burning in the window. For the price of a song (I’m determined to learn them in Dutch for next year), the kids got treats. St. Martin’s is a cross between trick or treating and singing Christmas caroles. I loved it.

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