Guido Swimming Pants

Here's an example of the Dutch living in another century. This is so absurd, I just couldn't resist. My son's school teacher is now insisting that he wear a tight little swim pant to the school swimming class. He currently wears long swimming shorts, which for reasons unknown, is unacceptable swim attire. Maybe they're afraid he'll become a gansta if he keeps wearing long swimming shorts. He does have long hair! Long shorts. Long hair. That all adds up to no good.

I think most men and boys prefer loose fitting attire for comfort. Oddly, it's only his new, snotty, "upper crust" hyper-Dutch school that makes such requirements. The same school that has no qualms about taking small children on school trips in cars without child safety seats. Wow, they really have their priorities straight.

The same teacher also insists that my son is in need of urgent speech therapy, something we also didn't see a reason for. When we finally took him to the speech therapist, she couldn't see a reason, either. She told us that his Dutch is perfect, but his school teacher insists that he makes "English" sounds. Must be due to his shifty American mother teaching him English, or "American," as the Dutch are so fond of calling our "language." Only the English can really speak English. I guess there's also "Australian," "New Zealandian," "Canadian," "Irishian," and other languages/dialects. I can't wait until he starts studying English in school and they insist that he speak with a Kentian English accent.

Here's another fun fact: In the school art show last year, one of the third grade teachers had this great art project. One hundred dollar bills with a photo of each pupil in place of whatever president is on that bill, and in place of "The United States of America," "The Bogus States of America," or something like that. I really wish I'd taken a picture of that one. What a tolerant bunch the Dutch are. I can understand being against the current administration. The Dutch government has been supportive of Bush. Even the Queen went to visit him. Perhaps the Dutch school teacher can make a bashing art project out of that with his students this year.

This same teacher is my son's chess teacher at school. Last year, again for reasons unknown, he stopped giving him chess homework, resulting in him not finishing the course. This just happened to coincide with the afternoon I came to introduce myself, and he found out that I'm American. Coincidence?

It's remarkable how petty and xenophobic the liberal minded Dutch have become. As I've always said, "tolerance" isn't the same thing as "acceptance," and it's a far cry from actually welcoming someone! I'm sure that the Dutch have always looked upon "outsiders," or people who are different from them, with suspicion, have held them at arm's length, have allowed "them" to exist here, as long as they stay in their own little corner. After all, isn't integration just another form of control?

Even if you do learn the language, and do your best to mix in, it's never good enough. You'll always have an accent. Your Dutch will always be inferior, and so will you. You'll always be a foreigner, and foreigner is a four letter word in this society. Even if, as in my case, you become Dutch, you can never be considered Dutch by a white Dutch person.

A friend of mine left with her family after finishing medical school here several years ago. She was an American of Indian descent, small with very dark skin. While interning at Dutch hospitals people mistook her for a cleaning person. She was constantly berated for her American-Dutch accent. When asked by white Dutch people where she was from, she'd tell them that she was American, to which they'd reply, "But NO, where are you REALLY from?" "Uh, America." Incidentally, she also has a Dutch passport.

I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry

Ah, Hank Williams. Last time we were in Utah we took a ride on the Heber Creeper, a wood burning steam train that runs from Heber to Provo, and back. If you want to catch a glimpse of this train in action, I'd recommend watching the Robert Redford picture, A River Runs Through It, where that train is featured.

On our way back from the fun ride peopled with family members who love me, we stopped into a diner right out of a Hollywood film, right on Center Street in Heber. I played a few songs on the jukebox, Hank Williams among them. I knew the name, but didn't know much about his music. I hadn't realized what a great artist he was.

It took me a while, but I finally checked out a Hank Williams dvd from the library in Rotterdam, and I'm glad that I did. I've started listening to Patsy Cline, Willie Nelson... Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow up to be Cowboys.... I'm so Lonely I Could Cry... I've never felt like such a lonely cowboy as I have these years among the icey hearted Dutch. There are many days when I'd be only too glad to settle into a four bedroom house in Springville, UT.

One of my readers from New York City, who I'll identify as Mtt Vscvi, made the suggestion that I give people in the USA an idea of what it's like living in The Netherlands. Well, MV, I can't vouch for anyone else, but here are some examples:

After sitting on the playground at my kid's snotty school in Rotterdam all choked up, and on the verge of tears because no one there ever acknowledges my existence, I gathered my children together, and headed toward the Metro. On my way down a typical Rotterdam street, strewn with dog shit and garbage, I encountered a group of middle-aged Moroccan men. There were other people on the street, typical white Dutchmen, some of whom were engaged in loud construction work. One of the Moroccan men smiled, or nodded. Then he said, "What wide open eyes you have! I'd like to fuck you." To which I called him a pig in two languages. Of course, all they did was laugh at me. One of the fathers from two kids in my kids' classes walked by at this point, but of course he couldn't be bothered to do anything at all, and has never even asked me about it. Lilly-assed Dutchman. He even looks like a lilly ass. His wife wears four inch stilletos to pick her kids up from school. I guess she pulls out the whip after the kids are in bed every night.

About a month ago I went to the parent-teacher night for my daughter's class. I was looking forward to reading my book on the Metro ride over, and settled into Annie Tyler's The Maytrees, but didn't get far. It was 9/11, and there seemed to be a lot of young Muslim men out celebrating on the streets.

In the first car was a group of young Moroccan men making lots of noise singing music from their village back home, so I moved to the next car. One of them followed me. He proceeded to ask me if the Metro stopped someplace. I pointed to the map on the wall, and tried to continue reading. But he wouldn't leave me alone. He kept asking me questions. Where was I from. What was I reading. I kept trying to ignore him without seeming rude. Then he sat down right next to me in an empty car, and kept talking. "Are you scared of me?" "No. I'm reading," "I can't read English," Wow, like I care. Then he put his hand out for me to shake it. I didn't know what to do, so I shook his hand. Turns out you should NEVER shake hands with a Muslim man, because then they think it gives them the right to touch you further. I had to duck my head away from him as he tried touching my cheek and hair. Thankfully, he had to get out at this point. While he was standing at the door, he said "Why not. It's so nice," (Actually, he said lekker, which is the equivalent of delicious). Then he kept repeating "lekker" over and over again before getting off the Metro.

I got to the school a minute or two late, but was still able to get a cup of tea. When I got to the classroom and sat down, the parents were introducing themselves. After I'd introduced myself, the teacher asked in front of everyone why my daughter (four-years-old) missed school that day. In the past year I've made myself unpopular at the school for allowing her to stay at home to rest resulting in 20 absences (she was FOUR). Well, I'd probably be unpopular, at any rate because I speak English to my children everywhere. A big taboo here. I don't care. I'm teaching my children English, and I don't care if they spit on me for doing so.

In short, after being harassed on the Metro, I was accosted once again by my daughter's school teacher, a short Dutch woman who looks like a frog, for keeping her home after she woke up in the middle of the night crying with an ear ache. I told the teacher that she seemed just fine during the day, to which the teacher scoffed that I'd allowed her to "play hooky."

Oh what fun it is to live in the land of the broad minded Dutch. Children here are allowed to stay at home until they're five, and even until they're six, they are allowed to stay at home one day every week, but this law didn't prohibit my daughter's teacher from calling me out in front of everyone. How appropriate. Maybe I should have told her that I was just getting over being harassed on the Metro, and could she please leave me alone.

I'm so lonesome I could cry... My bucket's got a hole in it... Oh yeah.