WARNING CONTAINS: fire, fireworks, sparks, wood, gross generalization about whole countries of people, Brexit, effigies of Drumpf, burgers and fries.
You remember the fifth don't you? The fifth of November? Right. You remember. I can tell.
This 5th of November, I experienced my first Guy Fawkes Day, which is mostly called Bonfire Night these days. Probably because explaining to small children about burning a Catholic in effigy is too challenging and it's far easier to simply say - It's a night we burn and blow up things...as a community.
My little village (less than four thousand residents) has it's own celebrations that have been going on nearly fifty years. I missed it last year as I was on a writing retreat and the year before I stayed home with our youngest. This was my first real experience of the celebrations anywhere in England.
It began in the parking lot (that's car park for those American-English impaired) of the local library* and the judging of the Guy competition. This is where people make their own, less anti-Catholic stuffed dummies to be placed on the fire so we can burn them. Nothing like a bit of sadistic role play on a cold night! The one that won the in the children's group was called "Hans Brexit", though I couldn't get close enough to see why. I am assuming that burning such a named object is an expression of dislike for Brexit, and therefore I approve. But I still felt odd about it.
Next came the tractor pull. No, my American friends, not the loud, fun kind. This was three or four tractors, each pulling a hay filled cart behind it jammed with children. The idea being that the walk to the bonfire field is long and the kids can ride. What I found strange was watching several tractors rolling away in the dark with mostly children in tow - as though they were being taken away. Still, no one seemed to mind and my children stayed with me and as far as I know all souls were united at the top.
Then came the lighting of the torches. You have to purchase a torch. They're cheap and the sales fund next year's bonfire and fireworks. It's a lot of sturdy sticks with aluminum cans tied to one end filled with a kerosene soaked cloth. The organizers light a few and the fire is passed along. It reminded me of passing the flame between candles on Christmas Eve except this was more dangerous and smoky. Nonetheless, a huge sea of lit torches is beautiful and stirs something in the caveman brain that's undeniable.
Everyone then processed about a mile to the big field. And when I say everyone, I mean a good three thousand people, two-thirds of which carried torches. It's a lot. It's long. It's kind of intimidating. My husband's cousin said it very well, "I've always wanted to be an angry villager." And that's when you realize that mixed in with wonder is a definite sense of unease. Because if you're most modern people, you associate a long line of people with torches with things like chasing down witches, Frankenstein, storming the castle, and, if you're me, the KKK. That is NOT to say that this procession was like that AT ALL. But I really couldn't help feeling odd! Sorry!
A tip if you are ever chased by a very large mob with fire sticks: I highly recommend zig-zag running. A big group with burning objects can't turn well. Hence at every kink in the path to the field, things backed up for several minutes.
When we arrived at the field, there was the thing, waiting to be lit - the bonfire. This one was three stories high. Yes. Three. Made of hundred of pallets, bits of trees or perhaps whole trees, plus the Guys had been transported to await their fate. Lighting it was a very managed and controlled thing, as you'd imagine. Once ablaze it was stunning and awe inspiring and really, really, really hot. People moved further and further away from it as it went volcanic.
And at last, after the fire settled, there was a really good fireworks display that included firework tanks shooting firework mortars. It was a display any American city let alone small town would be proud to show. I watched it from the huge line for buying burgers though because my youngest was having a meltdown about having something to eat. But they stop making them while the fireworks go off, so I had to wait. And when I got back to my family, certain people were a bit beside themselves due to my absence.
In the end though, once we made it home and raised our body temperatures back above cryo-stasis, we all agreed it was pretty amazing and cool and not at all like a mob performing fake vigilante justice.
What I was most reminded of was Celtic celebration from which we get the jack-o-lantern tradition. Once upon time, on a dark night, everyone in community would put out every fire in their home save small lights carried in hollowed out turnips or gourds. They then carried those lights to a place where the fires were merged into one, large fire, and had a big party. Then you take some of the group fire home and restart all your home fires with the shared flames. So the Brits might keep calling it Bonfire Night or Guy Fawkes, but I might just call it Samhain quietly, to myself lest I end up a Guy.
*my local library is run totally by volunteers after being de-funded by the local authority. it's only open three and half days a week, but those are some great people in there!
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
This is not a post about taking away your guns.
This is not a post about taking away your guns.
In fact this isn’t a post about how I think guns laws should be overhauled. Because that isn’t a particularly powerful argument, especially not on social media where the moment people think their ideas are going to be challenged profoundly they run away or throw out an insult (I’m including myself here minus the insult part these days).
I’m just going to tell you what it’s like to live in England where the vast majority of people don’t have guns. Because until I moved here from North Carolina, USA, I didn’t really think it would be too different. I didn’t think that an absence of guns would be detectable in the same way I assumed the absence of drive-thru fried chicken would never really cross my mind - but I feel these missing pieces of my in-America life regularly.
When I drive my kids to school in the morning and the news comes on I often change the channel before they even start on the headlines, just as I did in America. But on the days I don’t realize the news is on until it’s too late, particularly if I’m listening to “local” London radio, the lead stories after the international ones are stabbings. On a Monday morning in particular, after a weekend of parties, highly contested sporting matches, and other events wherein people drink too much and argue, there tend to be a fair few stabbings reported. Some fatal, some not.
After I take my kids to school, I go about my day and often hear and/or read the news via local and national sites. I tend to get news on events going in the US that aren’t of international consequence via a news app local to my previous home state, Reuters, and, of course, whatever shout fest is happening on fake-book and twitsville. It didn’t become clear to me how heavily gun violence is reported in the US until I’d been away, without visiting home, for about six months.
If I see a police officer, which I often do, they are usually just walking around. Police here have guns, but beat cops on the street do not carry guns. Honestly, this didn’t really seem change anything as far as I could tell. But last week I heard the police chief who liaisons with the French police explaining why the way the French deal with football hooligans (no, these are seriously violent dudes who pretend to give a shit about soccer), something that apparently had been reported in the press as overly harsh. The chief made the point that because the French police carry guns they cannot speak to hooligans the same way British police do. They can’t approach them. Can’t converse. And I just had the lightbulb moment of “well of course!” I’m not offering this as a model, I’m simply realizing what a difference it makes when dealing with typical rowdy, drunkard issues to not have the implied threat of a gun on your hip and how police can talk - like I’m always scolding my boys to do - about the problem at hand and seek a solution instead of bashing their brothers in the head.
My routine changes slightly day to day and month to month, but since I have been in the UK for a little over two years now I don’t know anyone who has been killed or assaulted with a gun during that time nor do I know anyone who has had a family member or friend killed or assaulted with a gun - the same cannot be said, over the same period of time, of the people I am in touch with in America. My cousin lost a friend in Orlando. A friend lost a co-worker to a domestic shooting.
Note, I don’t watch or read stories from the 24-hour news networks in the US. I knew before I moved away that those guys were just fear mongering berserker machines. So when I did feel like that gun violence was perhaps being over reported in America, I dug around a bit in statistics. Overall, as many people already know, gun violence is actually down in the US by and large from ten years ago along with a down turn in violent crime. But then I looked at gun-death instead of gun-violence and found that basically there’s not been much change there in ten years. Basically, 2 out of every 3 murders in the US is committed with a gun whereas in the UK that number is closer 1 in 10 - yet I pose that all those murdered people are still quite dead.
I feel like when people hear the statistics about gun violence in the US versus the rest of the “developed’ world that it just doesn’t connect. People, and I used to be one of them, say that the UK is so much smaller than America so that comparison doesn’t work. Australia is just as big but has a much smaller population. This is called being terminally unique in my opinion - no one can say they’ve had it as hard or as complexly as us ol’americans *wrist to forehead*. How about bare numbers?
In England and Wales in 2011/2012, with a population of about 56 million people, there were 553 murder/homicides and of those 39 were caused by guns/firearms. (see here) Now that level of population spread of a similar amount of land with similar socio-economic distribution is hard to get exactly in the US but I thought I’d compare Virginia (very wealthy in the north, like London, and also close to the capital) plus North and South Carolina to get the population up and be closer to the rural distribution of people outside London and surrounds. That’s about 24 million people. Total number of murders is 1108, of those 766 were carried out with guns (got those stats from the FBI spreadsheets). I’m just going to let those numbers speak for themselves.
I’m seeing and continue to see or have revealed to me what life can be like without *feeling* like there is the constant threat of gun violence despite being in significantly closer proximity to acts of terrorism but equally further from nearly double the number of gun murders. I feel safer. I feel more at ease about my kids in school and my husband at work and out in the cities near me.
That word _feel_ is very important. Those 24-hour news guys, they want you to feel it. The NRA wants you to feel it. Because it is there. That threat. It isn’t there any more or less really than it was ten years ago though (and I’d argue it was too high then as well). It’s just that Americans have let politicians and news media and lobby groups tell us that there’s only two sides. That there’s only one right America and the other America is wrong. They don’t want you to look anywhere for compromise or negotiation. Because if they can keep everyone with their fists up, they can quite literally get away with just about anything else they want to. They can freeze the minimum wage as was done in North Carolina. They can increase guns sales for the gun companies that fund the NRA by spreading that rumor Obama is coming for their guns and telling you that terrorists are in your backyard and coming for you. Again. They can ignore Supreme Court justice nominees and veterans benefits funding and sexual violence against women. The so-called leaders, of late elected by less than 7% of voters in many places, can pray for victims without reaching out to talk, without threat, to the those “hooligans” in that other America to see if they can quiet down and try to respect the living, breathing lives of the people they claim to represent.
Monday, April 11, 2016
The Narrative of Self.
“Could we change our attitude, we should not only see life differently, but life itself would come to be different. Life would undergo a change of appearance because we ourselves had undergone a change of attitude.”
― Katherine Mansfield
I’ve been reading up a bit on how perception impacts behavior and it’s kind of insane how small perception cues can change our behavior. Like the color of the plate you’re filling with food can nudge you to over eat.
This brought me back to a topic I’ve been mulling for, oh, nearly 20 years - the self-narrative. The story you create for yourself (though rarely in isolation) about who you are and how you fit into the wider world. We all know someone who is “the martyr” and that person who always seems to be “the lucky one.” I’m more and more convinced that, in the Western world at least, these types are often taught and later self-imposed. If you believe yourself to be a victim, someone who is always struggling, then you’re going to find something to be the victim of and search for the struggles. Equally, seeing yourself as someone who overcomes leads you to seek solutions in situations where others give up. There are SO many studies that show this to be the case. It doesn’t mean bad shit doesn’t happen to good people. It doesn’t mean there isn’t VERY real injustice in the world. But it does mean that we have choices in how we face that world. Notice I didn’t say how we face “reality” because honestly that word is just tossed around so much it’s lost all meaning. Your reality is your perception. Which also means that though we do have choices, we often fail to make them because we don’t think that our choices matter since, after all, we are just _______ kind of person - “that’s just who I am.”
Part of me wants to share research and talk about the ways in which we can change that self-narrative so folks can see all the choices they have and feel empowered. But then there’s that research that shows entrenchment of beliefs occurs when challenged outside of a personal relationship (see fb, ugh) - so go find someone you trust and ask them if they think you can make changes in your life, then do your damnedest to trust their answer.
What I can actually do is make it my top goal as a parent to help my kids develop a self-narrative that will serve them well. Now, I can hear you thinking that all this pop-culture, let’s raise kids to be winners mumbo-jumbo just leads to entitled teenagers; kids these days need hard work, just like you had going uphill both ways to school with three jobs. Hang on there cowboy. The self-narrative I want to teach them isn’t that they can succeed. I don’t want them to believe that they’re winners or loser or martyrs or saints or cobra-kai or zen masters. Because all of those narratives are secondary to the one that makes the biggest difference in every choice we make; even under the weight of the world’s perceptions of us and the imposition of cultural norms.
So I am embarking on a mission to teach my two kiddos that the central narrative of their life is that they are loved and worthy to receive love. The power of knowing you are worthy of love isn’t about confidence or ego. It’s about feeling secure that though you may fail, and fail often, there will always be relief, forgiveness, and support. Through this narrative they we will share their love with others, making them feel worthy too and drawing loving people to their peer group. Which means they will always have the comfort, the core belief, that high or low, rich or poor, or if they fall in all ways dreadedly in the middle - love is on their side.
― Katherine Mansfield
I’ve been reading up a bit on how perception impacts behavior and it’s kind of insane how small perception cues can change our behavior. Like the color of the plate you’re filling with food can nudge you to over eat.
This brought me back to a topic I’ve been mulling for, oh, nearly 20 years - the self-narrative. The story you create for yourself (though rarely in isolation) about who you are and how you fit into the wider world. We all know someone who is “the martyr” and that person who always seems to be “the lucky one.” I’m more and more convinced that, in the Western world at least, these types are often taught and later self-imposed. If you believe yourself to be a victim, someone who is always struggling, then you’re going to find something to be the victim of and search for the struggles. Equally, seeing yourself as someone who overcomes leads you to seek solutions in situations where others give up. There are SO many studies that show this to be the case. It doesn’t mean bad shit doesn’t happen to good people. It doesn’t mean there isn’t VERY real injustice in the world. But it does mean that we have choices in how we face that world. Notice I didn’t say how we face “reality” because honestly that word is just tossed around so much it’s lost all meaning. Your reality is your perception. Which also means that though we do have choices, we often fail to make them because we don’t think that our choices matter since, after all, we are just _______ kind of person - “that’s just who I am.”
Part of me wants to share research and talk about the ways in which we can change that self-narrative so folks can see all the choices they have and feel empowered. But then there’s that research that shows entrenchment of beliefs occurs when challenged outside of a personal relationship (see fb, ugh) - so go find someone you trust and ask them if they think you can make changes in your life, then do your damnedest to trust their answer.
What I can actually do is make it my top goal as a parent to help my kids develop a self-narrative that will serve them well. Now, I can hear you thinking that all this pop-culture, let’s raise kids to be winners mumbo-jumbo just leads to entitled teenagers; kids these days need hard work, just like you had going uphill both ways to school with three jobs. Hang on there cowboy. The self-narrative I want to teach them isn’t that they can succeed. I don’t want them to believe that they’re winners or loser or martyrs or saints or cobra-kai or zen masters. Because all of those narratives are secondary to the one that makes the biggest difference in every choice we make; even under the weight of the world’s perceptions of us and the imposition of cultural norms.
So I am embarking on a mission to teach my two kiddos that the central narrative of their life is that they are loved and worthy to receive love. The power of knowing you are worthy of love isn’t about confidence or ego. It’s about feeling secure that though you may fail, and fail often, there will always be relief, forgiveness, and support. Through this narrative they we will share their love with others, making them feel worthy too and drawing loving people to their peer group. Which means they will always have the comfort, the core belief, that high or low, rich or poor, or if they fall in all ways dreadedly in the middle - love is on their side.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
An Angel in the Globe
WARNING CONTAINS: a lot about a person you probably don't know, angels, a stage, Shaxpeare, ageism, gross generalization about the dead, some tears, and a bit of magic.
Note - I'm going to mention and wax lonesome about a mentor of mine named Pat. For this to make sense you need to know the following about her. She was a firecracker, great goddess of a human being. She was A Teacher in all things, everywhere. And she's dead (for awhile now). Which is no small loss to the world.
On my birthday every year I like to try to do something I've never done before. It might be as simple as a new food or as wild as doing barrel rolls down a hill at midnight. This year, hitting the big but not SO big four-oh, I took a tour of The Globe Theatre in London. It's not really the Globe, because the original burned down and got buried under new things. I learned on the tour that the reason why the current Globe exists today is largely due to the obsession, passion, and pursuit of one man, an actor, who thought that London should have a place where Shakespeare as well as the great British tradition of theater and acting could be honored.
During the tour you go into the recreated and currently, actually used theater. The guide brings you to various spots in the space to see it from different perspectives. Other tour groups are there too, doing the same in other points at the same time. If you're lucky enough to be a student on a tour, you get to go up on stage and there were a lot of school groups there that day. While my group was standing at the foot of the stage, the cheap "seats", a large group of pre-teen girls came out onto the stage with their teacher and guide. She brought them into a huddle and whispered to them. They fanned out all over the stage, taking the whole thing up and, at her signal, all shouted the same line. Some shouted, some delivered, and some kind of mumbled. The teacher walked, or rather bounced her energy was so palpable, over to a girl standing at the front, "Why did you choose to stand here?"
And time stopped. There in front of me was Pat. This British English teacher melted away and there she was, going from student to student, seeing them and asking them and not taking bull-shit answers but demanding truth and thought and reason. It probably didn't hurt that there was some resemblance in body type, in turn of phrase (yes, even between the British and The Southern). But it was as though Pat had just flown down from the sky and appear on that stage to greet me. To say, "Remember this?"
I do. I remember. Thank you.
Note - I'm going to mention and wax lonesome about a mentor of mine named Pat. For this to make sense you need to know the following about her. She was a firecracker, great goddess of a human being. She was A Teacher in all things, everywhere. And she's dead (for awhile now). Which is no small loss to the world.
On my birthday every year I like to try to do something I've never done before. It might be as simple as a new food or as wild as doing barrel rolls down a hill at midnight. This year, hitting the big but not SO big four-oh, I took a tour of The Globe Theatre in London. It's not really the Globe, because the original burned down and got buried under new things. I learned on the tour that the reason why the current Globe exists today is largely due to the obsession, passion, and pursuit of one man, an actor, who thought that London should have a place where Shakespeare as well as the great British tradition of theater and acting could be honored.
During the tour you go into the recreated and currently, actually used theater. The guide brings you to various spots in the space to see it from different perspectives. Other tour groups are there too, doing the same in other points at the same time. If you're lucky enough to be a student on a tour, you get to go up on stage and there were a lot of school groups there that day. While my group was standing at the foot of the stage, the cheap "seats", a large group of pre-teen girls came out onto the stage with their teacher and guide. She brought them into a huddle and whispered to them. They fanned out all over the stage, taking the whole thing up and, at her signal, all shouted the same line. Some shouted, some delivered, and some kind of mumbled. The teacher walked, or rather bounced her energy was so palpable, over to a girl standing at the front, "Why did you choose to stand here?"
And time stopped. There in front of me was Pat. This British English teacher melted away and there she was, going from student to student, seeing them and asking them and not taking bull-shit answers but demanding truth and thought and reason. It probably didn't hurt that there was some resemblance in body type, in turn of phrase (yes, even between the British and The Southern). But it was as though Pat had just flown down from the sky and appear on that stage to greet me. To say, "Remember this?"
I do. I remember. Thank you.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Adulting in Foreign
WARNING CONTAINS: me, generalizations about whole nations full of people, slang, possibly poor grammar choices, taxes, and a small entreaty to humanitarian outreach.
As a former teacher, I have often heard adults complain that schools do not prepare young people to do the numerous important tasks you're expected to know how to do out in the real world, e.g. write checks, balance accounts, read contracts, be thoughtful consumers, etc. And they're correct. Most American schools these days have no courses that teach "life skills" or even much practical, hands on anything. In case you're wondering, that's because schools have to get kids to pass fill-in-the-bubble paper tests and also because those adult skills are meant to be passed on by parents (that's bc old white dude govt assumes families are whole and stable wherein children listen to said parents - it's called 1950-never). Often, and I know because mine did, parents do attempt to share this knowledge with their children, but are frequently dismissed; I know because I dismissed mine.
But let's say for the sake of argument that you figure these things out either through family or friends and/or youtube videos (that's the "adulting" channel) . One day, you're a self-respecting, get-things-done, high functioning adult who decides to move to another country. And you think, "I can do this!" If you're me, you think, "My husband is British and I've lived in countries with unreliable electricity and mafia run black markets so England will be lush - I got this!" You, and I it turns out, would be horribly, horribly wrong.
When you move abroad to work for a company or even a school, they give you orientation materials, training maybe, and you might even be provided with housing. When you just pack your bags and step off a plane, into a rental house you've never seen, there is no booklet lying around that reads "Grownups Guide to the UK: everything you need to know about archaic laws and making tea." I've mentioned before on this blog our adventures with estate agents and strange chicken and egg scenarios with bank accounts and creditors. I've wowed you with my alien accounts of napkin wrapped birthday cake culture and other foreign rituals shrouded in mystery. But I haven't mentioned every bump partly because they're small and boring. They also make me appear a bit daft.
When I lived in the PRC, I was once robbed of several hundred Chinese dollars of my own free will through getting "change" from a woman pushing counterfeit bills. But I also bargained the hell out of every stall owner in the blocks around my school until they stopped trying to charge me four times the Chinese price. I have screamed obscenities at bus drivers who refused to pull over so I could puke in the street.
Once, in Prague, I had to find a Chinese restaurant so I could use a common language with the owner in order to borrow a phone to call my local friend after I couldn't find her flat.
Some friends and I found the equivalent of a 7/11 in a shack on Georgian (the nation) hillside in the dark so we could buy cheap vodka and chocolate instead of triple plus mark-up stuff at our hotel.
I've search Gaborne, Botswana on foot, by taxi, and with the police for a missing student (yes, I found them mostly unharmed).
My move count in America was at least 18 moves across five states in 30 plus years.
So you'd think I'd remember, after moving houses, to change my address with the local council (AKA county registrar) and, you know, pay my property tax. Or that my native hub would. But we didn't. And damn it if they're weren't' really nice about it since they admitted that someone ought to have "chased you up" after a year of unpaid bills.
Paying taxes ought to be a breeze after all of the above and passing the UK driving test. But between assets in two countries and payments from companies in both - we had to give up and hire an accountant and a lawyer, I mean solicitor, or face our brains melting and dripping from our heads.
Over the holidays, while visiting America, I found myself barely able to translate what a tombola is to friends who asked about British Christmas traditions. Why is a place to meet Santa called a grotto? Why are Pantomimes so popular? I got nothin' ladies and gents.
I still face inexplicable terminology and rituals and hoops that must be jumped through in England, two years into our experience living here. And so does my husband after more than 12 years living away.
So here let me stop being silly and self-effacing and say that all this has led me to consider how refugees deal; as aliens in foreign land, as people trying to keep a roof over their heads, get an education for their children, and to learn all their is to learn about adulting in brand new place, regardless of language - it is hard. Really hard. Soul crushing I'd imagine. That doesn't make the challenges I face less frustrating, but it has given me insight and it's made more thankful. I've also become more involved in immigrant issues as a result. Because I'm an immigrant. I'm just a super privileged, English speaking (sorta), monetarily able one.
As a former teacher, I have often heard adults complain that schools do not prepare young people to do the numerous important tasks you're expected to know how to do out in the real world, e.g. write checks, balance accounts, read contracts, be thoughtful consumers, etc. And they're correct. Most American schools these days have no courses that teach "life skills" or even much practical, hands on anything. In case you're wondering, that's because schools have to get kids to pass fill-in-the-bubble paper tests and also because those adult skills are meant to be passed on by parents (that's bc old white dude govt assumes families are whole and stable wherein children listen to said parents - it's called 1950-never). Often, and I know because mine did, parents do attempt to share this knowledge with their children, but are frequently dismissed; I know because I dismissed mine.
But let's say for the sake of argument that you figure these things out either through family or friends and/or youtube videos (that's the "adulting" channel) . One day, you're a self-respecting, get-things-done, high functioning adult who decides to move to another country. And you think, "I can do this!" If you're me, you think, "My husband is British and I've lived in countries with unreliable electricity and mafia run black markets so England will be lush - I got this!" You, and I it turns out, would be horribly, horribly wrong.
When you move abroad to work for a company or even a school, they give you orientation materials, training maybe, and you might even be provided with housing. When you just pack your bags and step off a plane, into a rental house you've never seen, there is no booklet lying around that reads "Grownups Guide to the UK: everything you need to know about archaic laws and making tea." I've mentioned before on this blog our adventures with estate agents and strange chicken and egg scenarios with bank accounts and creditors. I've wowed you with my alien accounts of napkin wrapped birthday cake culture and other foreign rituals shrouded in mystery. But I haven't mentioned every bump partly because they're small and boring. They also make me appear a bit daft.
When I lived in the PRC, I was once robbed of several hundred Chinese dollars of my own free will through getting "change" from a woman pushing counterfeit bills. But I also bargained the hell out of every stall owner in the blocks around my school until they stopped trying to charge me four times the Chinese price. I have screamed obscenities at bus drivers who refused to pull over so I could puke in the street.
Once, in Prague, I had to find a Chinese restaurant so I could use a common language with the owner in order to borrow a phone to call my local friend after I couldn't find her flat.
Some friends and I found the equivalent of a 7/11 in a shack on Georgian (the nation) hillside in the dark so we could buy cheap vodka and chocolate instead of triple plus mark-up stuff at our hotel.
I've search Gaborne, Botswana on foot, by taxi, and with the police for a missing student (yes, I found them mostly unharmed).
My move count in America was at least 18 moves across five states in 30 plus years.
So you'd think I'd remember, after moving houses, to change my address with the local council (AKA county registrar) and, you know, pay my property tax. Or that my native hub would. But we didn't. And damn it if they're weren't' really nice about it since they admitted that someone ought to have "chased you up" after a year of unpaid bills.
Paying taxes ought to be a breeze after all of the above and passing the UK driving test. But between assets in two countries and payments from companies in both - we had to give up and hire an accountant and a lawyer, I mean solicitor, or face our brains melting and dripping from our heads.
Over the holidays, while visiting America, I found myself barely able to translate what a tombola is to friends who asked about British Christmas traditions. Why is a place to meet Santa called a grotto? Why are Pantomimes so popular? I got nothin' ladies and gents.
I still face inexplicable terminology and rituals and hoops that must be jumped through in England, two years into our experience living here. And so does my husband after more than 12 years living away.
So here let me stop being silly and self-effacing and say that all this has led me to consider how refugees deal; as aliens in foreign land, as people trying to keep a roof over their heads, get an education for their children, and to learn all their is to learn about adulting in brand new place, regardless of language - it is hard. Really hard. Soul crushing I'd imagine. That doesn't make the challenges I face less frustrating, but it has given me insight and it's made more thankful. I've also become more involved in immigrant issues as a result. Because I'm an immigrant. I'm just a super privileged, English speaking (sorta), monetarily able one.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Turkey Day
WARNING: contains gross generalizations about whole countries full of people, green jello/jelly, creamed soup, Native Americans, anti-capitalist sentiment, and me.
Hello All! Mostly, I write this blog from the perspective of a dazed immigrant in England. But today, on the American holiday of Thanksgiving, I bring you, my fellow British Isles dwellers (and according to my stats - European, Scandinavian, and Asian readers) a perspective from the United States.
Thanksgiving is much misunderstood as far as I can tell. A lot of Brits have said to me that it's bigger than Christmas, which it is not, unless you're a devout non-Christmaser (plenty of non-Christians have decorations and parties and presents at Christmas, just ask the Chinese). Others seem to think it solely food related and that the meal is really just another Christmas dinner. Also wrong.
First, Turkey Day, as many of us jokingly call it, can be quite different region to region, in particular by way of what's on the table. In the north eastern US, things might in fact look a lot like a British Christmas feast though often with some seafood tossed in. But in the rest of the country foods vary wildly and regional differences are sometimes superseded by ethnic background. I have a friend who's family in Korean and Italian - their dinner mixes the two. Where I'm from, in the south eastern US, we have rice instead of any white potato because rice was grown there for so long. We also have a stuffing that is cornbread based. We do peas for our green. And a 'savory' side my family eats is a sweet potato souffle topped with toasted marshmallows. I know that's not savory (I always eat it last), but it's on the plate with the turkey and gravy. Another accompaniment in my family is a 'salad' made with green jello/jelly, pecans, cream, and...horseradish. Yep. Not a salad. One day I'll properly research the origin of the atrocity that is is green jello salad, but for now accept my apologies for making you imagine it. Dessert/pudding in my family is a smorgasbord of diabetic coma inducing delights. Caramel cake, lemon curd tarts, pumpkin pie, plus any number of other things that we 'have' to have because so-and-so is coming and it's their favorite.
But that's not all the holiday is in my family. And here I have to say that I don't think my experience is unique, but obviously there will be differences across class and family issues. People come from far away. I have gone as far as twenty five hundred miles to attend Thanksgiving. On my mom's side of the family, it's my grandparents, all my aunts and uncles plus their kids. Sometimes there are family friends or more distant relations. My grandmother's cousin is a regular guest.
On the day, the kitchen and dining room are a buzz from early in the morning. With anywhere from 8 to 20 people present, it takes awhile to cook for that kind of crowd, even in an American size kitchen and oven. We nibble as we cook and set tables in fine china. We drink, slowly making our way from tea and coffee to wine and beer. There's conversation about things we remember from other Thanksgivings. We laugh over what we have in common and skirt nervously around what we don't. Sometimes tempers flare, usually as a result of trying too hard, wanting too much, or setting expectations beyond reasonable reach.
The day after Thanksgiving - now so well known as Black Friday* - is a mixture of things. Some people do shop. I participated in a few 5am trips to the mall in my teens, but it's never been something I wanted or needed to do. My favorite things on the Friday though are turkey hash (a bunch of leftovers all in one pot of stew-like goodness with extra gravy thrown in for good measure) and going to a movie with the family. On Saturday, we watch American football. It is a big rivalry day for my hometown team (the Georgia Bulldogs). That's a whole other set of traditions. We used to all go to church together Sunday morning, but as my grandmother ages, that's not always on the agenda.
I polled friends on fakeb00k for their faves (note, no one said shopping) and almost everyone has food/indulgence related feelings, a few like to do one of the many "turkey trot" charity runs, but most also said being together. Special mention to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (and other local parades) as fun family time too.
Key thing though, for all of the above, is that we are together. We are together until we can't stand to be together anymore. We are together in a way that fills up the spaces in between so that we are bonded in ways we don't even understand. We eat too much. We drink too much. We clog the family home's arteries.
It's a good holiday. In some ways, better than Christmas because really, as long as you're willing to eat and chat, there's no pressure to do anything else. The variety within the food traditions, the families that do shop versus the ones that don't, the 4 person dinner or 20 person feast, all have the requirement for togetherness in common. Even if it's only in spirit.
So, do as we do sometime in the coming days and go around the table, each saying something that they're thankful for (besides the good food) and maybe have an extra slice of cake or mince pie; then say cheers to your American brothers and sisters and count yourself lucky, see yourself blessed, or know yourself to be cared about in some form or fashion by this American.
*warning, rant ahead - the shopping insanity that surrounds the Thanksgiving holiday is relatively new. While the tradition of special sales is relatively long standing. I think what international media fails to address, when it covers the craziness, is the issue of commercializing BF and ramping up the stakes of cheap or free mid-price items ignores why people are "desperate" to participate. IMHO this is down to two things, the pressure that middle and lower income people feel to give presents that are commiserate with those of a higher income ("i don't want to disappoint ___." or "i can't have ___ go to school and everyone else have gotten a playstation but him") and the economic decline of the working class in America. Just saying. I have never felt the need to do BF, but I understand why others do, even if I wish they would opt-out of the false ideal of the BIG Christmas gift.
Hello All! Mostly, I write this blog from the perspective of a dazed immigrant in England. But today, on the American holiday of Thanksgiving, I bring you, my fellow British Isles dwellers (and according to my stats - European, Scandinavian, and Asian readers) a perspective from the United States.
Thanksgiving is much misunderstood as far as I can tell. A lot of Brits have said to me that it's bigger than Christmas, which it is not, unless you're a devout non-Christmaser (plenty of non-Christians have decorations and parties and presents at Christmas, just ask the Chinese). Others seem to think it solely food related and that the meal is really just another Christmas dinner. Also wrong.
First, Turkey Day, as many of us jokingly call it, can be quite different region to region, in particular by way of what's on the table. In the north eastern US, things might in fact look a lot like a British Christmas feast though often with some seafood tossed in. But in the rest of the country foods vary wildly and regional differences are sometimes superseded by ethnic background. I have a friend who's family in Korean and Italian - their dinner mixes the two. Where I'm from, in the south eastern US, we have rice instead of any white potato because rice was grown there for so long. We also have a stuffing that is cornbread based. We do peas for our green. And a 'savory' side my family eats is a sweet potato souffle topped with toasted marshmallows. I know that's not savory (I always eat it last), but it's on the plate with the turkey and gravy. Another accompaniment in my family is a 'salad' made with green jello/jelly, pecans, cream, and...horseradish. Yep. Not a salad. One day I'll properly research the origin of the atrocity that is is green jello salad, but for now accept my apologies for making you imagine it. Dessert/pudding in my family is a smorgasbord of diabetic coma inducing delights. Caramel cake, lemon curd tarts, pumpkin pie, plus any number of other things that we 'have' to have because so-and-so is coming and it's their favorite.
But that's not all the holiday is in my family. And here I have to say that I don't think my experience is unique, but obviously there will be differences across class and family issues. People come from far away. I have gone as far as twenty five hundred miles to attend Thanksgiving. On my mom's side of the family, it's my grandparents, all my aunts and uncles plus their kids. Sometimes there are family friends or more distant relations. My grandmother's cousin is a regular guest.
On the day, the kitchen and dining room are a buzz from early in the morning. With anywhere from 8 to 20 people present, it takes awhile to cook for that kind of crowd, even in an American size kitchen and oven. We nibble as we cook and set tables in fine china. We drink, slowly making our way from tea and coffee to wine and beer. There's conversation about things we remember from other Thanksgivings. We laugh over what we have in common and skirt nervously around what we don't. Sometimes tempers flare, usually as a result of trying too hard, wanting too much, or setting expectations beyond reasonable reach.
The day after Thanksgiving - now so well known as Black Friday* - is a mixture of things. Some people do shop. I participated in a few 5am trips to the mall in my teens, but it's never been something I wanted or needed to do. My favorite things on the Friday though are turkey hash (a bunch of leftovers all in one pot of stew-like goodness with extra gravy thrown in for good measure) and going to a movie with the family. On Saturday, we watch American football. It is a big rivalry day for my hometown team (the Georgia Bulldogs). That's a whole other set of traditions. We used to all go to church together Sunday morning, but as my grandmother ages, that's not always on the agenda.
I polled friends on fakeb00k for their faves (note, no one said shopping) and almost everyone has food/indulgence related feelings, a few like to do one of the many "turkey trot" charity runs, but most also said being together. Special mention to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (and other local parades) as fun family time too.
Key thing though, for all of the above, is that we are together. We are together until we can't stand to be together anymore. We are together in a way that fills up the spaces in between so that we are bonded in ways we don't even understand. We eat too much. We drink too much. We clog the family home's arteries.
It's a good holiday. In some ways, better than Christmas because really, as long as you're willing to eat and chat, there's no pressure to do anything else. The variety within the food traditions, the families that do shop versus the ones that don't, the 4 person dinner or 20 person feast, all have the requirement for togetherness in common. Even if it's only in spirit.
So, do as we do sometime in the coming days and go around the table, each saying something that they're thankful for (besides the good food) and maybe have an extra slice of cake or mince pie; then say cheers to your American brothers and sisters and count yourself lucky, see yourself blessed, or know yourself to be cared about in some form or fashion by this American.
*warning, rant ahead - the shopping insanity that surrounds the Thanksgiving holiday is relatively new. While the tradition of special sales is relatively long standing. I think what international media fails to address, when it covers the craziness, is the issue of commercializing BF and ramping up the stakes of cheap or free mid-price items ignores why people are "desperate" to participate. IMHO this is down to two things, the pressure that middle and lower income people feel to give presents that are commiserate with those of a higher income ("i don't want to disappoint ___." or "i can't have ___ go to school and everyone else have gotten a playstation but him") and the economic decline of the working class in America. Just saying. I have never felt the need to do BF, but I understand why others do, even if I wish they would opt-out of the false ideal of the BIG Christmas gift.
Thursday, November 19, 2015
Those Who Can't Do
WARNING CONTAINS: me not trying to be funny or entertaining or writerly.
I've been thinking a lot lately about social media and expression. Also about community. And about how we as individuals understand humanity. By humanity, I mean all people. From a brain function perspective we can't. Our brains are made to stereotype, to create predictable categories, and gloss over details until there's a clear and present need for them. This is why, when distracted, people will walk into walls or telephone polls, or those silly strap fences used to make people form lines as I watched a woman do today.
I've partly been thinking about these things cos-syria-refugees-massmurders-american-politics-BS. But I started thinking about them, pre-paris (yes, I know there were other attacks. If it bothers you that I grieve more for a place I've been than a place I haven't, then my apologies for my human frailty and that's kind of what this is about). I started to ponder because I'm just so f-ing sick of fakebook. I'm tired of all the polarizing, you must chose my side, my way or the highway, left and right exaggerations and willful misunderstandings. I'm part of the problem, I know. I share political stuff. And I, like a lot of my friends, have started sharing less and less actual personal feelings, day to day to events, and what I'm doing. Which begs the question of why I'm there. I remain to share photos and updates about my kids w/family and friends. But even that I'm doing less. Because I don't feel safe. I don't feel, most days, connected to my connections. That's as much my fault as theirs. It makes me sad.
Then yesterday, a former student of mine who is Muslim posted that she was appalled by the hate in her timeline. That all she saw were rushes to judgement, rejections of the basic humanity of people based on religion, and misinformation about her faith. And I thought, that's not what my timeline looks like. As much as there're insane levels of politics, click-bait, strange gifs, fake tumblr posts, and cat videos - there's not a lot of hate. I answered her by posting about all the outpouring of sorrow I'd seen. That I had friends actively involved in trying to bring refugees into their own homes/neighborhoods/communities.
Afterward, I started thinking about why. Why do I have such a compassionate timeline, with rare exception. Why do I know that terrorism isn't part of Islam? Why do I know that compassion and empathy are the cure for conflict?
I think it's because I've been a teacher. In my classrooms, I have spoken daily with Muslims, Hindus, Christians, atheists, Buddhist, and more. I've taught homosexuals, queers, and undecideds. Several of my students during my first year teaching public school are the autism spectrum. One of my students in my second year of teaching was homeless. I've taught drug addicts, thieves, and get-a-way drivers. One of my students is a fashion designer. A few former students became teen-moms. I've taught football players and chess champions. This is partly reflected in my social media. But it is mostly reflected in my world view. That thing where my brain might gloss over the detail stops when I see someone like someone I've known, spoken with, loved. I walk around the wall.
So since those who can't do, teach. And those who can't teach, make laws about teaching. I'm challenging each of you reading this. Not to become teachers (too much work, trust me). But go OUT. Meet some new people. Talk to someone who is unlike anyone you grew up with. Find a moment each day from now until New Year's Day to speak with a fellow human whose view into humanity is in some real way in contrast to your own. In person.* And, now here's the hard part, listen more than you talk. Ask more questions that you don't already think you know the answer to. Report back. Let me know if you can spot the humanity. I'll be praying for you.**
*Dear friends with social anxiety. If this is too much for you, I understand. Can I recommend that you instead read HONY every day. Read the comments too (not all of them, good grief).
**I just mean that I'll be hoping you find more love than rejection, take it easy. It's an expression.
I've been thinking a lot lately about social media and expression. Also about community. And about how we as individuals understand humanity. By humanity, I mean all people. From a brain function perspective we can't. Our brains are made to stereotype, to create predictable categories, and gloss over details until there's a clear and present need for them. This is why, when distracted, people will walk into walls or telephone polls, or those silly strap fences used to make people form lines as I watched a woman do today.
I've partly been thinking about these things cos-syria-refugees-massmurders-american-politics-BS. But I started thinking about them, pre-paris (yes, I know there were other attacks. If it bothers you that I grieve more for a place I've been than a place I haven't, then my apologies for my human frailty and that's kind of what this is about). I started to ponder because I'm just so f-ing sick of fakebook. I'm tired of all the polarizing, you must chose my side, my way or the highway, left and right exaggerations and willful misunderstandings. I'm part of the problem, I know. I share political stuff. And I, like a lot of my friends, have started sharing less and less actual personal feelings, day to day to events, and what I'm doing. Which begs the question of why I'm there. I remain to share photos and updates about my kids w/family and friends. But even that I'm doing less. Because I don't feel safe. I don't feel, most days, connected to my connections. That's as much my fault as theirs. It makes me sad.
Then yesterday, a former student of mine who is Muslim posted that she was appalled by the hate in her timeline. That all she saw were rushes to judgement, rejections of the basic humanity of people based on religion, and misinformation about her faith. And I thought, that's not what my timeline looks like. As much as there're insane levels of politics, click-bait, strange gifs, fake tumblr posts, and cat videos - there's not a lot of hate. I answered her by posting about all the outpouring of sorrow I'd seen. That I had friends actively involved in trying to bring refugees into their own homes/neighborhoods/communities.
Afterward, I started thinking about why. Why do I have such a compassionate timeline, with rare exception. Why do I know that terrorism isn't part of Islam? Why do I know that compassion and empathy are the cure for conflict?
I think it's because I've been a teacher. In my classrooms, I have spoken daily with Muslims, Hindus, Christians, atheists, Buddhist, and more. I've taught homosexuals, queers, and undecideds. Several of my students during my first year teaching public school are the autism spectrum. One of my students in my second year of teaching was homeless. I've taught drug addicts, thieves, and get-a-way drivers. One of my students is a fashion designer. A few former students became teen-moms. I've taught football players and chess champions. This is partly reflected in my social media. But it is mostly reflected in my world view. That thing where my brain might gloss over the detail stops when I see someone like someone I've known, spoken with, loved. I walk around the wall.
So since those who can't do, teach. And those who can't teach, make laws about teaching. I'm challenging each of you reading this. Not to become teachers (too much work, trust me). But go OUT. Meet some new people. Talk to someone who is unlike anyone you grew up with. Find a moment each day from now until New Year's Day to speak with a fellow human whose view into humanity is in some real way in contrast to your own. In person.* And, now here's the hard part, listen more than you talk. Ask more questions that you don't already think you know the answer to. Report back. Let me know if you can spot the humanity. I'll be praying for you.**
*Dear friends with social anxiety. If this is too much for you, I understand. Can I recommend that you instead read HONY every day. Read the comments too (not all of them, good grief).
**I just mean that I'll be hoping you find more love than rejection, take it easy. It's an expression.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
I Had a Dream
Because in some ways, my life has come full circle lately, bringing back into orbit around the career I once aspired to and the life I was once led, I've been thinking a lot about dreams. The kind dreams everyone says you should have. That you should follow and never let go of lest your heart and soul whither into dust.
But I have something different to say about that -
I had a dream. And now it's over. That is Okay.
In other words
But I have something different to say about that -
I had a dream. And now it's over. That is Okay.
In other words
Because, in truth I've had a couple of dreams over the course of my life so far and the fact that none of them came true, or at least in the way I envisaged, is something I am thankful for every day. Just because when I was 19 I said I was going to be a film director, not have kids, and definitely not associate too much with British people doesn't mean that I've betrayed all that is holy by dumping Hollywood, having two pretty great kiddos, and moving to England (where, in case you didn't know, a lot of British people live).
When I was 9, I wanted to be an astronaut/pilot the space shuttle. But when I went to SpaceCamp and was spun around, promptly hurling my guts out, no one said, "You can't give up on being a pilot now. You said it was your dream!" No one said that because the facts were pretty clear that piloting was not in my motion-sickness-prone future.
My desire to work in film was really only slightly more developed and rooted in reality than my astronaut aspirations. I didn't research the gig or map out how I'd get to the Oscars. I had no idea how to be a director and, let's be honest, I wasn't entirely sure what directors even did until I was on a set wondering why the quiet dude in the baseball hat with a scruffy beard seemed in charge. Turns out, the things I enjoyed most about working in film were research, travel, organizing, and telling people what to do. I'm good at those things. A skill set with multiple applications I'm happy to say; including child rearing. Who knew?!
Another reason I've been mulling this idea, because I realize I've posted about this before elsewhere, is that in the loooonnnnggg lead up to the American election next year, the term "America Dream" (hence forth know as the AD) is getting bandied about even more than usual, which is saying something. The basic AD is having a successful career; one that allows you to live in a suburban dwelling you own, provide for your nuclear family, and retire in security. A problem I have always seen with the AD though is that it's a working class dream. A plumber's dream. A middle management dream. If you're someone who wants to get a job, work 40-50hours a week, have 2.5 kids, and go to Florida every summer, it might work out great. That kind of job and life profile is less and less the norm. It's less and less profitable and even possible for far too many Americans. I know people who work over 50 hours a week or have two jobs or slog through a gig they actively hate. All to afford a home. The partner, kids, and vacations are aspirational or if they have those, the work becomes something they have to constantly stress about - keeping the job, getting the raise, finding a way to out shine the next guy, so they don't lose it. I hear you saying it, "the rat race." And I hear you too, socially conscious friends, saying this is a white-people/middle-class problem. Obviously that's true. I acknowledge I'm talking about a specific class and even ethic perspective here. This is a non-fiction blog, so I can't be other than I am and expanding this discussion to a broader experience would take YEARS to compose.
I'm not saying quit the rat race. I'm not even saying give up on your dream or the AD. However, I will say that we'd all do well to remember that we are not obligated to run. Each of us has choices to make in our lives. We can choose our priorities and how we wish to live day to day. I encourage you to think about what you value that has no price tag. What do you need that will one day pass away? Does your work compliment your life or does it only take away from your ability to enjoy your experiences?
I've gone in a circle, but I've also change the color and the tone of that circle. It is smaller than it used to be but no less bright.
Friday, September 11, 2015
The Immigrant's Limbo
**WARNING contains me, gross generalizations about whole nations of people, chases and escapes, and some thoughtful rambling.**
I have been working a post about British summer fairs/fetes on and off for a month or so, but with other writing and reading commitments I haven't been able to finish it. Also, summer ended unceremoniously about two weeks ago here in England and that sort of takes the joy out of a summer post. I'll save it for next year because I need to move on and definitely need to post something!
Meanwhile, I went home to America for three weeks and when I returned to the UK the refugee crisis slapped me around the head and heart for awhile. So instead I find myself thinking about "going home" and thinking about the reasons people choose to be immigrants as well as how unfathomably lucky I am via the accident of my birthplace not to be a refugee. Note I am not using those terms interchangeably. I have immigrated, chasing travel and culture. Syrians are refugees fleeing death.
Going "home" to where my parents live is not like going home for most people. I have not lived in the state of my birth since I was nine years old. For thirty years now (AHHHH!!!!), heading to the homeland is a vacation, always a temporary experience.
My "heart home", as a friend calls it, is in and around Chapel Hill, North Carolina where I went to most of high school. I have come and gone from the CH area at least six times since I graduated high school, most recently I lived in nearby Raleigh for eleven years with my now husband. I had two kids there. My oldest friends are all there or call it home. It's the reason James Taylor songs sometimes make me weepy.
This past trip to America, the fam and I all went to Raleigh for a week and it is the longest I've been in my HH (heart-home, you remember the previous paragraph, right?) since moving to England. I was worried before the visit that I was just going to spend the whole time crying; mourning this place I love, the people there that I love even more, and the life I had there. It was a surprise not to feel that way. I think there are two main reasons why I didn't, but I reserve the right as I go on to have those two reasons turn into three or four, so don't get too attached to those numbers.
One, after two weeks in America the sprawl was waring on me. Seriously y'all, we have a problem with too many things and being far and no one driving with any kind of sense. British drivers are simply better than us.* They rarely talk on the phone or text while driving. And while I may not know where/which shops to get things in here in England, when I figure it out, the shop will have the thing and I will not have search to endlessly in a cavern of goods all screaming "BUY ME!" and "You know you need more!"
Also, when we were in Raleigh my partner worked and I partly did my old routine with my kids. It felt comfortable and familiar, not unlike visiting my home town in Georgia. I know where the fun stuff is, the tasty food, and I can get from point A to point B without satnav. I struggled a little with not being able to do everything I wanted or see everyone I could have, but it wasn't overwhelming. We didn't have anyone to babysit, so people came to see us in the evenings as well. Sitting at a kitchen table chatting with friends was lovely and exactly the way I wanted to spend time with people. But it's also so familiar that it was hard to feel sad about not being able to do it anytime I want.
An unexpected thing happened too. When people implied or directly asked if I was unhappy or dissatisfied living England - I got defensive. Like I was all "it's so beautiful, I can't complain" and "where we are, the pace is a little slower and I like that" or "the tea really is so much better." I know that I partly reacted this way because I don't like people pitying me and I also don't want anyone getting the idea that I came to the UK to make my partner happy and have no agency. Cos that ain't so. I am lonely here. A lot. But America felt icky in more ways than the ninety plus degree heat with ridiculous humidity.
When I have lived abroad in the past, coming back to the US took adjusting to. After Tblisi, it was the whole "I'm really a grown up" thing (hahaha). After China, I stood WAY too close to people all the time and had anxiety attacks in the grocery store. Now I find coming back to America, even to The South wherein I really treasure people's friendliness, kind of slaps me in the face with commercialism and go-go and consumerism. It is, in a word, Aggressive. When you are IN a culture, you get desensitized. You perceive standing with your nose touching the head of the person in front of you as the norm. And in America, we have accepted a high level of obnoxious advertising and media invading our lives. We reward pushy people. And now I find that it sparks at the back of mind in a way that is annoying/tiring over time.
None of this is to say I dislike America. Nor is England some sort of Utopia. My oldest got back and was saying "hello" to everyone we passed in the street because that's what we do in Georgia. I felt bad that he wasn't getting the same charming attention in the UK as he had in the US. People in the UK don't give good hugs, at least they don't give them to me very often.
At the end of the day, this is what it is like to immigrate (by choice) somewhere. Going back and forth between cultures and feeling neither is quite right anymore. It's like after you have a baby and even though you've lost your baby weight your old clothes don't fit right. Your body has experienced a shift that loss of pounds cannot restore. You have to wrap yourself in something new and learn how to be comfortable in your freshly renovated body.
So here I am back in England. And it felt nice to come back to my house with my things in it. To be with my little family and not have to share ourselves or our time. The temperatures were of course a relief. Winding green lanes were once again novel and lovely; after I stopped being terrified of being on the wrong side. Again. And I realize that living in England has moved my inner tectonic plates. Change has come again to my random and twisty life. Loneliness has led me focusing more on my writing. Friendships are dearer, near and far. The slower pace (no really all this travel and stuff is actually slower) that my day to day has taken on is mostly a good thing. And seriously, the tea and cake are pretty spectacular.
Nobody panic though. I'm not applying for citizenship and I'm still disinclined to garden. There's iced tea in my fridge and sweet potatoes in my pantry.
*I am ignoring all white van drivers, you know who you are.
I have been working a post about British summer fairs/fetes on and off for a month or so, but with other writing and reading commitments I haven't been able to finish it. Also, summer ended unceremoniously about two weeks ago here in England and that sort of takes the joy out of a summer post. I'll save it for next year because I need to move on and definitely need to post something!
Meanwhile, I went home to America for three weeks and when I returned to the UK the refugee crisis slapped me around the head and heart for awhile. So instead I find myself thinking about "going home" and thinking about the reasons people choose to be immigrants as well as how unfathomably lucky I am via the accident of my birthplace not to be a refugee. Note I am not using those terms interchangeably. I have immigrated, chasing travel and culture. Syrians are refugees fleeing death.
Going "home" to where my parents live is not like going home for most people. I have not lived in the state of my birth since I was nine years old. For thirty years now (AHHHH!!!!), heading to the homeland is a vacation, always a temporary experience.
My "heart home", as a friend calls it, is in and around Chapel Hill, North Carolina where I went to most of high school. I have come and gone from the CH area at least six times since I graduated high school, most recently I lived in nearby Raleigh for eleven years with my now husband. I had two kids there. My oldest friends are all there or call it home. It's the reason James Taylor songs sometimes make me weepy.
This past trip to America, the fam and I all went to Raleigh for a week and it is the longest I've been in my HH (heart-home, you remember the previous paragraph, right?) since moving to England. I was worried before the visit that I was just going to spend the whole time crying; mourning this place I love, the people there that I love even more, and the life I had there. It was a surprise not to feel that way. I think there are two main reasons why I didn't, but I reserve the right as I go on to have those two reasons turn into three or four, so don't get too attached to those numbers.
One, after two weeks in America the sprawl was waring on me. Seriously y'all, we have a problem with too many things and being far and no one driving with any kind of sense. British drivers are simply better than us.* They rarely talk on the phone or text while driving. And while I may not know where/which shops to get things in here in England, when I figure it out, the shop will have the thing and I will not have search to endlessly in a cavern of goods all screaming "BUY ME!" and "You know you need more!"
Also, when we were in Raleigh my partner worked and I partly did my old routine with my kids. It felt comfortable and familiar, not unlike visiting my home town in Georgia. I know where the fun stuff is, the tasty food, and I can get from point A to point B without satnav. I struggled a little with not being able to do everything I wanted or see everyone I could have, but it wasn't overwhelming. We didn't have anyone to babysit, so people came to see us in the evenings as well. Sitting at a kitchen table chatting with friends was lovely and exactly the way I wanted to spend time with people. But it's also so familiar that it was hard to feel sad about not being able to do it anytime I want.
An unexpected thing happened too. When people implied or directly asked if I was unhappy or dissatisfied living England - I got defensive. Like I was all "it's so beautiful, I can't complain" and "where we are, the pace is a little slower and I like that" or "the tea really is so much better." I know that I partly reacted this way because I don't like people pitying me and I also don't want anyone getting the idea that I came to the UK to make my partner happy and have no agency. Cos that ain't so. I am lonely here. A lot. But America felt icky in more ways than the ninety plus degree heat with ridiculous humidity.
When I have lived abroad in the past, coming back to the US took adjusting to. After Tblisi, it was the whole "I'm really a grown up" thing (hahaha). After China, I stood WAY too close to people all the time and had anxiety attacks in the grocery store. Now I find coming back to America, even to The South wherein I really treasure people's friendliness, kind of slaps me in the face with commercialism and go-go and consumerism. It is, in a word, Aggressive. When you are IN a culture, you get desensitized. You perceive standing with your nose touching the head of the person in front of you as the norm. And in America, we have accepted a high level of obnoxious advertising and media invading our lives. We reward pushy people. And now I find that it sparks at the back of mind in a way that is annoying/tiring over time.
None of this is to say I dislike America. Nor is England some sort of Utopia. My oldest got back and was saying "hello" to everyone we passed in the street because that's what we do in Georgia. I felt bad that he wasn't getting the same charming attention in the UK as he had in the US. People in the UK don't give good hugs, at least they don't give them to me very often.
At the end of the day, this is what it is like to immigrate (by choice) somewhere. Going back and forth between cultures and feeling neither is quite right anymore. It's like after you have a baby and even though you've lost your baby weight your old clothes don't fit right. Your body has experienced a shift that loss of pounds cannot restore. You have to wrap yourself in something new and learn how to be comfortable in your freshly renovated body.
So here I am back in England. And it felt nice to come back to my house with my things in it. To be with my little family and not have to share ourselves or our time. The temperatures were of course a relief. Winding green lanes were once again novel and lovely; after I stopped being terrified of being on the wrong side. Again. And I realize that living in England has moved my inner tectonic plates. Change has come again to my random and twisty life. Loneliness has led me focusing more on my writing. Friendships are dearer, near and far. The slower pace (no really all this travel and stuff is actually slower) that my day to day has taken on is mostly a good thing. And seriously, the tea and cake are pretty spectacular.
Nobody panic though. I'm not applying for citizenship and I'm still disinclined to garden. There's iced tea in my fridge and sweet potatoes in my pantry.
*I am ignoring all white van drivers, you know who you are.
Monday, July 13, 2015
Almost Like Running
This is a short story that I've been entering into things (in slightly shorter and longer versions). Posting it on my blog is not a form of publication. I am sharing it with a community for feedback and support. No portion of this story should be posted elsewhere, shared, or reproduced with out permission of the author, which is ME.
Almost like Running
Almost like Running
I can’t run. But that’s no big deal since I can’t walk either. Nor can I sit up totally on my own or wipe my own ass very well. I’ve never been able to do those things though, so I’m not completely sure I miss them. Of course lots of people, mostly my parents, talk to me a lot about privacy and trying to respect mine since I don’t get much “alone time”. But as with my inability to move and the toilet routine, I’ve never really had privacy the way they think of it, so I don’t know how to crave it. I don’t know how to miss most of the things I can’t do. Except for running. That’s the one that gets me. My wheelchair is motorized and it can get fairly speedy; the wind blows my hair a bit and I feel the tingle of speed and its dangerousness. So I feel like I can say that while I have never run, I miss it. My body misses it.
“Vincent, are you going to miss me?” Nurse Nancy asked. I would and I knew it. But you can’t say that because who would yearn to be in the hospital.
“I’m ready to go home and since you can’t come with me…” I answered lightly.
“You’re such a sweetheart, little Vincent,” she said. I was always going to be “little Vincent” to the nurses at St.Stephen’s. They’d looked after me almost since I was born. But really, little Vincent was looking down Nancy’s scrubs whenever she vigorously tucked in the blanket at the bottom of my bed. I mean, I couldn’t look away when she did it. It was mesmerizing, that swaying flesh.
I dream about running a lot. Well, maybe not as much as I dream about flying and occasionally Nurse Nancy, but I think my running dreams are the ones that are simultaneously the best and worst of my dreams. The running dreams feel real. As though somewhere in my DNA is the program code for running and my brain can take it and play it through my mind and across my body so that during the dreams I feel totally whole. I am wind. My muscles and veins throb with life. And then I wake up. I can never go back to the same feeling if I try to go to sleep again right away. On those nights I don’t usually go back to sleep at all. It’s too depressing. So, I read.
“Whatcha reading there Big Guy?” my Dad asked.
“Something for school. Kinda boring,” I said. Total lie. I was reading “Dune.” I’d read the school assigned book in one night and had no intention of cracking it again because what I said about being boring was definitely true.
If there’s an invention that I think has made life hugely better for people like me in last hundred years, it’s the ebook. I don’t have to ask anyone to read or try to wrangle a heavy book into a spot where I can both see it and turn the pages. Harder than you think when you’re farsighted and can’t lean too far forward or turn over easily. If I’m lucky, my older sister will help me to bed and she’ll let me keep my earbuds and ipad close. My parents think those things are distraction from rest. I guess I get to be a normal teen at least in a few ways.
“Honey, you can’t have the ipad in bed. You’ve got school tomorrow and Nelly has a track meet,” Mom said.
“Aw, come on. I won’t use it unless I can’t sleep,” I said.
“You won’t be able to sleep if you know you can use it. Right? Give it,” my Mom opened and closed her hand at me like needy two-year old.
“Fine,” I said in my best surely-teen voice, but really I’d already snuck my ebook under my pillow. The ipad was just red herring.
After my running dreams, I like to read either science fiction or westerns. Frankly, I think they are mostly the same. I mean there’s always bad guys and a mission to do, or a wrong to right, and shooting things with either lasers or bullets. My favorite western is this stupid historical one that is kind of a romance novel I think. I found it for free in the stuff posted by authors on the ebook website. I don’t care so much about the love story and I really don’t care about this chick’s petticoats and their various levels of tightening. But the writer knows how to write about horses so well that I don’t care about the rest. The author, it says it’s by Terrance Walter but seriously that is not a name, must be from a horse farm or something. He has this amazing scene where horses from the chick’s family farm get loose and end up running through the streets of Chicago.
“Each horse in its turn, no more than half a footstep from the next, rumbled and thundered down the clapboard road at a speed that said anyone caught in their path risked the pain of death. Their brown coats heaved and swelled as their breathes reached peak to bring their trampling hooves down upon the earth like rail splitting hammers. Their legs pulsing as their hearts strained to keep the pace of freedom.”
Gets me every time. Reading it is almost like being in the dream. Almost like running. My breath always get a bit fast and I have to close my eyes to calm down before I set off any alarms on my monitoring machine in the night. That Terrance, he knows what it is to miss running.
“Corny, does running ever hurt?” I asked my sister.
“Shut up, Vicks,” she said and swatted at the back of my head. A moment later, “After sometimes. Like muscle cramps.” I nodded and wondered if massages would help, like the ones I get from my physical therapist.
Of course, I can’t think about running for too long before I also start to think about The Wind. No. Not the actual wind. Her. Edwina Moran, otherwise known as The Wind or, if you’re friends with her like my sister is, Winnie. She’s the star of my school’s track team, hence the nickname; which is probably good because a name like Edwina could cause you problems even in a school as touchy-feely as mine.
“Sweetie, you’re going to love it,” my mom said.
“I have to write an essay about what fears I have about starting high school? Seriously?” I asked and rolled my eyes.
“Everyone is scared to start high school honey. It is a big thing in life,” she replied.
“Ugh. I’m not scared though. Are there doctors with bone saws?” She shook her head no, “Then I'll be fine.”
I go to a private Quaker school. It is fairly fancy and known for good academics. My parents wanted me to go to a school that not only had great facilities for me and my wheels but an “attitude of acceptance and appreciation,” my mom had said. They started my sister Corny there first to help me get in. Ok, her name isn’t Corny. It is Cornelia, but I call her Corny because I have be the annoying younger sibling somehow. I guess that really says it all about my school though. They appreciate people like me and my fellow students have names like Edwina. There’s a dude in my art class named Zeus, my teachers all go by their first names and one of them is called Harmony. Yeah, that paints the whole picture right there I think.
“Hey dude, nice wheels,” Zeus said in all seriousness, admiring my motorized wheelchair. “My uncle’s chair has, like, voice commands.” He nodded to himself a beat after he spoke.
“Until they make a chair that will take a shit for me, voice command is pretty useless to me.” I said.
“That is gross, dude. And hilarious,” Zeus chuckled in a voice too deep for a fifteen-year old but perfect for someone named after a God.
Back to Edwina. Winnie is the love of my young life. I don’t imagine I’ll marry her or pursue her cross country to college in Washington state, where she’s planning to go according Corny. I just imagine that I’m going to love her as long as I can. And in all likelihood from a distance of about twenty feet. That’s the distance from the handicapped square where I sit in my wheels and watch her and the starting line of the track. I don’t go to watch the track team practice every day. That would be super obvious. But I do go to every meet. The coach sometimes calls me their mascot and ruffles my hair like I’m four. I resist the urge to bite her every time. After all, we are the Ballentine Bulldogs. Every now and then, Winnie will come say hello to me. I’m polite, but not too friendly. She sometimes says that it is really nice of me to support my sister and that her parents don’t usually come watch her. Once I told her that being good at something could be a curse, like maybe they got bored of watching her win. She said she never thought of that and promptly lost her next race.
“Hey, Vincent,” Edwina said just a few minutes before the start of Corny’s race.
“Hey, Winnie. You think Corny can win today?” I liked to keep conversation light and I tried very hard not to stare at her perfect face for too long. I focused on keeping my breaths even.
“Yeah, their top shortie isn’t here and she seems psyched,” Edwina nodded towards Corny shaking her arms out at the starting blocks.
“Hmm, yeah,” I wanted to ask her something clever. Something that would make her keep talking to me but not scream I’m in love with you! “Are you parents here?” Not my best work.
“My mom is supposed to come actually. But she’s always late. We call it ‘Betsy-time’ because it’s like normal time plus two hours. Laters,” and then she was gone.
I love to watch Edwina start a race. She’s a mid-distance runner, so like 800 meters, or two laps around the track. She never tries to be first off the blocks. I watch her watching her competitors, side-eyeing their stances and measuring them up. I can’t say for sure, but I feel like she hesitates a split second off the blocks just so she can see people start to pass her. Then The Wind lengthens her strides and ever so slowly inches to be even with whomever is in front. They might think they’re fine, that they can take her in the last 30 meters or something. They are wrong. The Wind then blows past them, barely speeding up then seemingly exploding down the line to the finish. It is magnificent.
“She’s pretty great, huh?” a voice next me said.
“Yes,” I said breathlessly, lost in admiration. I realized my mistake and looked up. A woman who had to be Edwina’s mother stood there with matching hazel eyes, rounded nose, and lips that thinned into a line when her mouth was closed.
“I love her too,” Betsy said. “But I’m not sure she’ll ever really know it. What about you?”
“Probably not.” I said and returned my eyes to the track where Edwina had, of course, just won her race. Betsy placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
“Stranger things have happened. I got here on time after all.”
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Writers are People too.
(when I say "writer life", I really just mean my writer life, such as it is, and totally biased by my own experience)
Writers are weird.
And I mean that with total love and affection. Since I'm not editing, why don't I write about why we are weird instead.
Sometimes there's a lot of what I call "shelf measuring" wherein writers do a couple of different things depending on their persuasion. A writer who is a total book nerd will try to find out if you are a book nerd too. Do you go to second hand shops and look for copies of books you already own but with strange, one-off covers? Have you run out of room in your house for all your books?
A writer who considers anyone less "literary" than themselves not worth their time will attempt to suss out your feelings on Gogol because Tolstoy is too mainstream. These are basically hipster writers who in addition to their snobbery over the classics hoard their new writer finds.
Writers who are more academic will ask about your influences and offer you a copy of a book about writing by a professor type because you need anchoring in structured practice.
There are the writers who love words; they know a lot of wonderful quotes, work tirelessly on phrasing, and want to know if you've read any great wordsmith's they've yet to discover.
Many writers have a favorite genre or time period of writing that they get a bit of tunnel vision about. They'll tell you lovingly about the depth of X during the Y or describe a genre in such a way to make it all encompassing of the human experience, with or without unicorns.
There are the fan writers who have a favorite book they just have to tell everyone changed their life and is the reason they decided to become a writer and they're dying to know if you've read it. Note if you have, purchase a pot of tea, not just a cup...and a piece of cake so you can chew thoughtfully.
We also all get writer's block. Some people say they never get this. They are lying. It may not feel like a block to them because they've got a plot map or they're taking time off to look back at things afresh or they're just too busy to write for a little while. In my book, those are all blocks. My kids are walking, talking writing blocks because they often physically bar me from the page. Recently, I saw a quote that I am not going to bother googling (you do that, I wrote this, it took time) that basically said writers are people who have a harder time writing than normal people. I'd put money on that idea meaning slightly different things to every writer. To me, it means that I care too much about my writing. I want it to be good the first time. Really good. I don't want to go back and make it better (yes, i live in the place with the unicorns). To another writer it may be that finishing an idea, an arc is hard because our plots can't just be regular old character meets problem finds resolution. Some writers want to weave a plot, throw you a curve ball, toss in some revelatory knowledge via the subtext of that chic-lit.
Then there's the complaining. Oh my. We love it. About how hard it is. About editing. About finding this and making that and sending and submitting. Up. Hill. Both ways. Kvetching. But at least we do it together. It's good. How could we deal with all the rejection otherwise?
Some of us...ok, all of us, are competitive, though to drastically different degrees. You want to be happy for your friend that just got an agent, a deal, a publishing date. And you are Happy. But you're also jealous. When your profession requires soul baring, when your daily writing life is spent trying to create some kind of art via scratching marks on a page, it is hard to feel like "no one" is ever going to see it or appreciate it. There are naturally more competitive and petty writers out there, but that's true of humanity. Mostly there are good folks.
Procrastinating might be a thing too, but I wouldn't know.
Writers are weird.
And I mean that with total love and affection. Since I'm not editing, why don't I write about why we are weird instead.
Sometimes there's a lot of what I call "shelf measuring" wherein writers do a couple of different things depending on their persuasion. A writer who is a total book nerd will try to find out if you are a book nerd too. Do you go to second hand shops and look for copies of books you already own but with strange, one-off covers? Have you run out of room in your house for all your books?
A writer who considers anyone less "literary" than themselves not worth their time will attempt to suss out your feelings on Gogol because Tolstoy is too mainstream. These are basically hipster writers who in addition to their snobbery over the classics hoard their new writer finds.
Writers who are more academic will ask about your influences and offer you a copy of a book about writing by a professor type because you need anchoring in structured practice.
There are the writers who love words; they know a lot of wonderful quotes, work tirelessly on phrasing, and want to know if you've read any great wordsmith's they've yet to discover.
Many writers have a favorite genre or time period of writing that they get a bit of tunnel vision about. They'll tell you lovingly about the depth of X during the Y or describe a genre in such a way to make it all encompassing of the human experience, with or without unicorns.
There are the fan writers who have a favorite book they just have to tell everyone changed their life and is the reason they decided to become a writer and they're dying to know if you've read it. Note if you have, purchase a pot of tea, not just a cup...and a piece of cake so you can chew thoughtfully.
We also all get writer's block. Some people say they never get this. They are lying. It may not feel like a block to them because they've got a plot map or they're taking time off to look back at things afresh or they're just too busy to write for a little while. In my book, those are all blocks. My kids are walking, talking writing blocks because they often physically bar me from the page. Recently, I saw a quote that I am not going to bother googling (you do that, I wrote this, it took time) that basically said writers are people who have a harder time writing than normal people. I'd put money on that idea meaning slightly different things to every writer. To me, it means that I care too much about my writing. I want it to be good the first time. Really good. I don't want to go back and make it better (yes, i live in the place with the unicorns). To another writer it may be that finishing an idea, an arc is hard because our plots can't just be regular old character meets problem finds resolution. Some writers want to weave a plot, throw you a curve ball, toss in some revelatory knowledge via the subtext of that chic-lit.
Then there's the complaining. Oh my. We love it. About how hard it is. About editing. About finding this and making that and sending and submitting. Up. Hill. Both ways. Kvetching. But at least we do it together. It's good. How could we deal with all the rejection otherwise?
Some of us...ok, all of us, are competitive, though to drastically different degrees. You want to be happy for your friend that just got an agent, a deal, a publishing date. And you are Happy. But you're also jealous. When your profession requires soul baring, when your daily writing life is spent trying to create some kind of art via scratching marks on a page, it is hard to feel like "no one" is ever going to see it or appreciate it. There are naturally more competitive and petty writers out there, but that's true of humanity. Mostly there are good folks.
Procrastinating might be a thing too, but I wouldn't know.
Saturday, May 30, 2015
She Sells Windbreaks by the Seashore
WARNING contains: me, french fried potato chips, gross generalizations about whole countries of people, fast cars, weather, steamed mussels, cows and ice cream.
Recently, my family went 'on holiday' to Northern Cornwall in the hopes my husband could relive a bit of his childhood and take our boys rock pooling. For those unfamiliar with the British coast, let me explain that there are three kinds of beaches. There are pebble ones, sandy ones, and rocky/sandy combos. There are also cliffs. Lots of cliffs. The coast here is often very dramatic. The land just ends. Drops off into sea and craggy outcroppings of pointy hard things. It's fairly spectacularly beautiful. But it isn't relaxing per se. Not a coast line that screams "come, lie down, relax, and have a drink." Not that every beach needs to be a soft place for drunken sun worship, there's a time and a place for gorgeous geology porn.
North Cornwall has all three kinds of beach. I particularly enjoyed one where a steep decent led to a rocky area that also had a lovely sandy stretch at low tide. It reminded me a lot of the coast line in Goonies aka the American North West. And at every beach we went to there were some opportunities for rock pooling otherwise known as staring into pools or tepid salt water and shoving nets and sticks at things. We poked a lot of limpets, found several anemones, spotted retreating crabs, and admired large groups of mussels (which made my hub and I hungry quite frankly).
It is the end of May and in most of the US this means summer. But in the UK it is still sorta spring and the temperatures even in the far south of the country are by no means sweaty. The warmest day was about 68F. This does not stop Brits from dressing and acting like it is summer at the seaside though. On one beach, where my family and I were all in windbreakers and long pants, I saw people in bathing suits, bikinis included, and shorts/t-shirts. Then again, many people also had set up windbreaks. If you don't know what this is, it is essentially a long strip of plastic with sticks at intervals that one can set up in a semi-circle (or nearly a full circle for the privacy driven) to shield you and your family/friends from the cool, relentless blowing wind off the sea. Perhaps in there it feels much warmer. But these only work on the sandy beaches. I saw a few people making do with them sort of propped up by rocks on one rocky beach. More often though, on the rocky beaches, people put down towels, lie down, and then proceed to pretend that they are some how comfortable. It is astonishing to see someone lying on rocks, cigarette in hand, lounging as though they might be totally relaxed while rocks jut in to their every bone and muscle.
One thing they've got going for them though is that there is ice cream everywhere. At one point, I could see four different ice cream dispensaries. That's dedication to dairy my friends. Which isn't hard because I also saw in excess of a thousand cows over four days.
In one seaside village, that's known as a foodie spot, I was told there would a forty minute wait to sit at the locally famous fish and chips place. I didn't wait. Not because I had to two hungry kids but because whilst I'm sure it was good, I cannot image fried fish and potato to be worth such a lengthy wait. I've waited forty minutes for profiteroles that literally made me cry with delight. I've waited forty minutes for all you can eat crab legs. But I've never waited that long for food readily available on the high street of every village in Britain. Ok, maybe if they'd had hushpuppies, I'd have at least gotten take out!
Things overheard:
At a remote tea house on a cliff, miles from anywhere, a woman asked, "Do you do chips?" When she was told they did not, she asked if anywhere nearby did. I found this hysterical for numerous reasons. The Brits and their chips. The idea that you'd come all the way out to a wild, remote beach only to be foiled for lack of fried potato. And the knowledge that the British think anything over a two hour drive is half a day's journey when many American commute that distance TWICE a day. The closest chips would be a twenty minute drive.
A conversation across a local cafe between scruffy old men about Formula One racing. I didn't understand half of what they said but it made me smile because if they'd just been talking about NASCAR, it could've been the North Carolina coast instead.
Some pre-teens talking about the weather. Not tv or film. Not celebrities or video games. Grousing about the timing of the rain, the type of rain, the slant of the rain like old people. I guess the British can discuss the weather, in depth, at any age.
Not an overheard thing, but I spent a lot of the trip trying to figure out how to say the names of places. Growing up in America, I took for granted that Cherokee is pronounced CHAIR-oh-Kee. I giggled at foreigners twisting it every which way but "right," Just as I was laughed at when I assumed that Tintagel would be pronounced Tint-AH-gail or gull rather than the "right" way of Ten-TAH-gle. I like place names in Cornwall. Lots of them sound like pirate insults - you Pendogett, Budey, Pounstocker!
Overall, I now understand why the Brits love a Florida holiday the way so many Americans love to go to the Bahamas or Mexico. It's far warmer, softer, and closer to chips.
Monday, May 4, 2015
A Very Merry (British) Birthday to You!
WARNING contains: cake, ice cream, parcels, napkins, nostalgia, hindsight, delusions, and a bit of woe.
British Birthday parties are odd to me. Or perhaps just the ones I've been to. But having been to six or so, I'm going to call myself expert and move forward in my ignorance.
First, there's "pass the parcel," a game wherein a present is wrapped in numerous layers of paper and often sweets (they say "sweeties", bless their hearts) or little prizes are inserted between the layers; sometimes in each layer and sometimes at random. It is a bit like hot potato or musical chairs in that music plays while the parcel is passed and when it stops, whomever is holding the package takes a layer off. This game is filled with stress and awkwardness. More to the point, everyone knows the birthday child will get the real present in the end. For me, this game causes the gnashing of teeth and pondering the sanity of the person who did the wrapping. Oh and my hub wants it known that he thinks we don't play this game in America because it doesn't rhyme in Amuhrican.
Then there's the not opening presents. On the one hand, I see the wisdom and the cultural difference at play. God forbid a child open a gift and exclaim that they don't want another stupid book. But on the other hand, I kinda like seeing the kid open stuff. The problem in America is when there's WAY too much stuff. And this could be a problem in the UK too as a number of parties I've been to post my oldest starting school the parents have invited the entire class of kids (that's 30 kiddos who frequently bring siblings). What we do in the USA is keep family presents out of the party presents. We open those separately. We also threaten our children with pain of death if they so much as look disappointed in a present from a guest.
The most ponderous thing though is the birthday cake. Or rather the lack of it. Oh no, they do bring out a cake and sing; they're not beasts. But once candles are blown out the cake is whisked away. Then it is cut into slices which are individually wrapped in a napkin then placed in a party bag or or stacked neatly on a tray by the door. The left over bits are then passed around the grownups as each gets a little bite of the cake. There may even be an extra cake lying in wait just for the proper number of slices. I've asked around and no one seems to know exactly when this started or why. Some suppose it was 1930s decadence that left no room in wee tummies for cake. A few guess at a post-WWII-rationing thing when perhaps the cake might have been so precious one would want to send it home so each family member might have a taste.
If you're British and reading this I'm here to beg you to stop crushing the joy of childhood birthday parties.* I have such wonderful memories of getting a too-large square (often American cakes are more like a tray bake and so the 'slices' are squares) of cake as I rocked in a rickety plastic chair and squirmed with excitement to see if there might be ice cream too. A little plate of cake with some unnatural shade of frosting being subsumed by a rapidly melting scoop of chemically flavored vanilla ice cream. Heaven quite frankly. Oh then there was that heavenly invention - the store-bought, crisco based icing lathered, ice-cream cake that if not left to properly thaw had to be chainsawed into pieces. These are what birthday dreams are made of - cake and presents people!
Now you may be asking yourself if these barbarians feed their guests at all and rest assured they do. This little luncheon tradition may be in fact, as mentioned above, the reason for the sending home of cake. Because while at an afternoon party in America guests would never expect more than snacks (PLUS CAKE!), here a wee smorgasbord is the norm. The following will be present at every party (except the one I threw last year because I just didn't know! I'm sorry!!): ham and butter sandwiches, cheese or jam sandwiches that will also have butter, mini-sausages and/or sausage rolls, some form of potato chip/crisp/shaped product, cheese, grapes or easy peel oranges, juice boxes, and some fairy cakes (these are cupcakes with minimal icing) and/or biscuits/cookies. Note the number of little squares of sandwich available will far exceed the guest list. No idea why. They aren't even good sandwiches really and I've confirmed this fact with parents. They are meant to be "child friendly" foods, nothing too...flavorful.
As for what the kids do, there's often a bouncy castle or someone in charge of games. One recent party had a conga line. Another had a magician who did a show in two parts on either side of the snacks and candle blowing out. Because they're so many kids, they can be rather cacophonous affairs. I'm already dead set against inviting every kid in eldest's class for that reason. That number of kids is overwhelming for him and it means the autism spectrum kid in his class can't participate because the noise it too much for him (though bless his parents, they bring him to every single one just to try and end up sitting outside with him).
Now, I'm not going to get in to the Party Princess/Clown/Magician phenomenon because it's really not much different in the US. More and more people want someone else to entertain the hoards of children at a birthday party rather than the stress of doing it themselves. I concur. American parties have become, in some circles, very elaborate and competitive affairs in recent years. So some sad sandwiches and cake with paper glued to it without the pressure of acting overjoyed at every gift is in some ways a relief and, dare I say it, quaint. But I also have this little sad part of me that wants my kids to have the kind of parties I had as a kid. You usually invited your best friends to do something special with you at your house or someplace exotic like McD's or the bowling alley. I had a fair few parties at home. We played games or just ran around a playground and ate at picnic tables.
None of the above is criticism, really. I have yet to go to a party that my kid didn't enjoy once the initial shock wave of noise washed over him. When I've compared notes with British parents about parties, we each like some things about the other tradition and we all agree that "pass the parcel" is torture and should be forgotten. So at the next birthday party I throw, I'm going to mix things together I think**. Invite maybe 10 kids to a playground near our house in the afternoon and give them cake and snacks but take the presents home to unwrap later. I might even make a few sandwiches.
*It has occurred to me that because of the ready availability and consumption of iced pastries and cakes in everyday British life that a birthday cake is not a big deal. Childhood here is marked by regular cake consumption! Also, every birthday cake I've had here is of the store-bought, fondant covered variety. At the time I didn't understand, but now I see why the parents at a party I threw last year were so delighted by my homemade cake. It was a really tasty cake, like you'd get at a tea house, rather than a cake for show. We have those in America too, but no self-respecting Southern Mama would let her child's birthday pass without baking them a cake even if it's from a box mix!
**UPDATE: I ended up doing an indoor, bouncy castle party at 11am and having brunch foods for grown-ups plus s few snacks (sausage rolls and fruit) then doling out squares of chocolate cake with chocolate icing to children who asked for more. The adults thanked me so many times for feeding them and not just the kids I lost count. I took the presents home still wrapped and my kid didn't mind at all. Hybrid, cross-pond parties y'all. It's the way forward.
British Birthday parties are odd to me. Or perhaps just the ones I've been to. But having been to six or so, I'm going to call myself expert and move forward in my ignorance.
First, there's "pass the parcel," a game wherein a present is wrapped in numerous layers of paper and often sweets (they say "sweeties", bless their hearts) or little prizes are inserted between the layers; sometimes in each layer and sometimes at random. It is a bit like hot potato or musical chairs in that music plays while the parcel is passed and when it stops, whomever is holding the package takes a layer off. This game is filled with stress and awkwardness. More to the point, everyone knows the birthday child will get the real present in the end. For me, this game causes the gnashing of teeth and pondering the sanity of the person who did the wrapping. Oh and my hub wants it known that he thinks we don't play this game in America because it doesn't rhyme in Amuhrican.
Then there's the not opening presents. On the one hand, I see the wisdom and the cultural difference at play. God forbid a child open a gift and exclaim that they don't want another stupid book. But on the other hand, I kinda like seeing the kid open stuff. The problem in America is when there's WAY too much stuff. And this could be a problem in the UK too as a number of parties I've been to post my oldest starting school the parents have invited the entire class of kids (that's 30 kiddos who frequently bring siblings). What we do in the USA is keep family presents out of the party presents. We open those separately. We also threaten our children with pain of death if they so much as look disappointed in a present from a guest.
The most ponderous thing though is the birthday cake. Or rather the lack of it. Oh no, they do bring out a cake and sing; they're not beasts. But once candles are blown out the cake is whisked away. Then it is cut into slices which are individually wrapped in a napkin then placed in a party bag or or stacked neatly on a tray by the door. The left over bits are then passed around the grownups as each gets a little bite of the cake. There may even be an extra cake lying in wait just for the proper number of slices. I've asked around and no one seems to know exactly when this started or why. Some suppose it was 1930s decadence that left no room in wee tummies for cake. A few guess at a post-WWII-rationing thing when perhaps the cake might have been so precious one would want to send it home so each family member might have a taste.
If you're British and reading this I'm here to beg you to stop crushing the joy of childhood birthday parties.* I have such wonderful memories of getting a too-large square (often American cakes are more like a tray bake and so the 'slices' are squares) of cake as I rocked in a rickety plastic chair and squirmed with excitement to see if there might be ice cream too. A little plate of cake with some unnatural shade of frosting being subsumed by a rapidly melting scoop of chemically flavored vanilla ice cream. Heaven quite frankly. Oh then there was that heavenly invention - the store-bought, crisco based icing lathered, ice-cream cake that if not left to properly thaw had to be chainsawed into pieces. These are what birthday dreams are made of - cake and presents people!
Now you may be asking yourself if these barbarians feed their guests at all and rest assured they do. This little luncheon tradition may be in fact, as mentioned above, the reason for the sending home of cake. Because while at an afternoon party in America guests would never expect more than snacks (PLUS CAKE!), here a wee smorgasbord is the norm. The following will be present at every party (except the one I threw last year because I just didn't know! I'm sorry!!): ham and butter sandwiches, cheese or jam sandwiches that will also have butter, mini-sausages and/or sausage rolls, some form of potato chip/crisp/shaped product, cheese, grapes or easy peel oranges, juice boxes, and some fairy cakes (these are cupcakes with minimal icing) and/or biscuits/cookies. Note the number of little squares of sandwich available will far exceed the guest list. No idea why. They aren't even good sandwiches really and I've confirmed this fact with parents. They are meant to be "child friendly" foods, nothing too...flavorful.
As for what the kids do, there's often a bouncy castle or someone in charge of games. One recent party had a conga line. Another had a magician who did a show in two parts on either side of the snacks and candle blowing out. Because they're so many kids, they can be rather cacophonous affairs. I'm already dead set against inviting every kid in eldest's class for that reason. That number of kids is overwhelming for him and it means the autism spectrum kid in his class can't participate because the noise it too much for him (though bless his parents, they bring him to every single one just to try and end up sitting outside with him).
Now, I'm not going to get in to the Party Princess/Clown/Magician phenomenon because it's really not much different in the US. More and more people want someone else to entertain the hoards of children at a birthday party rather than the stress of doing it themselves. I concur. American parties have become, in some circles, very elaborate and competitive affairs in recent years. So some sad sandwiches and cake with paper glued to it without the pressure of acting overjoyed at every gift is in some ways a relief and, dare I say it, quaint. But I also have this little sad part of me that wants my kids to have the kind of parties I had as a kid. You usually invited your best friends to do something special with you at your house or someplace exotic like McD's or the bowling alley. I had a fair few parties at home. We played games or just ran around a playground and ate at picnic tables.
None of the above is criticism, really. I have yet to go to a party that my kid didn't enjoy once the initial shock wave of noise washed over him. When I've compared notes with British parents about parties, we each like some things about the other tradition and we all agree that "pass the parcel" is torture and should be forgotten. So at the next birthday party I throw, I'm going to mix things together I think**. Invite maybe 10 kids to a playground near our house in the afternoon and give them cake and snacks but take the presents home to unwrap later. I might even make a few sandwiches.
*It has occurred to me that because of the ready availability and consumption of iced pastries and cakes in everyday British life that a birthday cake is not a big deal. Childhood here is marked by regular cake consumption! Also, every birthday cake I've had here is of the store-bought, fondant covered variety. At the time I didn't understand, but now I see why the parents at a party I threw last year were so delighted by my homemade cake. It was a really tasty cake, like you'd get at a tea house, rather than a cake for show. We have those in America too, but no self-respecting Southern Mama would let her child's birthday pass without baking them a cake even if it's from a box mix!
**UPDATE: I ended up doing an indoor, bouncy castle party at 11am and having brunch foods for grown-ups plus s few snacks (sausage rolls and fruit) then doling out squares of chocolate cake with chocolate icing to children who asked for more. The adults thanked me so many times for feeding them and not just the kids I lost count. I took the presents home still wrapped and my kid didn't mind at all. Hybrid, cross-pond parties y'all. It's the way forward.
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