I'm woefully out-of-touch with American life.  It's incredible how much some things have changed over the last seven and a half years, since I moved from Ohio to Amsterdam.

Take text-messaging, for instance.  When I left America, mobile telephony was nowhere near as common as it is today.  In fact, I didn't get my first mobile phone until I moved to the Netherlands.  At that point, people mostly used cell phones for making phone calls.  Over time, though, text-messaging started to become popular -- in Europe as well as in North America -- and though the technological part of it didn't give me any troubles (I actually wonder if Europeans may have adapted to text-messaging more quickly than Americans), I just couldn't keep up with the popular American usage and cultural evolution of the technology.  Text-messaging short-hand in particular.  I heard about it in the media, and I understood the ways that the 4s and 8s and R's and U's and consonant contractions were supposed to save time and space -- but I genuinely thought that it was just a silly thing that high-school sophomores did, like practicing your "autograph" a thousand times on the back of your Trapper-Keeper.

After a week of trying to assimilate back into my "home" culture, though, I realize that I was seriously mistaken.  Text-messaging is at a totally different level than I ever anticipated.  And the usage of the text-messaging short-hand is far more widespread than I had ever imagined.  Last Friday, I responded to one of my friend's text messages with a suggestion and he wrote back "k."  I knew that his single-letter response meant "OK / Affirmative" (I'm not that clueless about text-messaging short-hand).  But when I laughed about the incident to my sister and her husband, saying that I would have to harass my friend (who's my age) about his teeny-bopper short-hand, they stared at me with blank looks on their faces that told me how far off from reality I was.  It turns out that "k" is a perfectly professional and adult way of responding to text messages -- confirmed by several people my age or older, with occupations as prestigious or more prestigious than my own -- and, if anything, it's considered just plain silly to write back the extravagantly overblown two-letter version of the affirmative response.

As you can see, I'm woefully out-of-touch with American life and linguistics.

Part of me wants to be indignant and stubborn about this -- pouting about how text-messaging "impoverishes" the English language, fussing and fretting about grammar and syntax.  But ultimately, I don't want to be that guy.  Truth be told, American linguistics have always been about adaptation and transition.  Looking up the history of the phrase, "OK" (or "okay," depending on your preference), it's easy to see that "k" is every bit as good as any of the other derivatives.  No one actually knows what the "O" and the "K" are actually supposed to stand for.  Some think it's a bastardization of the Choctaw (Native American) word "okeh," which means "it is indeed."  Others suggest that it's an adaptation of the Greek phrase "Ola kala," meaning "everything's good" or "all good" -- brought into popular usage by Greek railway workers in the United States during the 1800s, as the initials were stamped on various shipments to indicate that they were ready to go.  Still others trace the usage of "O.K." back to Martin van Buren's campaign for the American presidency, in the late 1830s, in which he used the abbreviated version of his nickname, "Old Kinderhook."  But the most widely accepted etymology of "OK" goes back to an American fad during the early part of the 1800s, in which comic misspellings of common phrases were abbreviated and cemented in the public consciousness:  "K.G." for "Know Good" (no good) and "N.S." for "Nuff Said" (enough said)... and, most notably, "O.K." for "Oll Korrect" (all correct).  Some very interesting -- and widely varied -- theories, wouldn't you say?

Ultimately, no one really knows how the phrase "OK" came into popular usage.  We just know that it was an American phenomenon -- though it's now been adopted by hundreds of other languages -- and that it was likely based on some sort of "incorrect" grammar (possibly intentional).  Based on all these criteria, then, the text-messaging "k" seems to be a surprisingly appropriate adaptation of the old terminology.  I may not like it, and I may be slow to adapt to the cultural transitions -- but hey, such is the American way.  K?

After seven and a half years of living here in the Netherlands, I ought to have a good feeling for Dutch gezelligheid -- that special sort of familial warmth, comfort, and comradery that is not quite translatable into American understanding.  And, of course, I do generally understand it and appreciate it:  knowing, for instance, that a dinner reservation does not just mean an hour or two (as it might be understood in American contexts) but rather an entire evening of occupation... But still, every time I experience a prolonged evening of gezelligheid among a crowd of Dutch people in their element, I am newly impressed -- newly reminded of how clueless I can be about gezelligheid.

Yesterday evening, I got to share a dinner with the Medezeggenschaps Raad (MR) of the school which our children attend, and it was just such a reminder of how it really works around here.

The MR is something between an American Board of Education and a Parent-Teacher Organization, I think -- but whatever it is, I've been serving as a part of this advisory board for the last two years.  Every year in the spring (towards the end of the school year), the school pays for the MR to go out for a nice meal.  But this isn't anything like how it would be done in America:  usually something business-casual, at a place like Applebee's or Red Lobster or the Olive Garden, main entree fully covered by the school, but any extras (and particularly any alcoholic beverages) covered by the individuals, maybe a two-and-a-half hour affair if everyone is really having a good time... In this case, though, the setting is considered extremely important, the drinks and appetizers and meals and extras are totally covered by the school, and it goes for about four hours before all is said and done.

Yesterday evening, we met at an Italian restaurant in the neighborhood, with a table out on the sidewalk terrace, underneath a trellis covered by grapevines.  A bottle of rosé was immediately ordered, and glasses were filled generously until everyone raised their glasses in a toast to the school.  Two of the teachers who also sit on the MR started working their way through a pack of Lucky Strikes, while everyone looked through the menu and caught up on chit-chat.  Eventually, a round of appetizers was ordered -- one of just about every item on the menu -- and we all passed the plates around and enjoyed delicious mouthfuls of bruschette, carpaccio, calimari, dalmast... It was a lot of food.  By the time the appetizers were finished, it was decided that we needed another bottle of rosé.  Then, everyone placed their orders and continued with conversation:  about politics, traveling, school situations, the World Cup, families, a little bit of everything.  More cigarettes, more wine.  The food was served:  large portions of pasta, pizzas, meat, cheese, bread.  Once everyone had his or her order, we started enjoying the food.  But it was by no means gluttony.  In fact, everyone was very considerate:  insisting on waiting, sharing the wine equally, passing around food items.  More cigarettes, more wine.  By this point, I was feeling quite full and (still stuck in my American paradigms for such situations) thinking that we'd probably be wrapping up pretty soon.

But we were not anywhere near finished.

The chairman of the MR asked for the dessert menus, and we all ordered lavish desserts:  tiramisu, and gelatto, and baklava, and crepes.  One of the other fathers regaled us with stories of his car troubles and the wacky drama of the mechanics at his neighborhood garage, trying to figure out what was wrong with the vehicle.  Eventually, the subject came around to American food -- probing me for information about root beer floats, philly cheesesteaks, waffle fries, cookie monsters, all of which started to sound like the most exotic, most fascinating cuisine, in those circumstances.  This prompted a story from one of the other fathers, who had experienced "Rocky Mountain Oysters" (fried bull testicles) on a recent trip to the United States -- which drew out another one of my personal anecdotes about the Tiro Tavern Testicle Festival (Motto:  "You'll have a ball").  More cigarettes, more wine.  The sun was starting to set  -- which is saying something in Amsterdam, these days, where the dusk dwells almost until midnight.  Another round of drinks was ordered:  cappuchinos, espressos, lattes.  And more conversation ensued.  What will happen with the formation of the new Dutch cabinet, following the recent elections?  What will the school do about the disorganized gym teacher?  What are the chances for the Dutch national soccer team in this year's World Cup?

I started to forget about the time -- about the American conventions for such situations.  I was no longer surprised when another round of drinks was ordered:  this time tiny, lemon-flavored liqueurs and bottled sparkling water and brown bottles of Heineken.  The two teachers lit up more cigarettes, and we started trying to figure out which city's map was emblazoned upon our tables.  Was it Rome?  Highly unlikely, because of the shape of the river and the loading docks.  Was it New York?  Not vertical enough, no Central Park.  Chicago?  I could rule that one out.  It seemed like some kind of American city, because of the shape of the city blocks -- but its river was hard to place, and the circular park was very unique.  One of the fathers went inside to ask the restauranteur if he knew which city it was.  He didn't, but he could tell us that when he had purchased the tables they were called "Model New York."  We gradually pushed back from the table, completely full, completely at ease.  More cigarettes.  A lot of looking up into the deepening blue of the sky.  Talking about the neighborhood, about the city.

At last, the chairman of the MR went inside to pay.  When everything was taken care of, we wandered over to the bicycle racks and unlocked the bicycles, while our conversation started to trail off.  It took a good five minutes for the bicycle-unlocking process to be completed.  Even when it finally felt about time to saddle up and ride off into the sunset, a few of the others were finishing up their own conversations -- offering a pleasant smile and wave and greetings to be sent home with me.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how gezelligheid is done.

It's official.  Elliot has now completed his culturally-mandated swimming lessons and graduated with high honors.  Today, he received his covted Zwemdiploma A (Swimming Diploma, Level A), and we were there to witness the occasion.

For all the cynicism that I've expressed previously (primarily related to the ways that social pressure is applied to make parents pay large amounts of money for a skill set that most American children learn gradually, under much less stringent conditions, and with a much lower price tag), I have to admit that it was a pretty cool experience to witness this classic Dutch rite of passage.  I felt very proud to see that my son was able to fight through his fears -- marked by weekly terrified, tear-wrenching episodes -- for several months in a row in order to achieve this milestone.

The official requirements for this level of certification are as follows:

WHILE WEARING STREET CLOTHES:

1. From a 1-meter diving platform, jump into the water feet-first (going completely under the water); and after rising to the water's surface, continuing to
2. Tread water for 15 seconds, using both arms and legs, follwed by
3. Swimming the breast-stroke for 12.5 meters, diving under a line, making a half-turn on the horizontal axis and
4. Swimming the back-stroke for 12.5 meters (arms may be actively employed); ending the exam with
5. Climbing out of the water, independently (potentially with the use of a ladder), at the side of the pool.

WHILE WEARING SWIMMING ATIRE:

1. From the side of the pool or a diving platform, jump into the water (preferably with a head-first dive), directly followed by (without surfacing)
2. Orienting oneself under water and swimming, while submerged, through a hole in a vertically-positioned wall in the water placed 3 meters from the starting wall; after surfacing, continuing to
3. Swim the breast-stroke for 50 meters, ending this portion of the exam with
4. Swimming the simple back-stroke (with passive arms).
5. Then, voluntarily entering the water with a head-first dive, followed by launching from the side of the pool and then continuing to
6. Float for 10 seconds on the chest, followed by a few short meters of the breast-stroke, after which
7. Floating for an additional 5 seconds on the chest, after which a few meters of the breast-stroke.
8. Then, launching from the side of the pool and floating on the back for 10 seconds, after which
9. Swimming for a few short meters with a simple back-stroke, followed by 10 seconds of floating on the back, finishing this portion of the exam with a few meters of the simple back-stroke.
10. Then, from the side of the pool or a diving platform, entering the water with a jump (preferably a head-first dive), followed by 8 meters of beginners-crawl swimming.
11. In the water, pushing off from the wall, swimming for 8 meters of beginners-crawl swimming, followed by
12. 60 seconds of treading water, using arms and legs, in which a complete turn is made at least twice along the vertical axis.

It's hard-core stuff, isn't it?  The Dutch do not mess around, when it comes to their swimming!  They say it's all the water lying around, in the canals and ponds and lakes -- it requires a serious and sober assessment of a child's ability to fend for himself in the water.

Fortunately, Elliot's lessons prepared him well, and he was able to perform all the required tasks with very little difficulty (you can see Elliot in the long-distance photographs by virtue of his orange swimming trunks and black swimming shirt).

What we were not completely prepared for was the festive atmosphere of the swimming pool.

One of the life-guards/instructors wore a head-mounted microphone and entertained the crowd very much like a game-show host.  Most of the kids going for their diplomas had brought not just moms, dads, brothers, and sisters -- but also grandparents and aunts and uncles and neighbors.  There was probably a good 60 or 70 people on hand to witness the occasion!  Wild applause and shouting was encouraged (even expected).  And even while the kids were doing their swimming, there was music playing over the loudspeakers and everyone clapped along in rhythm to the songs.  Everyone was taking pictures and video footage.  And, from what I heard from other parents in the locker rooms afterwards, many of the "graduates" were to be congratulated with gifts when they got home.

Overall, the atmosphere was much more like a children's birthday party than a swimming examination.  In spite of the seriousness of the swimming requirements, there were no clipboards or checklists.  None of the children who were there failed (though I'm guessing that some of the children from Elliot's class were told that they were not yet ready to take the exam).  It really felt more like a celebratory exhibition than a test or a ceremony.

A good time was had by all.

It was especially nice that we got to have some "extended family" -- in the form of our church friends, Naomi, Linda, and Claire -- come to witness the occasion with us.  Elliot was all smiles, posing with his diploma and with everyone who was there at the poolside ceremony.

Afterwards, we went out for ice cream to celebrate.  We didn't really get Elliot any other gifts to mark the occasion (though he didn't seem to mind or expect them).  I think he was just glad to be done with it all -- and to have had the opportunity to shine in the spotlight for an afternoon.  As we were leaving the swimming facilities, the teachers were trying to warn us of the necessity of the children going on to get their B (and eventually their C) diplomas as well.  But we told Elliot that he's allowed to decide if and when he would like to continue his swimming lessons, in the future.

For now, he's just basking in the glory of his A-diploma.

[In case you're interested, there are a few additional photos of the afternoon available for viewing in the Family Pictures section of this website.]

Link: http://proverbs365.ericasp.com/

In light of this morning's headlines annoucing the results of yesterday's ice-hockey game between the United States and Canada (good news!) and yesterday's professional-basketball game between the Cleveland Cavaliers and the Orlando Magic (bad news), I thought it might be interesting to copy today's post from my ongoing Proverbs 365 project:  P2204 - NHL vs. NBA.

Humility and the fear of the LORD bring wealth and honor and life (Proverbs 22:4).

Different sports have completely different cultures. The character qualities that are prized in golf (i.e. low profile, high self-confidence, clear-headedness) are completely different than the character qualities that are valued in American football (i.e. brash intimidation, team chemistry, sharply-channeled rage). And nowhere is this cultural contrast more clear, in my opinion, than in the differences between players from the National Basketball Association (NBA) and the National Hockey Leage (NHL). The NBA and NHL seasons overlap heavily. Both the NBA and the NHL have huge fan bases in North America (I enjoy both sports greatly, for the record). However, in spite of all the apparent similarities, NBA players and NHL players seem like they come from completely different planets, to hear them interviewed by the media. NBA culture seems to create players who usually come across as bragadocious, showy, territorial, and trash-talking. "I'm better than him." "In your face." "I got game and he don't." "He better get outta my face or I'm gonna throw him out." Many of the league's biggest stars are close personal friends with gangsta rappers (or occasionally even rappers themselves!). Throughout the past couple of seasons, two of the NBA's most dominant centers have developed an ongoing vendetta about who most deserves the nickname "Superman." It's just that kind of culture.

NHL culture, however, seems to create players who usually come across as very plain, unassuming, even-keeled, and "regular guy" (and not nearly as interesting as NBA players, in interviews!). Case in point: I recently read an on-line article about Ryan Miller, the goalie for the American men's ice-hockey team in the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver (who also plays in the NHL, of course), which underscored the cultural difference between hockey players and basketball players. Through the weeks leading up to the Olympics, Miler had been repeatedly hyped as the Americans' best chance for success at the Olympic games. However, in responding to the hype, the star goalie responded with typical hockey-culture candor:

"It's flattering when you hear that," Miller told ESPN.com. "I don't know how many photo sessions I've had with the American flag draped around me or behind me; it's bordering on ridiculous. You know, I'm one piece of the team. I understand the whole concept of a goalie being able to steal a game. In these tournaments, everyone starts to hype how a goalie can steal a game; just like the Stanley Cup playoffs, everybody starts to hype how a hot goalie can win you a Stanley Cup. But the team in front of you has to play solid, and the goalie almost always reflects the way his team is playing... You're not going to skate through a tournament or win a Stanley Cup without a team that's paying attention to detail," continued the Buffalo Sabres netminder. "So I'm going to try and hold up my end of the bargain and give my team a chance to win. And if I feel I've given them that opportunity, then I've done the best I can, and hopefully that's good enough."

It's crazy to notice the different vibes for these different sports, isn't it?!? They both have their advantages and disadvantages. As far as sports and cultures are concerned you can't really elevate one over the other. But in real life, the Proverbs would suggest, it's much better to be an "NHL player" than an "NBA player." A person can get much further in life -- in business, in relationships, in personal reputation -- if they can maintain the attitude of a humble, unimposing, magnanimous "NHL player," as opposed to the attitude of a prideful, self-promoting, chip-on-the-shoulder "NBA player." If an NBA player tried to take up ice-hockey and bring his NBA attitude into the NHL's locker rooms and arenas, he would be ostracized from the rest of the team, alienated from the fans (who seem to appreciate the NHL's humility factor, even if it does make for more boring interviews), and smashed out on the ice at every opportunity. And this really seems to be the way that the "real world" works, on issues of pride and humility. The proud are destroyed eventually, while humility and the fear of the LORD bring wealth and honor and life. Yes, if your basketball skills are up to snuff, you might want to work on your NBA persona and see how that works out for you, throughout the rest of your life. But if they're not (and let me assure you: they're probably not), I would recommend developing your NHL persona and letting that guide you.

It seems to me that there's an unspoken cultural code in the American Midwest, which subtly discourages the celebration of one's own birthday.  One can celebrate a friend's birthday, whole-heartedly and unashamedly; but to celebrate one's own birthday by throwing oneself a party -- or even by simply informing other people, "Today is my birthday" -- is considered selfish and uncouth.  Back in college, a friend of mine coined the term "Birthday Announcer" to describe the type of person who goes around proudly telling people that it's his birthday; and I knew exactly what he meant.  There's just a certain perception about these things, back where I come from.  Perhaps I'm overstating the American cultural position here, but it definitely seems like birthdays are meant to be held as some kind of loosely-kept secret.

The Dutch, on the other hand, are almost categorically "Birthday Announcers."  Birthday parties are usually organized by the birthday celebrant himself (or herself), and it's even common for someone to bake or buy their own birthday treats to share with friends at work or in school.  There's no shame in celebrating one's own birthday.  And while it's taken me awhile to get used to the cultural shift, I have to say that there's something nice about the Dutch way of doing things.  It makes sense, actually -- and it helps to alleviate any potential feelings of self-pity or disillusionment.  Quite awhile ago, I started admiring the Dutch tradition of unashamedly serving as one's own "Birthday Announcer."  But I've still had a hard time crossing that cultural barrier for myself...

Until this year.

I feel like it's a sign of my cultural integration that I'm finally going so far as step across the divide and become a "Birthday Announcer" myself.  Indeed, I'm not only announcing my birthday (coming up on the 26th of February) -- but I'm also throwing my own party, together with two other friends who happen to share birthdays within a week of my own.  This week, I sent out the following birthday invitation by e-mail...

Dear friends,

Once upon a time, there were three friends living in Amsterdam.  They were different in many ways:  one coming from the mountains of Colorado; one coming from the farmlands of Ohio; and one coming from the flatlands of Zuid Holland.  But in other ways, they were the same:  enjoying good food, good music, good stories, and good time together with friends.  As fate would have it, their birthdays all fell within nine days of each other.  So one day, they decided to celebrate their birthdays together, with a big party.  They prepared all kinds of good food, good music, and good stories, and they invited their friends to celebrate with them in the heart of Old Amsterdam.  And they lived happily ever after.  The End.

OK.  So that may not be the best story ever -- but it does get the point across that a very special Storytelling Triple-Birthday Extravaganza is being organized for Saturday, the 27th of February, starting at 19:00 at the [e-mail me or send me an e-mail if you really want to know the address, so I don't have to post it here as a matter of public record]… And you are hereby cordially invited to join us for the celebration!  Patricia Flynn, Ariënne van Leussen, and Eric Asp are the hosts / birthday celebrants, and we are really looking forward to a great party.  Like most parties, there will be time for simply chatting while sharing in drinks and snacks and birthday cake (remember:  this is a party involving the baking talents of both Ariënne van Leussen and Marci Asp!).  But in addition to this, we will also share in several rounds of storytelling.  Not readings, like you might find at a typical open microphone event, but oral storytelling.  Thus: no pre-arranged, carefully worded, written accounts, but rather spontaneous, random storytelling, like you might have heard around the fire 1000 years ago.  The idea came from the Mezrab Cultural Café here in Amsterdam -- where people regularly gather to share myths, fables, legends, remembrances, and personal anecdotes -- and it seemed like a fun idea for a birthday party.  Yes, of course, you could choose to share stories that involve the birthday celebrants (i.e. stories about Patricia, Ariënne, and/or Eric).  But this is by no means the only type of story allowed.  You could share an amusing story about something that happened to you on your way to the supermarket… or make up a legend about how the leopard got his spots… or tell a stylized version of a Bible story… or pass on a treasured family story about how your grandparents got married… The possibilities are nearly endless!  The specific form of the evening will be determined by those of you who come to celebrate with us.  We just want to spend time enjoying the company of good friends enjoying good stories.

So all that to say this:  please mark your calendar for Saturday, the 27th of February, starting at 19:00 and going until late (towards the end of the festivities, there may even be some dancing!).  If you wanted to bring a nice card or gift or bottle of something to drink, that would certainly be welcome.  But more than anything, we hope that you will be able to come with your stories and be a part of the fun.  We're looking forward to celebrating with you at the end of the month…

Patricia
Ariënne
Eric

And to show just how Dutch (and "Birthday Announcerish") I've become, I thought I might even go so far as to post the invitation (with the exception of the location information, to protect my friends' privacy) here on my blog, just to make sure that I haven't forgotten anyone.  If you'd like to come and celebrate with us, please let me know and I'll supply you with the rest of the information.  Forgive me, my Midwestern friends, if it seems that I've gone astray.  I promise that, on this particular point, it's only one day of the year. :-)