Dutch Communication

Dutch Communication

May 11, 2012

I was considering joining a course offered through the church where I work called Werk en Balans (Work and Balance). Guest speakers from professional job coaches, successful businessman-gone-minister, psychologists and others would be giving lectures on seeking this coveted balance.

Seeing as my residence is attached to my workplace, you can imagine that I struggle with keeping my personal life and work life in proper balance. It seemed that the course might have been designed just for my situation. Except that it wasn’t. And it was in Dutch. And it was offered at my place of work. And I’m probably too busy to take on a course right now. But on the other hand, it could be interesting. And, it would push me out of the simple Dutch I use every day and into a language level needed for discussing deeper concepts. I state the obvious when I say my earnest interest was mixed with a healthy dose of reservations. Thus I did what I always do when I’m on the fence about something–talk about it.

I shared my thoughts with the course organizer, expecting some sort of discussion, but her rather curt response surprised me; “Well, you can always take it next year.”

That wasn’t the response I expected at all. I expected her to give me reasons why I should take it, encouragement even. Or, seeing as she is someone I interact with on a weekly basis, to perhaps confirm my suspicion that the course may be too difficult for my current level of Dutch. “You can always take it next year” seemed like being un-invited. Was this the case, or was I experiencing the subtle differences between Dutch and American communication styles? I decided to investigate.

The Dutch like to go for long walks. So the next time I was out with a Dutch friend walking from one small town to the next, I shared the scenario and asked if she thought I was being uninvited.

“Absolutely not,” my friend assured me. “The last thing a Dutch person wants to do is push someone into something, or try to change their mind. Because if I convince you to do something you expressed reservations about, then I suddenly become responsible for your happiness. We don’t like to put ourselves in that situation. We figure you know what is best for you, and we usually leave it at that.” Strange thing is, my husband had given a similar account of the Dutch perspective.

The conversation went further. I admitted that I was used to friends debating with me about an idea and even pushing a bit. You know, responses like this:

It will be a good challenge for you.
Just try it. It couldn’t hurt.
Perhaps you’re meant to take the course.
Oh, come on. Live a little.
Yeah. You’re busy, but you always ask a busy person when you want to get things done (is this backwards compliment just an excuse to guilt an already busy person into another responsibility?)

When I shared these types of responses with my friend, she became animated.

“A Dutch person would never say those sort of things. Those are definitely very American responses that would make many Dutch people uncomfortable.”

When I signed up for the course, I was warmly welcomed–well, as warm as a Dutch welcome gets on native soil. And the course did challenge and excite me. And I was too busy, but I did it anyway, and enjoyed the three out of four lectures I was able to attend. As you can see, it was I who convinced me in the end, using all the tactical methods to which I am culturally accustomed as an American.

Rommel Piet that Black Friday

As you were perhaps paging through a Martha Stewart magazine mid November for a little inspiration on a Thanksgiving centerpiece or savory side dish, we were gearing up for the steamboat arrival of Sinterklaas and his zwarte piet collective.

Sinterklaas with two of his zwarte Piet helpers

As you were unfortunately pulling another late night at the office to meet that pre-holiday deadline,  we were singing Sinterklaas liedjes in front of our son’s carrot filled boot. As you were contemplating the strange mix of joy, dread, love and chaos that is Thanksgiving, we were watching our son run to his boot to discover yet another present therein.

And finally, as you were regretting that last serving of sweet potatoes with marshmallow topping, suddenly aware of how damned hot you were in your autumn-hued sweater, pushing your chair away from the table, I was asleep. In a different time zone. In a different country. Forgetting all about Thanksgiving.

How can an American forget about Thanksgiving? After all, it is a long standing tradition that ties back to our country’s origins when we broke bread with the Natives, accepted their food, and gave thanks. (Of course we’ll leave out the part where not long after we forgot the being thankful part and killed off the majority of the very natives who’d helped us through that long winter.)

And on an emotional, experiental level, wouldn’t those mostly pleasant memories of family gatherings, happy meals (before the term was co-opted by McDonalds), and those long, post meal walks and conversations in the crisp evening air pull at my heart strings no matter where I now roam?

Yet no strings were plucked. It wasn’t like I was completely clueless or had forgotten about my family. I had spoken to my mom earlier in the week and heard how one brother was heading North to the Bay Area with his family for Thanksgiving, the other brother heading North East to be with his in-laws and how mom was looking forward to the peace and quiet without having to cook anything for anyone.

On the other hand, maybe my subconscious mind decided to just skip that day.  Afterall, it was impossible for me to drive on over and spend Thanksgiving with my family, and the few articles I had recently read about the holiday had been less than compelling.

In the Huffington Post, I came across an article about the millions of cramped turkeys strung out on antibiotics awaiting the slaughter, and in the Los Angeles Times, I read some charming articles about how big name retailers moved Black Friday up to Thanksgiving evening–this time the slaughter being of sacred time to gather with family and friends in a celebration for what we already have.

But I have yet another explanation; In Holland ben ik al een beetje gewend. In other words, I’m getting a little used to it here. And a big part of getting used to a new culture is letting go, een beetje, of your own. Rather than letting one’s soul stretch its amazingly long and flexible legs across two continents, causing uncomfortable cramps in the soul’s calf muscle region, it is better to exist where you are. Or, as the songs goes, Love the One Your With. And just as with America, I am developing my own love-hate relationship with my be-here-now homeland away from home.

Being in the here and now, I must report the Sinterklaas madness! I thought Americans went over the top, but Sinterklaas gives Santa Claus a run for his presents. Kids can start putting their boots out by the fireplace, or the radiator should you be lacking a fireplace, as early as mid November and Sint comes to visit on and off all the way to December 5th. If Sint is particularly generous, that could mean 20 days of gift getting! You can imagine the kids are just a little worked up. And, Sinterklaas isn’t some secondary character. He’s everywhere! On the news. On the radio. He even has his own Sinterklaas website. But what really blows me away is what is happening at the schools across Holland.

Ezra was instructed to bring his boot to school this last Thursday because Sinterklaas and his Zwarte Piets were coming to visit that evening. I was just as curious as Ezra Friday morning, and we arrived earlier than usual. As we approached the school yard, we heard the chaos of 150 kids chanting various Sinterklaas songs, running, screaming, jumping and squirming. When the doors were opened, the children pushed their way in, in what could be likened to Black Friday foment, to get to their boots. Although the hallways were lit, the lights to the classrooms were out, and the teachers stood outside the classroom doors like happy wardens, waiting until all of the students had arrived before letting anyone in.

When the door was opened the expectant children surged forth into the biggest mess I have ever personally witnessed: tables were thrown on their sides, toys strewn throughout the classroom, black greasy handprints on the walls. The place was trashed. As I stared in shock, the only slightly phased children climbed over the mess toward their boots on the windowsill, their eyes on the prize. But the boots were empty. And although an empty boot is possible over this 20 day span–Sint can’t go to every house every night afterall–empty boots on such a joyous, expectant occasion can suggest only one thing: naughty, undeserving children. Ezra and I must have come to the same conclusion, as I saw that pre-howl look sweep across his face.

But just then, the teacher happened to notice a note from Rommel Piet taped to a still erect bookcase. It informed the children that he had been to visit and that after the children cleaned everything up, each and every one of them would receive a present. If you haven’t guessed already, Rommel means mess. Wat een rommel, as in, what a mess!

Rommel Piet Pays a Visit to the Classroom

The children reacted in many ways. Some continued to look on with consternation (Ezra), others jumped in and started cleaning up, others spontaneously broke into play. The parents were the last to join in, but after 20 minutes, every last chair was sitting upright and every last Lego, flash card and building block was put away.

Moral of the story? The children had to earn their present. They had to wade through the chaos, do their part to pitch in, and when everyone had helped to make it right, they would all be rewarded. In retrospect, as I made the uncanny connection that it was Black Friday on the westerly part of the Atlantic pond, it seemed that Rommel Piet was some sort of deep, brooding metaphor for the consumeristic state of my home country and the absurdity of Black Friday, or is that Dark Thursday?

Of course Sinterklaas brings his own breed of consumerism, as presents must be purchased, and Sint-specific treats such as pepernoten, chocolate letters and many other sugary goods are almost compulsory items for the shopping cart. But I am nonetheless smitten with the experience and the utter joy that the Sinterklaas season is bringing for our little boy. I do realize we are walking a fine line; on one side is over indulgence and blatant consumerism, and on the other,  a cultural experience that nurtures the imaginations of its young citizens. But please, don’t share this latter sentiment with the producers of those chocolate letters.

Sex and other language learning tips

While my friends back home in book club are reading The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak, a heady young adult work of fiction about death and other things, I am reading O, O, Olivia, chick lit about a wild, confused young woman in her twenties who has a one night stand. I have a worthy excuse for my literary deviation: education and future success in the Netherlands.

Before you raise your eyebrows and wonder where I’m going with this,  O, O, Olivia  is in Dutch. And, it takes place in Den Haag. Topics of romance and sex can be strong motivators to dive deeper into a second language, and dive in is what I am doing–260 pages of diving with sentence after sentence of authentic, contemporary, idiom-filled Dutch.

I’m a sucker for well designed grocery store end displays, that section of real estate at the end of the aisle that convinces you to buy something you don’t really need; green olives stuffed with anchovies for example. I am also quite susceptable to strategic chapter breaks–a chapter that ends with something that leaves you curious. Not quite a cliff hanger, but enough of a pull that you rub your weary eyes, glance at the numbers on the clock face and plod ahead anyway. And author Gillian King has that “strategic chapter break” thing down.

Suffice to say she is hot right now. And I’m not the only one staying up late turning the pages: Olivia is on a seven day express loan. If only I could turn the pages a little faster. Problem is, I don’t just have this nice, sexy book with a pink cover (strategically designed to pull my female eye hither to scan it’s cover, read the back cover summary, and put it in the stack of library books), I also have my essential Dutch-English dictionary in hand to help me through.

As I read and get into the flow of the story, certain words start to lock in, expanding my vocabulary. Other words are road blocks, getting in the way of me knowing what else the lead character is doing to screw up her life. But wildly scary words such as zenuwachting (nervous) or ongemakkelijk (uneasy) are skillfully tamed by my Dutch English dictionary.

For those wanton words and expressions that my dictionary is just too dignified to translate, I have Arie Jan. Sure, I’ve picked up words I’ll never be able to use in my work at the church, but they’ll certainly come in handy watching Dutch television, startling my husband or eavesdropping on the ladies talking in conspiratorial tones at the next table during lunch.

Several people have commented over the last few weeks that my Dutch seems to be making leaps and bounds. I smile politely and say thank you. No real need to elaborate that I’ve been motivated by a fictional character having one night stands, out partying in Het Plein and thrashing her otherwise respectable life, and the desire to see if she gets that extremely hot guy in the end.

If you are beginning to grasp a second language and want to experience a sudden jump in understanding, read something in your foreign language of choice that is shamelessly compelling to you, whether it’s about companion plantings for your organic garden or a foreign espionage thriller. What better way to compel yourself forward. And you might be pleasantly surprised like I was; not only am I expanding my vocabulary, I am also discovering that happy endings are possible in other cultural writing as well.

Shopping like a Dutchie

It is the subtle, day to day differences that bring home the fact you are not in Kansas anymore, but living in a foreign country. Our trip to the Dutch grocery store Albert Hein yesterday made this all too clear.

First, the entire store is like a never ending Dutch lesson. Even if you know the basics–banaan, sla, brood, kaas, melk, (bananas, lettuce, bread, cheese, milk)–a more robust lesson is available on the back of any packaged good, from ingredients, company messaging to instructions. For example, by reading the description on the back of Ezra’s Weleda children’s toothpaste,  I learned an important collection of words that later came up in conversation and impressed my Dutch husband.

The Dutch tend to buy only what they need for the next few days and the layout of the store reflects this. The aisles are closer together, and most people shop with a small hand basket you can carry or roll on wheels with an extended handle, rather than the full cart to which we are accustomed. This tendency to buy just a little is also a reflection of preferred transportation methods of many shoppers; they buy only what they can take away by bicycle, carry down the street with two arms, or easily haul on and off the tram.

Of course, there is a universal similarity in the way a store is laid out; fruits and vegetables, dairy and bread on the perimeter; the farther in you go, the more processed the food becomes. But, in a Dutch supermarket,  the bread, dairy and cheese sections receive a disproportionate amount of real estate. I imagine the pasta, cheese and vegetable sections of an Italian grocery would similarly receive more space.

One thing that continues to throw me off is the metric system over here. Liquids are measured in deciliters and liters rather than ounces and gallons, and an egg carton offers up ten eggs, rather than our customary twelve.

Although most grocery stores are of this smaller scale, The Dutch have caught on to the Costco concept as well. A large store called Sligro, with a  parking lot full of cars and not a single bicycle in sight, is for large scale shopping by businesses, mainly restaurants and hotels. Here, you can buy 10 kilos of ground coffee, excessively large trays of meats and cheeses, commercial cleaning supplies, etc. I pushed an unwieldy cart through the store that even makes the American shopping cart look small as I accompanied my current manager on a shopping trip for the church kitchen. Although Sligro is geared toward businesses, I was offered a free Sligro membership through an Expat organization. It’s as if they think we might just buy half the store and put it all in storage in our expat basements and second freezers.

Back at the more Dutch scale neighborhood grocery store, we headed to the check out stand, in line with 20 other people who waited with noteworthy patience to purchase a handful of items.  Although I still have the desire to have a well stocked pantry, I find myself going to the store more often, and purchasing less, as if trying to do it the Dutch way. Each time, however, a few canned goods slip their way into my cart which I don’t need immediately, and my proverbial pantry grows.



A time bomb detonates

The content of my current Dutch lessons is starkly different from any other language course I have taken. We cover topics like subsidies available through the government, dealing with the belasting dienst (tax office), whether or not it is okay to embrace unemployment as a lifestyle, assimilation, asylum seekers in the Netherlands, etc. These and other topics have led me to conclude that my class is designed primarily for people from lower income brackets immigrating into the country (sounds familiar) and/or those who have come here out of extreme necessity. Thus, odds are that behind some of those beautiful faces of my female classmates are stories so tragic that most of us have no experiences in which to equate (and are deeply blessed by this fact).

Last week the teacher assigned lesson eight: de wet. It sounds innocuous enough. Lesson eight. The one right after lesson seven, which was about receiving help from the government to pay the rent, and before lesson nine. But, de wet is not about how wet it can be here with all the rain, or some sort of slang the Dutch picked up back in their days in New York from the neighboring New Jerseyians. De wet is The Law.

At first, I thought this topic would be somehow refreshing after studying social services and taxes. I only have a vague sense of the laws here, which seem to me a bizarre mix of liberal idealism and indifference, enmeshed in an intricate web of bureaucracy. In my current state of ignorance of Dutch law, I take it for granted that the laws are similar to those in the U.S.: Don’t kill anybody; Don’t steal; Don’t get caught rolling through a stop sign, and so forth. In some countries, acting upon such assumptions of similarity could lead to no uncertain death by doing something as simple as speaking your mind or not dressing appropriately for your gender.

Quite often, we are asked to discuss new topics in the context of how they differ from our prospective homelands. Yet, I find many of the textbook questions invasive. For example: Do you have a job? If not, why? Do you receive a subsidy from the government? In some American dialects, this translates into “Are you a loser? Why?”

As I read through the questions about de Wet, it seemed to me the chances of a cultural time bomb going off in the classroom were pretty high.  For example: Hebben mannen en vrowen dezelfde rechten? (Do men and women have the same rights?) Lord. As I looked at my Afghani, Moroccan, Iraqi and Iranian classmates with their tightly wrapped head scarves,  I knew such a question would make for interesting, if not uncomfortable conversation. It was then that I realized I wouldn’t be the fly on the wall listening in on fascinating cultural exchange, but the sole American in the room, with fading highlights in my uncovered hair.

When I was asked to pose a question to a classmate, I skimmed the list, trying to find something less like a bloody scab cracking open and more like a general topic. Thus I chose this question: Are there countries with very little or no laws and rules?

I posed the question to an Iranian woman whose name I remembered. She usually spoke very little due to her limited Dutch. I will give her the name of Sayah for this post. As background, I had earlier learned that Sayah’s grandfather had four wives and 35 children. She is thus one of a multitude of grandchildren. She hadn’t mentioned how many siblings and cousins were in her generation, not to mention their collective offspring. But given the religious adherence to an Islamic version of  “be fruitful and prosper,” I’m imagining hundreds of first cousins. I don’t even know if there exists a wide angled lens wide enough to capture her whole family in one shot.

I would think if you come from a family this large, you would need to be tough, vocal. Edging your way into the conversation, asserting yourself at the dinner table to get your piece of the pie. More Morrocan, shall we say. Yet Sayah is meek, almost fearful in demeanor. During another class meeting where we went over prescriptions in Dutch, it came out that she has insomnia. She wasn’t alone. Several other students shared her condition. I wondered what could be so bad that she couldn’t sleep until daylight. I figured it was some sort of cultural difference, pressures of being a Muslim female with many responsibilities to serve everyone before yourself, if ever yourself. Most of the women with insomnia said they couldn’t get their thoughts to go away, making gestures of a wheel going round in round in their heads. I suggested meditation. I digress. An avoidance tactic I’m sure. I’m taking a deep breath as I think of how to share what happened next. Am I too Western? Do I just want to hear nice things? Am I that shallow? That trained in the discourse of niceties?

So in response to what I had deemed a middle of the road question–Zijn er ook landen met weining of geen wetten en regels? Are there countries with very little or no laws and rules?–Sayah started talking about haar vrienden (her friends) in Iran. Her body language changed as she struggled for the words in Dutch. She wrapped her fingers around her wrist, as if showing a bracelet. She spoke about a hospital and about friends hanging. I was confused. The teacher was confused. The other women who spoke Arabic dialects talked with Sayah in their native tongues, trying to interpret the details of her story. “Drie of vier vrienden elke dag. Ophangen.” I hoped dearly that  I misunderstood, but soon, the other women started adding in bits of information and confirming that my comprehension was spot on; Back in Iran, her friends had been hung. Three or four every day for a period of days. Men and women. Women with young children. No mercy. She was on the list of those considered to be dissidents. Those who had disagreed with something or someone, in most cases guilty by association.

However, she was also quite sick at the time and was taken to the hospital for her chronic asthma, as were her children. From there, she and her family were flown out of the country. She stayed several months in another country before seeking asylum in the Netherlands, where she has been ever since. I don’t know how long “ever since” is, but I want to find out.

Sayah spoke a little more about her family. There it was again. Her fingers wrapping around her wrists. Not bracelets. Handcuffs. Many of her family members were in prison and she had no means of contacting them. As we pieced this information together, Sayah reached into her bag for her inhaler and took a raspy breath, tears in her eyes.

It became clear to me what sort of thoughts were keeping Sayah up at night, why she couldn’t sleep until daylight. Not the daily responsibilities of a Muslim woman, but the murder of her friends and family. m and f. I can’t even put those two words in the same compartment of my mind. I push it outward.  I love my friends and family so much, I can’t take my empathy to the place of imagining it happening to me. The only murderous entity in my circle of friends and family is that horrible beast known as cancer–and you can fight cancer with the collective knowledge of doctors, scientists and spiritual resources from around the world. Many I know have fought it and won. Some are in the midst of a glorious battle. Others have lost the battle, but were surrounded by a compassionate society of friends and family during the process.

I realize too that Sayah is perhaps one of the strongest women among us. The strength of a survivor. I imagine the horror she is going through, though from a slightly removed place.  I feel the tightening of my tear ducts, the instant pressure of emotion swelling upward.

I want to say lots things, as do many of the other women in class. For once, I go Moroccan.  I blurt out my opinions and questions in paltry Dutch, my voice competing with all of the other women expressing their anger at the situation. The teacher is equally mortified. She uses words like vreselijk (horrible) and slecht (bad). I have the urge to donate money I don’t have to an Iranian human rights activist group.

What I eventually say is very American of me. “What can be done? How can this be stopped? If you are hung for voicing a dissident opinion, how can regime change ever come about?” Yet, it seems that we are seeing how it happens in Egypt, in Libya. Bloody uprisings where people die in the process of demanding change. And even then, there are no guarantees.

The class ends. Before I leave, I touch Sayah’s shoulder and just a bit of her long, burgundy headscarf. I say in my broken Dutch, “Thank you Sayah. Thank you for sharing such a personal experience with us.” I want to say I’m glad you are alive, that your children are alive, that your husband is alive. That this is a lot to be thankful for. But I keep my optimism in check. I think these things for her and as a Christian, I pray for a Muslim. That, and sharing her story with others.

Ezra learns about the Helaal

I remember being in a classroom as a child, but I don’t remember school wide projects focused on one theme. Perhaps those early years in college spent with the reggae band Jah-Bone had a blurring effect on my early childhood memories.

Yet this memory of Ezra’s school is clear and fresh, so I’ll write about it now, so you can picture him in his new digs, and he will have at least one childhood experience stored in cyberspace for him, should the internet still exist in 30 or 40 years.

A few times a week, when I unpack Ezra’s backpack/lunch box, I discover a letter from the school. The letter is of course in Dutch, which means I can either ask Arie Jan to translate, or I can take out my dictionary and have a spontaneous Dutch lesson. A week and a half ago, I found a note in Ezra’s backpack and with dictionary in hand, discovered that there was an event at the school Wednesday evening, that everyone in the family was invited to attend–grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters–the whole extended family. Children in all grades (4 years to 12 years) were studying the Helaal (universe) and at 7pm, we could all come to the school to see their projects and participate in a treasure hunt and party.

I had hints along the way, as Ezra asked about rockets and stars, and suprisingly, when I pointed out the different planets in a book, he knew Mars from Uranus, Saturn from Jupiter. I was impressed. Clearly, he is learning at his new school. But this didn’t prepare me for the transformation of the school into NASA headquarters junior  or the Dutch equivalent.

When we arrived at school, the playground was full of screaming, running, laughing children, a few street lamps casting long orbs of light over the chaos. Parents milled about, talking to one another, while trying to keep an eye on their children dashing in and out of the darkness.

Finally, the doors opened and the sizable crowd made their way into the school. There was no orderly introduction or set of instructions. You were left to your own accord to explore the solar system. Each classroom was three dimensional. Planets suspended from strings pulled your gaze upward in one classroom, a 10 foot white rocket made of parachute material invited you to climb within, in the next. Teachers handed out a packet with the treasure hunt instructions and children eagerly started their quest into the universe.

Not one for crowds, Ezra held onto my hand with a fierceness that said, don’t you dare let go. When we finally got to his classroom, he relaxed his grip as we explored all of the bright, festive creations hanging from the walls, on the table tops, taped to the windows. We came to a display of  silvery moon rocks made out of some unknown material. Ezra pointed to a blob that resembled a half melted Smurf dipped in silver.

“I made that one,” he proudly announced. I also discovered a collection of rockets with his name on it.

When we left Ezra’s classroom he demanded that dad carry him. There would be no compromises. I understood. There were so many people in the halls that you had to edge your way through them, and from the perspective of a four year old, this would be like navigating your way through a dense thicket, but with the plants moving against you on both sides.  We glimpsed into the classrooms of the older children and the artwork and concepts were more advanced, exciting even.

We treated the last few moments of our Heelal adventure like a trip to a museum, asking Ezra which was his favorite piece of artwork in each classroom.  Soon, he was tired of the game and asked to go home. But when we got outside, he climbed up on the play structure with one of his friends, and spent the next 15 minutes yelling at the moon in Dutch with the other boy. We watched, happy to see him fully in himself, playing with another child his age, shouting with glee.

The next day when I dropped him off at school, the universe looked less dynamic in the morning light. The classroom tables and chairs had been returned to their normal positions, the artwork stacked in a neat pile for take home. So much work and effort put into a project, a celebration at it’s completion and then its over. You move on. Just like in adult life.

Mijn Nederslandse les

I have signed up for Dutch classes designed for foreigners like myself who have a child attending a Dutch school. The course if offered for free to the mother’s of children at the school who need to learn Dutch. There was no mention of fathers. Only mothers. And, there are only mothers in my class.

If you envision a racially diverse school in the U.S,  you may picture a mixture of Caucasion, African American and Latino kids with perhaps a sprinkling of Asian nationalities. At Ezra’s school, there are over 40 nationalities, perhaps 41 with Ezra now attending.

Last time I took a Dutch course in Holland, the class was filled with English speaking foreigners from America, England and Australia. When I attended my first Dutch class week before last, I realized within a few moments that I was the only Westerner. All of the women looked exotically foreign to me–as I probably did to them. Half of them wore hoofddoekjes (headscarves). Some smelled different to me–strong scents I didn’t recognize–perhaps incense, perhaps smells from the kitchen. Since I was the newest student, the teacher took a few minutes from the lesson to have everyone introduce themselves in Dutch and tell a little about themselves. The first woman named Halima, reported that she was from Afghanistan, had one daughter, and had lived in Holland for 10 years. Another woman named Khaddouj was from Morrocco, had 4 children and had lived in Holland for 13 years. The country list included Iraq, Syria, Iran, Eritrea, Peru, Chile and the good ol US of A (moi).

There were no switches into English. All Dutch all the time. Dutch with nine different accents. Dutch spoken in choppy, telegraph style tap tap taps, Dutch spoken in the sing songy tones of Peru, Dutch spoken loudly, accompanied by Moroccan style hand gesticulations. Yet, we were all able to understand each other.

In my last class, we sat a comfortable, Western distance from one another. In this class, we crowded in, our elbows almost touching, our books and papers overlapping around a small table. We spoke about things like understanding prescriptions, how to communicate with the doctor, flatulence, with cross cultural smirks and laughs, daily life matters. On another day, we read an article about a government program for assistance paying rent, dilemnas of finding work, salaries, unemployment–topics my English Native class would have bristled at discussing. Here, the women spoke openly about the fact that they might qualify for such assistance.

We took a break for tea, and all the women started talking, mostly in Dutch, but then the language would switch quickly to Arabic–a startling language to my ears–so quick, so indecipherable. I saw a Dutch/Arabic dictionary open on the table and it suddenly made sense to me why my Dutch accent was already the best in the class. The majority of my classmates do not share a common alphabet or phonetic system. Dutch was as foreign to them as the calligraphic curls and squiggly symbols of the Arabic language were to me. In addition, I have the extreme advantage of being married to a native speaker, with a network of Dutch friends and family. Their exposure to native speakers is quite often limited to public outings, which I imagine do not happen very often. And, as I had already learned, rudimentary Dutch can get you through most simple, daily transactions such as a trip to the grocery store or post office, ordering a cup of tea in a cafe or asking for the check.

Within a few minutes, a French Morrocon woman of 28 years named Fatima told me in Dutch that they were having a big party that weekend for her 2 year old son’s circumsicion. Don’t ask me how I understood, but I did. Family was coming from afar for the event. I said in Dutch that your son will probably be crying and not enjoy the party much, and she agreed.

I quickly connected with the woman from Eritrea, as she spoke more English than most of my classmates. There was also something visually familiar about her features. It then struck me that somewhere in her high cheekbones I recognized a bit of my friend Ali Reja from Ethiopia. Perhaps these overlapping characteristics endeared her to me. She was also friendly and helpful.

Am I learning Dutch? Yes. But, bovendien, I am learning about true diversity and how far I still need to go in expanding my view of what that means.

Coming up next: A simple meditation from The Art of Living smacks me upside the head.

My Background with the Dutch Language

Last time I lived in Holland, I took a Dutch class in hopes of poking a hole or two in that guttural wall of noise otherwise known as the Dutch language. I signed up with the British Language Training Center for a rather expensive 12 week course and met many well to do English speaking Expats, several of which have remained friends. Although I only learned enough Dutch at the time to confidently order a cup of tea, or express a few niceties, it gave me a foundation that helped over the following seven years to understand soundbites of what my husband was saying to his Dutch family and friends on the telephone.

When our son was born in 2007, my husband spoke the mysterious Dutch babble to our son, and it became perfectly clear that I needed to decipher this babble before the two of them had a secret code language. “Let’s go outside and throw dirt clods at birds.” Just think what that might sound like in Dutch. I certainly had no idea.

I broke out the Dutch books and in fits and starts, started plodding my way through the lessons. Eventually, in 2009, I decided to take another Dutch class in California, and after trying out a beginner’s course, somehow managed my way into a conversational Dutch class with a banker and a real estate agent as classmates.

That next year, after being laid off, the idea that we might relocate to Holland started to percolate through our conversations, and I became even more motivated to learn. Yet, our class was so informal, and the sun so vibrant in our beautiful digs of Santa Barbara, California, that I rarely got around to opening my books.

Little did I imagine that I would soon experience total immersion into the Dutch culture and language, thrown to the wolves. We decided just before Thanksgiving (late November 2010) to move to Holland the following month. There’s no time to study when you’re packing up your whole life, parcing out to friends the things you like but can’t store or bare to give to strangers, making bags for the goodwill, closing accounts, not to mention saying goodbye to friends and family.

On New Year’s Eve 2010, we got off the plane in Schiphol airport and were warmly embraced by the Van der Bom clan, who helped take us and our eight suitcases to Den Haag. Hence the beginning of my true life as an Expat who must REALLY learn the Dutch language, not play around with it like a cute little hobby.

Coming up next: cultures within the culture and my shock in my new Nederlands course