It seems to me that trying to live without friends is like milking a bear to get cream for your morning coffee. It is a whole lot of trouble, and then not worth much after you get it. - Zora Neal Hurston
Parenting has been a challenge this week. Or to be more specific, being a patient parent has been a challenge. Remaining calm in the light of Nora's new fierce fits (since almost anything can make the tears roll and the screaming begin) is my goal. Each day is colored by sweet moments (cuddles, kisses, new words, fun adventures) and dancing through the minefield of tantrums.
I try and remember all the advice from books, articles, online, friends, and family...but in the heat of the moment, when it's her 48th fit of the day, and it's only 11:00am, I falter at times with my grace and soothing words. My voice tightens, my tone harsh, my words stern. And then I apologize, embrace, and sing...(or drive directly to my moms).
In the battle of the screaming toddler vs. the exasperated parent, the victor is already decided. I appreciate all the parents with older children who have been honest about their own struggles, sincere in their sympathy, and reassuring that there are only 12-18 months more of tantrums. *Cocktails, anyone?
This morning's "getting dressed" video is shared with love, patience, and friendship with all the parents of toddlers in the world, especially Claire, who should be next to me right now drinking a giant glass of wine.
My Grandma Lola's sister, Kate, is also in town. Can there be more gorgeous octogenarians?
Her special visit meant a family gathering at my mom's...topped off with pita. Three varieties of buttery sweet pita.
And rides on trains.
And some tears mixed in.
But love (and food) were abundant.
A weekend that ended on the sweet note of Ruby's entry into toddlerhood. Hmmm...I see a pattern with these toddlers.
"Life is a bowl of cherries." Or, at least, if you have Carrie for a mom.
For at the end of the day, if your name has been glued in a mosaic of candy and beans, you know that there will be oodles of hugs and shoulders to help ease the waves of tears.
And lastly, to show off Lulu Bell's fabulous German comprehension, is a very different type of morning chat. She even said her first German word today, "Nein," of course. But I'll take it. She says, "Nein, nein, nein," all the time and she isn't mocking Hermain Cain.
Someone has clearly taken my "baby" Noodle and replaced her with a much more ambulatory, verbal, strong-willed, ravenous, and sleepy toddler.
The past few days have found us dancing to German folk music at an Oktoberfest and Nora toddling 8+ steps across the floor to deliver various toys or crumbs into our hands. It's fun...but has me often looking at her wondering "where is my baby?"
She is talking in her own special language. Certainly a mix of German and English that comes out in squeaks and bobbles and sign-language mish-mash. She has added "water, shoe, read" to her signs and also a fantastic verbal copy of Daniel's "putchyer, putchyer, putchyer, putchyer pants on." She now shouts "Putchyer! Putchyer!" anytime she's on her changing table and belts it out when putting on her shoes.
And although I do strongly resist the connotation wrapped up in pink-princess-glittery-overly-feminine clothing, I have put Nora in a dress on three occasions. She wore a baptismal dress, an Easter dress, and now this cocoa brown number. And admittedly, she was sweet in all of them.
With her orange cloth bootie peeking out from underneath, it was a colorful moment.
The feather cap of an ancient Bavarian boy also became an adorable exclamation point to our afternoon spent at the Phoenix Club's Oktoberfest.
We went with the lovely Carrie & Ed and their baby Ruby.
Along with Amy & Malta with their daughter Paloma.
A very authentic festival complete with real-live Germans selling bratwurst and beer, donning lederhosen and dirndles, and of course, large rings romping to the chicken dance. A truly horrifying dance that for some odd reason is repeated at every event pertaining to Germans.
There were, sadly, no Turkish foods, songs, or people (that I could obviously spot), to make me feel like I was at home with my peeps in Cologne...but that's a whole other post for another day.
I had to take some ridiculously cheesy photos.
We had a blast feeding Nora saurekraut and potato salad.
Sipping on giant beers while she danced under the German flag.
Playing with her amigas, Ruby and Paloma, on a picnic blanket...Lulu was the eldest child, the wise one (by one whole month!).
To see the complete set of Oktoberfest pictures, click here.
On the toddler-eating tip, I've been reading a great book given to me by my sister-in-law (who has her smarty-pants-enormous-brain doctorate in nutrition), Child of Mine: Feeding with Love and Good Sense by Ellyn Satter (also a giant well-used brain).
I was laughing yesterday as I underlined these key points below (having just shot the video of us wanting her to eat her broccoli mash the day before).
If a struggle emerges about eating, a toddler will get so involved with the struggle and so upset that it overwhelms her need to eat.
The diets of children of all ages suffer when parents go to extremes of being controlling on the one hand or failing to provide support and guidance on the other.
Children eat poorly when parents criticize, manage, or intrude on eating.
The more trouble parents take to make special food for a toddler, the more inclined the toddler is to reject the food.
Don't try to reason with her. She can't reason, it won't help her eating, and your efforts to persuade her will only teach her to use the issue as a bid for attention.
Children learn only if they get opportunities to learn.
Resist the impulse to entice, reward, play games, placate, and make special food.
She can use her fingers to feed herself, learn to use eating utensils, and drink from a cup.
She needs predictable feeding times, three meals and two snacks, and she needs help coming to the table rested and hungry but not famished.
Despite her erratic and sporadic hunger and appetite, she will get the calories she needs by averaging her eating out over several days.
So, hmmm...my giving her constant snacks when she begs, when she's fussing in the car, when she seems bored or irritated at a playdate, trying to force "green"' foods if she doesn't want them, worrying that she's eating too much fruit, not wanting her to get messy or spill food all over the floor and so feeding her most of the time...apparently all of that could use a few adjustments. Because frankly folks, I have some food issues. I eat WAY TOO much, too fast, and too often. I had asked Kathy for a book that would help me approach Nora's eating with some more thought than I give my own.
And I am amazed at just how often I contradict the above. How often Nora must have seen me eat a monstrous meal of unbalanced foods, eat out of the fridge/bag/box. How often she sees me eat when I'm upset, bored, happy...basically any emotion. I would like her not to turn to food for an emotional embrace. And as her primary food-provider, she is already taking some major cues from me. I carry her special snacks with me and dole them out all the time.
When did that happen, I wonder? This doling out of constant raisins, goldfish, mum-mums, crackers, cheerios, puffs? Most moms I know have these items on hand. And they aren't given at an official "snack-time" seated up at a table, but rather sprinkled around to keep a kid happy or quiet, help them calm down, stop crying, or allow a phone call or email to finish...or because the child is watching you snack and starts to beg for some (that's me!). I am doing all of these things...all the time.
But let me be clear...I am writing these words and NOT feeling guilt....because I am learning this gig as I move along. Always learning and adjusting to how I might serve Nora better.
Even if I stay against Nora having ingesting hormone-laced meat, insecticide-coated produce, salty foods, sugary sweets and drinking juice, if I've set the wheel in motion that she craves food whenever she feels any emotional high or low or boredom...(like her mama)...then I have still done her no favors.
So, I feel a renewed excitement about my approach to her eating. I am not proud of my relationship to food...but my daughter doesn't have to feel the same way. I am almost at the heaviest weight of my life (the same weight I was at 40 weeks preggers...this is painfully obvious in this photo from Sunday...wow, that's hard to look at!)
...but Noodle doesn't have to obsess about her weight the way I do.
Our days ahead will hold more opportunities for Nora to eat "regular" food, get messy, learn to pick it up, chew it up, and feel the textures. No wiping her mouth often, no feeding her on my hip without much thought given to sitting down.
She will not be forced to eat her veggies...but offered them regularly. No more gravy-train of snacks spilling out of the diaper bag. No more holding her at the kitchen counter and doling out snacks as I graze myself. I will stumble in my new path...but I am grateful for the information. This will not be a perfectly-straight path...it could never be. But I will try.
When you struggle daily with food, weight, body-image like I do, having a daughter and wanting a different experience for her, must be natural. But my habits are deeply entrenched...habits that I hope helping Nora not to acquire might help me to recognize more in myself. Oh, I'm sure there are books about how you are not to correct your own deep issues through your children - and maybe one day I'll read one of those, too...or Nora will hand it to me after seeking therapy!
I do want my heart to beat strongly into the future. And that will demand changes in my behavior. I always write this type of post here when I'm fed up. I send it out into the world to shake things up. I think these pictures of late, combined with my neighbor recently telling me that I always look frumpy and my grandma saying about Nora's birthday pictures, "Your face looks happy and the rest of you looks...well, your face is happy. Your cousin is losing weight and feeling really good about himself. Did you know that?" have struck a nerve. Yes, you don't need to tell me that these comments were mean. Spoken without malice...but still unkind.
Ich habe heute Morgen am Radio dass Deutschland wird Arbeiter im Zukunft brauchen gehört. Deswegen, will ich ein Bischen auf Deutsch schreiben. Es ist güt für meine Sprache...und auch viel Spass für meine Freundinnen die diese Blog täglich lesen (ja, mein ich DU, Anna).
Knüdeln ist ein grosse Musik Fan. Sie tanzt hin und her sehr schnell jeden Morgen vorne ihre Tisch mit die CD Spieler. Sie ist verueckt fuer Welt Musik...wie Ihre Mama. Geil, oder?
*******************
Nora is a dance (tanzen) and music (Musik) fan of giant proportions. She is insistent upon hearing her tunes each morning. She crawls over to the cd player and waves her hand back and forth, shimmying her body to the phantom melodies that await her.
This morning was hysterical...we had NPR news on and I meant to turn up the volume when I instead, changed the station. Music poured into the kitchen, Nora smiled and started to dance. I quickly flipped it back to NPR and she looked at me, opened that juicy mouth and screamed bloody murder. I asked her if she wanted to listen to music and she crawled towards her room. I placed her African jams cd on and soon she was kissing her fluffy bear and bouncing her big-diapered booty on the floor to the tunes.
She is such a music lover...like her dad and her grandfathers. Daniel has turn-tables and old albums and listens to music constantly. Daniel's dad was a dj and was always playing mixed tapes on their road trips. I have vivid memories of my Grandpa Thurm bouncing his feet whilst strumming his guitar and singing Willie Nelson.
Music flows in Nora's veins. And this will encourage me to keep the playlists coming during the day. Satiating that part of her mind that wishes to sway and bounce and dance, dance, dance.
One day Nora shall sit amidst her ates and kuyas in Angeles City, Phillipines. After everyone says grace and makes the sign of the cross, "Mangan!" will echo throughout the room and pancit will be served.
One evening Nora shall sit amidst the Kocas in Cologne, Germany. Fadime with her cherub Zoha. Medina, Sevgi, Sevilen...all with their own little ones. Barış Manço crooning in the background. "Guten Appetit" will be spoken and Turkish and Kurdish dishes will be served.
One morning Nora shall sit amidst tetas in Zagreb, Croatia. After photos are passed and stories told, "Dobar tek!" will call out and povatica with coffee will be served.
This is what I hope will be Nora's linguistic canvas. A medley of Kapampangan, German, and Croatian. Muddle in the daily exposure to Spanish in Los Angeles and French from many of our close friends, and she could be quite the polyglot.
I have remained steadfast in my dedication to speak to her in German. Throughout the day we share moments that I sprinkle in the language of my high school/collegiate hobby. The year that I spent in Cologne transformed me. I left Berkeley full of misplaced anger and lacking self-confidence. I returned keenly aware of just how vibrant, interesting, and beautiful other countries, cultures, languages, and people could be. I spent months in the company of Kurds born in Germany. Sharing their experiences of being a minority within a minority.
Before meeting Fadi's parents for the first time, she warned me that her father didn't particularly like Americans. I was nervous, to say the least. And as we climbed the stairs to their second floor apartment in the Turkish barrio of Vingst, my heart beat fast. The door opened and we immediately turned left into a living room. A portrait of Abdullah Öcalan hung prominently on the wall. Fadi's parents and grandmother were introduced. A string of bells ran from the couch to the other rooms, to allow her blind grandmother to finger her way to and fro. Her mother peeled potatoes in the kitchen. Her father and I exchanged a sparse and somewhat tense dialogue about Bush. I knew that the US was somehow involved Öcalan's capture.
I left the apartment that day knowing that not everyone longs for the "American Dream" This realization that my country is not internationally idealized and fawned over by all world citizens would repeat many times over the years. As my feet, my backpack, my mini-dictionaries continued to land in new countries, I came to know far more about what I was and what my country represented to others. Not to say that every single time that my passport is stamped upon entry is not comforting and joyful...but I have grown as a traveler. I have learned much from being able to engage in German with my Kurdish, Polish, Turkish friends and Croatian relatives. And at one time, during my travels in Mexico and Guatamela, my Spanish allowed me to experience even more.
Language has been the door through which I attempt to understand other cultures. It is with this belief in mind that I, perhaps naively, try to teach Nora German. A grammatically challenged and error-ridden German; yet, peppered with the phrases, vocabulary, and character that this language gives me. I found this website today that gave recommendations for parents who wish to impart their second language upon a child. I am not sure if I know 3000 words in German...but surely sharing my passion with Nora can only bring us closer.
There are very few hours over the past ten months in which Nora or Nuglett (as she was known prior to meeting her) has not been at the forefront of my mind. Thus, this afternoon provided a wonderful opportunity for me to turn of the "baby switch" and have my brain ponder some non-infant-related thoughts.
I decided last month, after attending a friend Valerie's French discussion group, that I wanted to pursue joining a German discussion group. I went on meetup.com and searched for local meetings but to no avail...so, I started my own. The website was easy to negotiate and within 30 minutes I had established my profile, my group, and invited people to join me every fourth Sunday. Much to my delight, eleven people of varying levels of German signed up to take the plunge into the linguistic hurdles auf Deutsch.
I was excited as I took my shower, as I walked to the cafe munching on a banana, as I set up my German flag table decoration (is it more bizarre that they sell such a thing or that I bought it?), and as I ordered my Mexican hot cocoa. I was free of a nursing creature, of the potential of her crying, of cloth diapers needing folding. Just a woman eating a mixed-berry scone, sipping hot chocolate, and writing in her journal next to a German flag centerpiece. It wasn't until 4:20pm, as I still sat alone, that I felt a little silly. But then one person came with a smile, and another and another. For an hour I helped stoke the embers of our merry chat. Four beginners, two intermediates, and two advanced. My brain searched with glee for the right words in die Sprache die ich liebe (in the language I love), my hands gestured with emphasis to help the beginners understand, my pride blushed as my grammar was corrected.
I walked back home with remnants of chocolate on my lips, a joy in my step, memories of my time with Fadime. I can still have parts of my life that are just for me, baby-free, and intellectually invigorating.
As I neared the house, my fingers quickly dialed Daniel to find out how Nora fared.
I used to be in a friendship circle that included this woman who was a Spanophile. Her gringa accent thickly coated her attempt at Spanish; and yet, at every possible moment she engaged with anyone in the language. She had taken an interest in the language in college...leading her to travel in Spain...and eventually, met and married a Spaniard and had two daughters.
Much to my amazement, although her vocabulary wasn't particularly expansive; nor, grammar necessarily correct, or pronunciation pleasant, she endeavored to speak only in Spanish with her daughters. Now, granted, her husband also spoke to the girls in Spanish. But after several years of seeing them at random festivities, I noticed that the girls did indeed communicate in Spanish with their mom and understand la idioma.
So, fast-forward a few years, I would not be considered a Germanophile; however, I do adore speaking the language. It started in the summer of 11th grade when a counselor at my school presented me with my three choices:
1. continue with Spanish (but I vehemently hated my mother's Mexican boyfriend who would continue to poke his nose in my homework)
2. start French (but everything sounded too beautiful in French...you can't even say, "look at that truck full of sh_t," without it sounding like purple velour on your tongue)
3. start German (interesting, never considered this language, not a single person I knew had ever studied it, people say it's difficult)
I chose option #3. And within a few months, we were sitting in Frau Rudman's class watching a small television as people scrambled over the Berlin Wall. It was historical and memorable. Frau Rudman cried. Many of us cried. By that point in my language-development, I could have said hello and introduced myself to the wall-climbers. I could have participated in the celebration with a minuscule amount of comprehension...and this was thrilling. I craved a visit to Germany. I was hungry for more and more of the language.
And I never looked back. Every opportunity to speak this language, whether it be at community-college, Berkeley, or in the grocery store, was seized. Much to the occasional grimmace of friends and family, I launch into this language whenever possible...shocking the poor German tourists by offering any sort of logistical advice or "Can I take your photo?" the instant I hear their tongues issuing the pronounced crackles of the language I love.
So, how about Nuglett's German? As much as I used to think the Spanophile mother odd for speaking to her daughters in a paltry amount of Spanish (using a poor accent) - they DID develop their language. But it isn't the language of her dreams, her deepest memories, her witty stories and jokes and soothing phrases. The same scenario faces me now. I recently picked up a few German baby books. I salivate to read them to Nuglett. Snuggling my baby's body as I flip the thick cardboard pages and hear my voice crackling and rolling out the words in German. But if I do talk to our children in German, they will most certainly inherit my grammatical errors, my severely-lacking verbal repertoire, my simplistic adjectives.
True, they will be able to visit Tante Fadi and engage with her and other friends and little ones in their elementary German, but is this enough?
Are you helping a child if you make them "sort of" bilingual?
It's a shame that Daniel's family stopped speaking to him in his mother's native Kapangpangan. But he is far more limited in that language than I am in German. I hope he teaches Nuglett the pleasantries. I pray that his mother's family teaches him even more.
I know that deep in the night, when the little one cries, my songs and my heart and my mind will string together pearls of English comfort; however, in the day, when I see the sun, the sky, the joy of life - German will always pepper into my mind. So, why not? I don't think it could hurt to share with them the level of German that I know.
Besides, it might give some German tourist quite the story to take back home, "I saw this woman butchering German as she spoke to her child. Why wouldn't she just speak to them in English?"
"Because, Dear Frau, I love your language. What some consider "harsh," I have always considered melodic and beautiful. I want my baby to share this joy with me...and please, next time, help me by correcting my errors."
***Und Maedels - woehnt Ihr mir helfen? Anna, Jule, Eva, Fadi - Irh wird uns besuchen und mit unsere Kleine die Sprache sprechen, oder? Und im Zukunft, nach viele Jaehre, ich will eine Kleine mit eine schoene Deutsch im Mund haben. Es wird wuenderbar sein. Es freut mich. Tante Fadi- ich bin sehr gespannt unsere Kinder eigentlich zu tauschen. Kannst du dass vorstellen? Unglaublich!
A barely audible "tick-tick-tick" can be heard behind The World radio program. The timer is to remind me to change my FIRST ever load of baby clothes (of the millions to come). Lately, my daily dose of this global-news show is the only sort of travel which my mind can experience. This summer is so different from any other since my college graduation. I fondle my passport with lust, whimsy, and a bitten lip. Dreaming of the moment when I hear the entry stamp fall haphazardly across the page...entering a new country, peppered with linguistic uncertainty, edible curiousity, and cultural mystery. My heart rapidly beats at the mere whisper of international travel.
There have been exactly eleven summers since I wore that unironed polyester black robe at the Greek Theater in the sweltering May heat. Several days later I was en route to Europe, with an enormous backpack (appropriately hued as the German flag), flying on a one-way ticket to Frankfurt. I landed with visions of strudel, beer steins, and the Rhine River Valley...although within a few days, I would find myself in Phantasialand dazzling tourists in a Mexican-folkloric dress as I handed them their steins of beer. At least one part of the original vision remained true.
Mariachi music poured from the speakers in this cheesy Mexican hacienda as Arabic pop-music spilled in the kitchen. My hope of improving my German (of which I had been studying for eight years by this time) quickly faded as I befriended my co-workers, all of whom hailed from former French colonies in Africa.
I spent my weekends watching Friday dubbed in French. Laughing as The Big Lebowski splashed upon a Bonn castle wall dubbed in German. Soaking in the ghetto intonations and stoned recitations of these protagonists in foreign languages. The Arabic and French of my co-workers mingled with my English on the U-bahn. Greetings of morning and night fell from tongues of all shades of myriad African heritage. My English was far more prized than my German.
But I certainly found the blond-haired blue-eyed German stock amidst my roommates?..well, not exactly...
After exactly 48 hours of perusing the local small-town Bonn papers for furnished rooms for rent, I nibbled on flaky pastries, and placed a call to my friend Sevilen. A raven-haired Kurdish academic who had studied at Berkeley in the German Department, at the same time that I was poorly-translating Kafka in the basement. She called her cousin in Cologne and I was told to arrive (with aforementioned enormous backpack) that evening to Fadime's apartment.
I climbed the never-ending flights of stairs, placing the backpack at my feet prior to buzzing the door of the unknown cousin. I would come to adore this irritating buzz of the European door, just as I would the door handles, various toilet flushes, and hand-held shower wands in the bathtubs (although the prowess to shower with the wand, without a shower curtain, and without splashing would never become my strength). Three smiles greeted me that day. I entered a room filled with the beauty and hospitality of Turkish, Persian, and Kurdish variety. Small lacquered bowls overflowed with either Galoise cigarette butts or dark chocolate squares. Music played in the kitchen and for the rest of the evening my mind ascended a linguistic mountain with the Koelsch lilt of Selma, Medina, and Rebecca.
Late that night, I lay down in Fadi's bed. Awaiting the cousin whose shift at the Hyatt ended in the wee hours of the morning. Hours passed of restful sleep.
And then, there she was. Her face above mine, gently whispering my name in the Germanic-cloak I adore. We both smiled. We knew then what we still know now. We would be friends, wonderful friends, forever. It was that instant with Fadi. Her black hair held back in tight bobby pins. The type of pins one can only find in Germany (and which I beg for from German travelers or pick up oodles on my own visits). The scents of Nivea muddled with red Galoise.
And now, oceans apart, I still feel her presence. Her bright smile, her hands that would rub my belly. Her eyes that would fill with tears as she tells Nuglett good night.
I feel that I have traveled today. Sure my passport remains unstamped but my mind went on a voyage. Back to a place where friendships and languages and food changed who I would become. Shaped my world view. Molded my body image. Solidified my desire to always put on a backpack and venture into the world.
***Ich wuenshe mit alle mienem Herz dass ich diese Geschichte auf schoene Deutsch schreiben koennte...aber liede kann ich nicht. Ich habe so viel von diese Sprache vergessen. Aber nicht fuer einem Augenblick hab ich die Freundschaften, Erinnerungen, und Zugang zu diesem Land, Leute, und Sprache vergessen habe. Ich hoffe dass du, Fadime, weiss genau wie viel ich Dich liebe...und alle die Maedels auf Deutschland die haben tief in meinem Kopf ein shoenes Bett gemacht habe. Wir kommen noch mal dieses nextes Jahr...mit die Kleine. Ich bin gespannt fuer die Unarmen und Kuessen von alle Euch an unsere Baby zu haben. Ich schicke viele viele Liebe und Gruessen an Alle! Noch mal, entschuldige mein Deutsch. Ich finde kaum Moeglichkeiten die Sprache zu benutzen.***
**I just posted about what matters most in life on Claire's blog in the comments section. I wrote, "What matters most to me is that I always strive to feel truly satisfied and content with my life. I know that happiness, health, wealth, travel, family, and friends, may all come and go in majestic and tragic ways; however, feeling satisfaction with my choices and path in the end is the cat's meow."
Last night I visited my second German course at Long Beach State. The professor lived up to every expectation: electric, bold, frenzied, fascinating, hilarious, and insanely intelligent. He could flow from Obama's inauguration speech, to Schiller's thesis, to Scottish philosophers who inspired Thomas Jefferson, and back to the guillotine scenes of the French Revolution in one breath. It was a mesmerizing dance to connect some of the greatest intellectual, philosophical, literary and democratic thinkers of the 18th century to themes of morality and reason. Household names (Jefferson, Franklin, Washington, Hamilton) ebbed with vaguely familiar names (Aristotle, Socrates, Kannt, Locke, Hume, Goethe, Schiller), all of whom reveled with previously unknown names (Hutcheson, Ferguson, Abel). And their words were dotted upon a bloody timeline accented by ruthless leaders (the Duke of Wittenberg, Ferdinand II, Robespierre, Napoleon, Louis XVI).
It is a testimony to Professor High that this morning, still awaiting coffee to drip into my veins, I can recall that many elements from his lecture. I entered the Enlightenment of Europe and was schooled for three hours...taken on a verbal and literary exploration of the time period. He's a lover of Schiller and multi-lingot bibliophile. Yes, he has crazy hair and returns from the break smelling of cigarettes. Yes, he yells and grabs students in the front row. Yes, he writhes in political and sexual innuendo, peppered with curses and sarcasm. But he is witty and the students bask in his glow. After class, the history and German students, both graduate and under, stayed behind to listen to him rant some more. He loves revolutions. He loves controversy...but more than anything, he loves German.
Is there a better wing under which I should tuck? I still wonder what I would do with a German degree. I want validation that I can pursue my interest of the Turks/Kurds born in Germany and yet forever regarded as foreigners. I want to read their poetry, their experiences, understand a Germany identity through their eyes...but my language needs work, my brain craves exercise.
Hmmmmm....graduate school....it sounds especially alluring after two weeks of students who upon entering the room and noticing my outstretched hand, smiling face, and passionate approach to teaching, say things like:
"F--- this, you can't make me do this bullsh_t!"
"I don't give a f--- why you're here. I'm not staying."
"My mom is texting me. She be pregnant, so I gots to answer."
"I don't give a f--- about passing this stupid test. Why these mother f---ers care if I can't read?"
Brilliant, young scholars. Just brilliant. I think after nine years, I'm ready to move on.
So, there might be a big ol' switcheroo around here. I might be the one in the fall who stuffs a new notebook, a few pens, and a sandwich into my backpack and heads off to graduate school. It's definitely a change. It's our version of "Plan B." I've always considered "Plan B's" but never had to actually act upon them.
My backpack would hold a German dictionary, a laptop with a beolingus homepage, and a Schiller text. I might take a dive into earning a Master's in German. Just the last few days, as the idea marinates in my mind, I've felt more alive. My brain, which had climaxed on wedding planning, desperately needed an alternate course. Just pondering speaking, writing, reading, and seriously analyzing difficult German texts has given me an alternative.
"Can I do this?" is the first question.
"What will I do with this degree?" is the logical second question.
Ich kann Deutsch. Dass weis ich. This language has long been my passion, the whispered guttural words often float into my thoughts throughout the day. For years it has also given me the luxury of talking with Fadime in a language that both of us love (*a pic with my beloved bridesmaid from last summer is here for nostalgia's sake). It all started back in high school. My mother was dating George. A large man who wore white cable-knit sweaters, listened to The Wave, and had coiffed Bichon Frise dogs. He spoke Spanish and although he found my existence annoying...he also took a keen interest in my 10th grade Spanish homework. He would hover over my shoulders at the kitchen table, his two dogs hovering at my feet and offer suggestions and criticism of mi espanol.
"Adios Amigo" said I in the 11th grade. When checking the language box at my third high school....I thought French sounded too pretty. I mean come on, even "you little sh*t sack" sounds beautiful en francaise as "sac à merde." I mean, I can "Merde! Merde! Merde!" all day and not feel dirty.
Spanish it simply could not be because of the furniture-designing Mexican (who over the years never actually made any $$$...but doodled on crinkly white paper at an architect's desk with fancy pens). French it could not be because of the aforementioned issue of a syrupy tongue. German, the third choice seemed fitting. It was the ugly step-child, the non-romantic, the outcast without reason, purpose, or outward beauty....all things I felt described me back in 11th grade.
Fast-forward sixteen years, to a dingy third floor classroom at CSULB. Last night I observed a 500 level German class. They discussed the search for a "Wenderoman" which would be a novel that encapsulates the experience of former East Germans and West Germans post-reunification. It was a stimulating discussion, not over my head; however, the text gave me quite a fright. Words were longer than they should be, concepts that would necessitate an amazing amount of online dictionary usage. And as Daniel picked me up last night, I wasn't sure what I felt. Overwhelmed by the level of academic language needed, underwhelmed by the excitement of the 15 grad. students in the class, nervous about what does one actually do with a German degree during an economic recession and yet, thrilled that this adventure means leaving the classroom, becoming a student, and using my mind.
This Wednesday I'll traipse into the offices of the head advisor. I'll pepper him with my questions, I'll hope to receive a waiver from undergraduate coursework due to my stellar linguistic ability, and I'll find out what type of jobs a German MA finds. Just wearing a book bag, thinking of literary and cultural criticism, and speaking in a foreign tongue for one night has my neurons firing at a faster clip.
Our grand switcheroo will just continue to develop over the next few weeks. Plan B in action.
**Und weil ich fülle dass ich mehr Französisch als Deutsch benutzt habe...sag ich nur dass. Pass auf, miene Freundinnen (Fadime, Anna, Jule)...ich will verdamnt viele Hilfe mit dieses Program brauchen. Kennen Sie Schiller? Ich hoffe....ich hoffe.
I was en route to Germany within a few days of graduating from college. I had stuffed an enormous suitcase with clothes for all seasons, a German dictionary, and my journal. A job in an amusement park near Bonn awaited me and I was full of excitement and nerves. I had toyed with the German language since the 11th grade, ever since my mom's Spanish speaking boyfriend at the time had started to pester me about my Espanol. It was not the linguistic choice to honor my German lineage, of which I have none, but rather a spiteful choice to expel the unemployed furniture designer from my teenage realm.
The Berlin wall fell only a few months into my first semester with Frau Rudman. I remember sitting in her bungalow, watching the images of hands poking through the wall, people dancing atop rubble, and pure jubilation and frenzied joy. I didn't understand the ramifications of that day but years later I would be thrust into situations where the Germans from East and West would cast tense words into the air and the lingering unease reminded me that the fallen wall had done little to ease the divisions between the young people I knew.
My roommate in college, Silka, was from Jena in Eastern Germany. She worked in Berkeley's German department along with a Western German, Sevilen. One weekend all of us (and Sevilen's sister, Sevgi) decided to take a road trip to Yosemite together. I relished my deep fry in the German language fryer; my head ached at the end of each day, my tongue dripped with idiomatic expressions and verb conjugations. My language was not sophisticated enough to pick up on all of the nuances of East vs. West, the slight jabs that were launched, perhaps by accident, often flew right over my head but one evening as I sat smoking on the porch, the tension mounted inside our hotel room. I heard the melodious language I love spoken with harsh, punctuated phrases, tones laced with derision and irritation. I smoked rapidly, sucking hard as the ember tip crackled hastily towards my mouth. I was anxious and unsure of how to place myself back in a room with women hurt by a topic, a history, a division, that was far beyond my understanding.
So, it's now May of '99, and I am en route to Germany. I land in Frankfurt and catch a train to Bonn. There I lug my gigantic suitcase, which has of course tripled in weight, along the cobbestone streets. I will never forget my first foray into a German bakery that hazy morning, asking in my most polite manner, for "ein Broetchen, bitte." It was exhilerating...I was handed bread. Classes taken for eight years, verbs conjugated, articles translated and all leading to this succulent morsel of dark baked dough covered in seeds.
But I had no place to live and quickly the cheapest hotel near Phantasialand (the cheesiest amusement park I've ever seen) became too expensive. I called up Sevilen and within hours I was smoking and laughing in her cousin's apartment in Cologne. The cousin was working late, thus, for hours I ate chocolate, peppered infantile questions in German at her roommate and friends, and awaited the arrival of Sevilen's cousin. By 3:00am, I'd long since fallen asleep waiting for my host in her bed, and suddenly this angelic face came over mine. Bold, round eyes stared down at me and she said, "Reden wir morgen, schlaft schoen"...and I fell back asleep completely at ease and welcome in my new home.
That next day an immediate and incredible friendship was born. Fadi and I shared only a basic level of conversation, yet, although it would have sounded like two preschoolers reading an adult sreenplay, we understood one another beyond mangled sentences. Whenever I wasn't serving steins of beer at the amusement park in a Mexican folklorico dress, I was falling ever more in love with Fadi. She took me to picnics along the Rhine, beer gardens in the park, Turkisk bridal henna ceremonies, and outdoor movies projected on a castle wall (The Big Lebowski).
Nine years ago we became friends and now we are three weeks from reuniting. Fadime called me yesterday. She called me Susse Maus and Hasse (sweet mouse and rabbit)...the German versions of sweetheart and honey (all of their nouns are capitalized). My heart swelled with antipation, my tongue tripped over forgotten German, English words twisted Schwarzenegger-style, and my mind spun with what we would do with her three weeks in California. She will finally meet the man I love. The man who slightly changes our plan of growing old together with lemonaid on a porch in Portugal.
Bis bald meine Susse Hasse....ich bin gespannt fur du and Anne hier zu kommen!
