I grew up in a culture that was formed by Dutch immigrants who were members of the Christian Reformed Church. As soon as I could I fled from that culture. Despite what you hear about Holland today and all the free spirits in Amsterdam the dutchmen I knew as a kid were stifling and self-righteous. I was never attracted to blond men and found my childhood acquaintances cloistered and insular.
I escaped to the big city, the whirlwind of the fashion business and the arms of men who were invariably mediterranean.
Fast forward a few years. I find myself involved with a man I would never have looked at when I was 20. He, like me, is dutch descent and grew up in a Christian Reformed community. I could not be with him if he were still involved in that community. But it's a comfort to have common touch points, common experiences although we grew up on different coasts.
Curiously, my ex, an italian immigrant, is now involved with an italian american.
Maybe we both wanted to come "home" to roost?
Friday, October 26, 2012
Monday, October 22, 2012
Cross Cultural
Yesterday I sat on the carpeted stairs of an empty condo for lease waiting for 3 prospective applicants who never showed up. I turn all the lights on, open windows and get my game face on. While I wait I play scramble with my sister until I run out of tokens. Too cheap to buy any.
Can't quite leave yet. Have to give the applicants the benefit of the doubt. Traffic was horrible, couldn't find parking, etc. I check my phone several times. Is the ringer on? Yes. Any texts? Any calls? No.
I weigh when I should leave. As I sit on the steps on a lazy Sunday afternoon I listen to the sounds from the surrounding units coming in through the open door.
Across the way come 2 female voices speaking in a foreign language that I think is Armenian. I don't understand what they're saying but there is something so familiar about the time of day and the conversation. I remember Sunday afternoons from my childhood. My Mom served a big lunch, usually pot roast cooked to gray, green beans boiled to a pulp with seeds the size of horse pills, mashed potatoes and rice pudding for dessert. After lunch, the males of the family disappeared. To couches, to basement workshops, to bathrooms, to bedrooms. Anywhere but in the kitchen.
The women put away the food, using a recycled mayonnaise jar for the gravy and a recycled bread bag for the meat. Wiping off the table, washing the dishes by hand in the kitchen too small for our family.
I don't know what the Armenian family across the way ate for lunch but I know the men have disappeared and the women are cleaning up.
Can't quite leave yet. Have to give the applicants the benefit of the doubt. Traffic was horrible, couldn't find parking, etc. I check my phone several times. Is the ringer on? Yes. Any texts? Any calls? No.
I weigh when I should leave. As I sit on the steps on a lazy Sunday afternoon I listen to the sounds from the surrounding units coming in through the open door.
Across the way come 2 female voices speaking in a foreign language that I think is Armenian. I don't understand what they're saying but there is something so familiar about the time of day and the conversation. I remember Sunday afternoons from my childhood. My Mom served a big lunch, usually pot roast cooked to gray, green beans boiled to a pulp with seeds the size of horse pills, mashed potatoes and rice pudding for dessert. After lunch, the males of the family disappeared. To couches, to basement workshops, to bathrooms, to bedrooms. Anywhere but in the kitchen.
The women put away the food, using a recycled mayonnaise jar for the gravy and a recycled bread bag for the meat. Wiping off the table, washing the dishes by hand in the kitchen too small for our family.
I don't know what the Armenian family across the way ate for lunch but I know the men have disappeared and the women are cleaning up.
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