Overheard at university: ‘My dad says I should drink less, judging from my facebook-pictures.’
‘Well I didn’t hear from my dad for a while until one day he called and said ‘you have a spelling mistake in your last blog-post”.’
Sidjit
Jaren geleden (in 1994!) las ik in de krant het volgende gedichtje:
POESJE LIEF
Onse poes lag in het sonnetjen
Hij dag ik ga is prambere ov ik ken jonge
En hij prambeerde hut en hut gong
Door wie het geschreven is (ongetwijfeld een jong kind) weet ik niet, maar ik vind het nogsteeds een prachtig gedicht. En onze kat is weliswaar gesteriliseerd, maar ik moet er toch altijd even aan denken als ik haar daar zo lekker in het zonnetje zie liggen...
I know a lot of people get married because they feel they have met ‘the one’, their ‘soul mate’, or even ‘their other half’. I’m not one of those people. Walid and I love each other, but our marriage is mainly a practical affair: staying together when you are from different countries requires a lot of paperwork – an amount that can be significantly reduced by getting married. That one marriage certificate replaces a whole lot of other paperwork. Unfortunately, it seems to also replace half of who I am. Cases in point:
In the Netherlands, we have compulsory health insurance, with an accompanying system of financial assistance from the government for those (like me) whose income is too low to pay for coverage. Walid, due to the type of residence permit he has, is not obliged to have this health insurance, nor does he qualify for the financial assistance. So I apply for it on my own, in my own name, for myself, mentioning Walid only as my legal partner.
A few weeks later the application is approved and I get the money in my account. Surprisingly, it has Walid’s last name on it. I call the Belastingdienst (Tax Offices) to ask what happened. Well, says the lady on the phone, it’s your husband’s name, so he probably applied for it. I’m pretty sure he didn’t, I answer, since he doesn’t even speak or write Dutch, nor does he have insurance or qualify for financial assistance. In fact, I remember very well filling out the form MYSELF, under MY name, to get MY money. The lady fails to see the problem. But he’s your husband! She says again, what does it matter? It matters because I am not my husband, I say, I am ME.
The only way to change this, according to the lady of the Belastingdienst, is to write a letter to their offices requesting a ‘name change’. See that? Not a correction of my name, a name change. To get them to address me by my own name.
**
Last week we moved to our new house, and yesterday we went to the offices of the municipality to register our new address. For the sake of efficiency, as all of this is in Dutch, I do the talking; I answer the questions, I ask what other steps need to be taken, etc. Basically, Walid is just standing there because he has to be there in person for the registration.
After all necessary information has been noted and the required copies have been made, the lady behind the counter prints out a form and says I put the registration in his name, since you’re married anyway, and he has to sign here. So then I have to translate the form for him and tell him where to sign. Suddenly I became the attachment.
**
Yesterday I received a standardized answer to my letter to the Belastingdienst: That they automatically assign the financial assistance to the husband, and there is nothing I can do about that.
I wonder if I will have to divorce in order to be seen as full person again. I may have gotten married, but I did not become half a person. And definitely not someone else’s other half.
(This is the second in a series of posts about ‘unknown Dutch treasures’ – themselves usually well-known, but not the fact that they originated here, in this tiny country. Enjoy.) A while ago, a Lebanese friend was on a business-trip to Amsterdam, and we went for a dinner together. Now Dutch cuisine is not famous, and there’s a reason, so I took her to our colonial cuisine: Indonesian. Still wanting to try something truly local in her short time in the country, she asked for recommendations for beer.
Well, I said, I don’t know what kinds of beer they serve here, but I’m sure they’ll have Heineken.
No, she said, I mean, I would like to try some local beer.
Yes, I said, Heineken.
It might not taste good, but Heineken is definitely Dutch.
Lesgeven in 4 VWO, een vrijwel geheel witte klas in Almere. Ik leg uit wat het verschil is tussen dominante cultuur (“het geheel van waarden, normen en kenmerken dat door de meeste mensen binnen een samenleving wordt geaccepteerd”) en tegen-cultuur (“mensen die zich afzetten tegen de dominante cultuur of daar een bedreiging voor vormen. Via protesten proberen deze mensen de dominante cultuur te veranderen”). Een leerling steekt zijn hand op en vraagt: ‘Dus Geert Wilders is een voorbeeld van een tegencultuur?’
Ik probeer hem uit te leggen dat Wilders, hoewel luidruchtig protesterend, juist onderdeel is van de dominante cultuur. Dat hij zelfs vindt dat hij die beschermt. De leerling is het hier niet mee eens. ‘Die man begrijpt het niet. We ZIJN hier toch gewoon allerlei kleuren, met Moslims en alles!’
Wat heerlijk te constateren dat in hun wereldbeeld de Nederlandse cultuur niet automatisch wit en christelijk is!
