This post doesn’t live here anymore. It has emigrated to my other blog:
The Big No-No: An Outsider on American Fascism, where it resides under the title:
“American Eugenics Programs, Hitler, Nazi Breeding Programs and Genocide”
Okay, it’s the end of November and that means that Sinterklaas (Saint Nicholas) is arriving in the Netherlands, with his helpers, who have traditionally been all called Zwarte Piet (Black Pete). The Zwarte Pieten are traditionally white people with blackface. People of color in the Netherlands have gradually become vocal about not liking that and the Dutch reaction is incredibly embarrassing to me. 
Today I rediscovered the Gandhi Bazar, an Indian grocery store I frequented ten years ago, when we lived in an appartment nearby. (For Austinites, it’s on the corner of Brodie and William Cannon, catty-corner to HEB.) I love going to Asian grocery stores–they smell wonderful and everything is strange, except for the occasional item we used to have in Australia, like the proper Ovaltine or rusk. Such is the Commonwealth. 
Today’s writing prompt is 
Well, waddaya know? The daily writing prompt is “
In my previous post I described how I bought a new pair of proper hiking boots. (Don’t ask me how on earth I managed to lose my old pair; I have no idea.) So the next day T and I went on a hike rated “moderate”, and about 12 km round trip. I didn’t look at the survey map, because just looking at those made me feel blue, so T told me that it was two kilometers along Lake Louise, which should be pretty level, and then 4 km uphill to a tearoom near the 
T wanted a fitness tracker for his birthday, so the kids and I went to REI. Back in the day I would have been in hiking heaven at REI; nowadays it’s depressing and I usually get what I need as quickly as possible and leave again. But I had the kids with me and though I knew I was asking for trouble, I felt I should look around with them and point out gear that resembles mine, and tell them how I used to do this and that, and hey look, that’s about the size my backpack was, etc, etc. 
So in yesterday’s post, I mentioned some of the ways in which immigration has changed and/or affected my identity. 
I’ve started reading Immigration and Identity by Salman Akhtar. He speaks about the loss of identity and the mourning process involved for emigrants. I had never thought about it in those terms, but yes, when you emigrate, your identity changes to a degree, and yes, there is definitely mourning involved. 
Late 1960s Australia. My mother adds a recipe to her limited repertoire–she discovers coleslaw. 
Do you get drunk on green in the spring? I know I do. As a teenager, commuting to school by train, I would lean my face against the window and just drink in as much as I could of the deep May-green pastures rolling by.
We finally got our new stove after having done without for months. Long story, which I’m not going to bore you with. But now we have a stove and the weather is wonderfully wintry. So the first meals I made were stamppots. 
Happy New Year!
This is pretty much the way politics are conducted in the Netherlands, as well. Check out this blog, by the way. I’m featuring it for a while; see the column on the right.
Our last visit to the Netherlands was eleven years ago, when B was six and R almost three. That was also the last time I spoke Dutch for any length of time with other adults. 
My son B.’s ninth-grade class is learning about World War Two right now, so I offered to give a presentation about the Netherlands during WWII. Not because, in itself, the Netherlands’ history is so important in the big picture, but because I suspected that otherwise the students probably wouldn’t learn too much about how it was for Europeans to be occupied by the Germans.
I opened my oven drawer yesterday, and was immediately reminded of a language misunderstanding I had years ago. 
Isn’t it amazing how smells can evoke memories? The first time I remember experiencing this was when I lived in Australia.
If I could go to dinner anywhere in the world tonight, where would I go? And with whom and what would I eat? Well, since I’m in my Dutch immigrant blog mode, I think I’d beam myself up and over to Holland, to the Saturday market in Amersfoort or Utrecht or Amsterdam. Yeah, I know it’s only Thursday, but it’s Saturday there whenever I want it to be. If I can beam myself anywhere, it can also be any time.
My (at the time 2-year-old) son says almost everything in English, but he does understand my Dutch. It does lead to misunderstandings, though, like recently at the zoo. I told him he could give the goat an “aai” (a pat), so he promptly poked the poor beast in the eye. Later, at home, we practiced patting his pet monkey, giving it lots of “aaien,” because the next animal may not be as forgiving as that goat was.What Folks Have Been Reading
WHAT I HAVE BEEN READING
In the late 60s Richard Proenneke built his own cabin in the Alaskan wilderness with only a few simple tools. He spent most of the rest of his life there. Sam Keith fleshed out Proenneke's diary of his first 16 months, when he was making his home by a lake. I love these kinds of books!
An old Oji-Cree healer and her nephew canoe down a river in Canada, away from the world of white people. They both have to come to terms with their past. The woman has lost most of her tribe and the young man is traumatized from his recent experience in the Belgian trenches of World War One. My second book by Boyden. Can't say enough about him.
An incredibly comprehensive history of everything related to slavery in the Southern United States, from the beginning of the colonies to the end of the Civil War. Over 700 pages and I took over 30 pages of notes. I will be sharing over many posts to come!
Hamid's debut novel. I love this author. A young man in Lahore, Pakistan, is the victim of love, drugs, obsession, the class system and his complete lack of self-awareness.
A golem, created in Poland and brought to life on a ship to America, and a jinni who was trapped in a flask a thousand years ago and released in New York -- the most unusual immigrants you'll ever meet.
The only part of her life a Korean woman can control is her body, so she withdraws into it. Harrowing.
Autobiography lightly disguised as a novel about the son of Southern migrants growing up on the streets of Harlem, New York City, in the 1940s and 50s. Written like you're hearing the whole story in a bar. Quite a feat.
The story of a man struggling to make a living in Morocco. No plot, no clearly defined characters, but fascinating in its authenticity.
Pakistani man tells an American about his experience as a college student and employee of an assessment firm in America years ago. Smart, nuanced and pretty darn honest considering the unreliable narrator.
Wow! The answer to the inane platitudes about how all parents love their children and how children should always respect their parents. The protagonist must come to terms with his deeply flawed immigrant parents in order to change himself.
Seven short stories about life during the Kim Il-sung regime, by a writer who still lives and works in North Korea, were smuggled out of the country and translated. Mind-boggling stuff.
A 15-year-old autistic narrator wants to know who killed a neighbor's dog, and ends up much further out of his comfort zone than he planned. Wonderful read!
In politics, education, religion, agriculture, business--it turns out that dumbing down has been here from the start.
Fifty years of Istanbul seen through the eyes of a street vendor who migrates to the city as a young boy. It's also a window into the complicated dance between men and women in Turkey.
Hey, don't laugh, at least I'm trying.
A Norwegian immigrant is cooped up with six other people on a tiny island off the coast of Maine all winter in 1873. A woman in the present researching the Norwegian immigrant is cooped up with three other people on a tiny sailboat. What could possibly go wrong?
A man stuck between two worlds in more ways than one. Fascinating!
Historical novel about early contacts between first nations and the French in Canada. Beautifully written story that doesn't pull any punches. I bought his other two novels right away.
Beautifully written. By my children's favorite English and Creative Writing teacher! It's got rave reviews and we're all very proud of her.
Suki Kim is a Korean-American journalist. She poses as an evangelical Christian posing as an English teacher at a school for the sons of North Korea's elite. Her experience and the information she manages to get via writing assignments are incredible. Definitely a lot more eye-opening that any CNN special.
This. Explains. Everything!!!
Why has Islam not undergone a reformation like Christianity? Why is it so easy for Islamic extremist groups like IS to recruit young muslims? What would it take for Islam in fundamentalist Islamic countries to enter modernity? Does the West have a role to play?
Amazing! A man wanders endlessly through a dreamscape, becoming other people, himself in the past, everything is fluid. Kafkaesque disconnect between people and their different needs.
A multi-layered novel about the history of Libya. A fast read, but one you can repeat and find something new each time.
Twelve Americans go missing in Burma/Myanmar during a tour. Touching and hilarious, but mostly hilarious.
The most unusual murder mystery I've ever read. Incredible writing. It haunted me for days.
The quote on the front mentions that these stories are exhilerating. I couldn't disagree more. They are almost unbearably painful to read, and yet I couldn't put them down. Very well done, apart from the third story, which is written in the second tense. Please let me know if you know of ONE story that works in second tense.
