If Stones Could Speak

I have just finished a rather long and tedious move here within Antwerp to a new apartment, one closer to my daughter's new school and one that is bigger for her to have more of her own space when she is with me, which is important for a young child finding her way.

Although  have moved out of the famous Zurenborg neighborhood, epitomized by the Cogels-Osy Lei, and the community-driven Dageraadsplaats, both of which are dear to my heart and mind, I have gained things for other losses.

One of the best aspects of living where I do now is that I am nearly a stone's throw from the Middelheim sculpture "museum" and the Nachtegalen Park, where my daughter loves to go play after school. So, as with all things in life, when we lose something, there is a void, but as we also know, nature abhors a vacuum (as do cats...wait for it), so that void must be filled somehow. For me, this is a good way to fill a void, for it is a very peaceful place to go and walk and just let Time go by.

The first time that I went to Middelheim was exactly 20 years ago, almost to the date, when I was in a study abroad program at UFSIA (now part of the University of Antwerp). The coordinators of the program told us about it and as far as I know, not many others took them up on it. However, I went several times that year, during different seasons, and it was a very peaceful escape from the sometimes frenetic city center.

However, though the seasons changed, the statues did not. And, over the past 20 years, I have returned several times, and though I have changed, and the seasons, I still see the same, familiar faces, and of course the newer additions.

Twenty years down the road, it was a very special feeling to be there with my daughter again. We have been a few times before, but this time, it was in my neighborhood, and not merely a trip to the park as a destination, but was actually part of where I now live.

I wondered about those statues and all that they have "seen." How many others have gone there over the years, their lives moving ever towards the Autumn of our lives, and the statues stare mutely on at us.  What could they say, not changing, or at least at a much slower rate than we are, for of course, one day too they will "die." But, what would Rodin's mantled figure have to say to us who rush around all day, chasing our tails, only to wake up again the next day, one day older, and perhaps none the wiser?

A question of course with no answer. But as I was watching my daughter size up her photo of this same statue, I looked at it, and wondered what it was saying...perhaps, "I know you...you've been here before..." and like Shelley's Ozymandias, we shall all one day fall, but perhaps we can do so not in vain. 

Moving On Up, to the South Side...

Well, I’m moving again, though this time for positive reasons, meaning that I want to be closer to my daughter’s new school and to preserve the morning ritual of being close enough to ride the bike, or eventually bikes, down the tree-lined boulevard each morning, weather permitting, to drop her off. It is something that has become such an integral part of my life that I can’t imagine it otherwise.

Perhaps one of the greatest things for me living in Belgium is that, weather permitting, I do almost everything on the bike, and the most significant one of those things is that I take my daughter on the bike to school. At present, it is a good 5km/2 ½ mile ride and she is not exactly small anymore to be riding behind me like Rerun of the Peanuts comic series. But, the route we have to take is too dangerous and too long for her to be on her own, which will all change when I move to my new apartment.

Moving and switching schools is tough. And, I don’t think that anyone will disagree here, but, you know, life is tough.

But, like Roberto Benigni showed us, even in the most distressing, horrible and trying times, life can be “beautiful.” 

My life is beautiful. Tough, but beautiful.

Each day here in Belgium I am communicating in a language that is not my own, and one that is rapidly becoming second nature to me because of all that I have to deal with on a daily basis, and for the most part, I am alone. That is not a result of merely being an introvert, which I am, but also because of the social clime and norms here. An American in Antwerp in 2012 is not the same as Gershwin’s American in Paris in the 1920’s and 30’s. It is not Hemingway’s Time. It is Fact, not fiction, nor self-pity. Just the facts, mam, and those are they, as they stand. It is very hard to be here as an American cut adrift (partly self-inflicted, partly otherwise) and most ex-pats of this time will agree. Times have changed. The world has changed. Norms have changed. And, with them, I must change.

But, again, my life here is beautiful. Would I wish that things were different? In some instances a definitive “yes” is on the tip of my tongue, in others, a clarion bell of “nay” resonates quite soundly throughout my day’s thoughts.

I am moving soon away from the very neighborhood that brought me back to Antwerp, to Belgium, to Europe, that is Zurenborg, without a doubt, one of the most uniquely architectural wonders of Europe, and a true sense of community. I will miss it, I had a house here, a sense of place for a while, but again, Times change, and I will with them. I am moving to a new part of Antwerp-Berchem, one that is less urban, more sub-urban, but not without its own charms and more importantly, it has direct access to some stunning city parks, not to mention Europe’s second-largest outdoor sculpture garden of Middelheim, a treasure I was alerted to a quarter of a century ago as an exchange student, and a place that I have retreated to for solace in the intervening years.

Fall is coming to Belgium, which is a big change. Belgium is verdant to put it mildly, and when the fall comes, it comes with great fanfare that would rival the peeper tours of New England.

So, change is in the air, both physically and metaphysically as I am adjusting to new things, new environments, and new horizons. In the past two weeks, in Dutch I have bought a used car, rented a new apartment, joined a water polo team, helped integrate my amazing daughter into a new school, dealt with a myriad of financial, social, and logistical situations, and with the added benefit that now, no one really knows where I am from, meaning, I’ve lost my accent. Now, they are surprised when I say that I am American rather than assuming and switching to English.

Things have changed.

The Solvay Lining

Last week I went to the market to buy flowers, and well, let's just say it put me in a "something is rotten in the state of Belgium" kind of mood for a short time, and resulted in a post in like manner, more or less bemoaning my own state of being in Belgium.

However, if I have one quality that I can boast of, eventually, even when moving towards a negative slant, I am able to find the silver lining in the clouds, and to make the lemonade from the lemons. I have my maternal genetics to thank for that to be able to counter the tower of dour of my paternal genes, and the former have always triumphed, as they do now.

It is easy for one to get down on a country in which that person is the foreigner, lo straniero, l'étranger, de vreemdeling, and so on and so forth. Sometimes you are excused of certain social customs, but other times you are excluded from them, and both situations can call for a modicum of dis-ease or anxiety. You always feel that you are being watched, judged and at times ridiculed. Paranoia? If you have lived in such a scenario you would not say so. It exists. The paranoia comes into play about the extent that it is actually happening. It is happening, but often not as much as we feel it to be.

Finding the balance, then, as in all things is the key.

Finding the balance.

So, there are several things that are very "right" about Belgium, and I will take a moment to highlight them here, for, despite the incredibly small size of this country, western civilization has much to thank the Belgians for, again for better and for worse. Everything has it place, and time, and there have been many things that have happened in Belgium that have their place in history.

The Solvay Conferences

The two biggest of these were the 1911 and 1927 conferences funded by the Belgian Ernest Solvay, who is chiefly responsible for carbonated beverages, and had a list of attendees that has made every theoretical and experimental physicist drooling for decades. Here are some of the names for the 1927 conference: Schrödinger, Pauli, Heisenberg, Bohr, Born, Einstein, Dirac, Curie and Planck. The average IQ of that group just mentioned would be a Richter-scale event of any single group of minds coming together, and they were just part of it. It was at that fateful event that the (in)famous quip of Einstein made the record books for his attack against the randomness of Quantum Physics that "God does not play dice" to which, unbeknownst to most who know that quote, Bohr, the pre-eminent QP advocate answered, "Stop telling God what to do..." or along those lines. Neither has been definitely proven to be right or wrong, something I like to think of God's little joke or gentle reminder that no one knows everything all the time as I like to tell my daughter, meaning me so that she knows Papa's can have faults too.

Belgian Lace, Beer, Fries, and Cheese

For anyone who visits Belgium, you will most likely come across one or more of the above. The lacework of Belgium, specifically west Flanders is legendary. The comestibles and digestives of the latter hardly need mention except for the fact that what the world has erroneously known as "French Fries" (and for a god-forsaken time as "Freedom Fries") these are actually Belgian and there is a museum in Bruges to prove it, and the fact that the smelly "Limburger" cheeses in all of the Bugs Bunny type cartoons would be none other than the Belgian Limburger cheeses.

Music Festivals

Belgium, and specifically Flanders, is the proving and testing ground for bands around the world. Only Austin's SXSW could boast of having more direct influence on the make or break of a band. In addition, many of the world's most renowned DJs are, you guessed it, Belgian.

Movies

Look on IMDB. For some reason, nearly every major movie is released in Belgium first. It is kind of like the New Hampshire primaries. Actually, not kind of like, exactly like. Do the math.

Art

Okay, if Belgium has a corner on anything, it is art, and in a big way. Whether the Northern Renaissance is officially Belgian or Low Countries is a source of debate, but it is impossible to deny the talent that has come from this area: the Breughels, Van Eycks, Memling, Bosch and Magritte, to name but a very, very small number of monumentally important artists for their respective times. Without a doubt the latter two have been huge influences in my own life with regards to thinking about the relationships between art and life (as Bosch was for Henry Miller, inter alia), but I cannot imagine my own artistic world view without each and every one of these. Ceci, n'est pas une pipe...Derrida would have never existed without this one. Think about that for a moment and let it disseminate.

There are many, many more things. I never live in a place to which I am not drawn to for a variety of reasons. I will, never, and I mean NEVER be drawn to Belgian folk music with the accordion and whatnot, but there are many reasons that I realize why I am here, and the various paths that lead to the doorstep that I walk out of each morning.

I do fully embrace my charge as a Fulbright to be an ambassador of goodwill both to my home country and those others that I live in.

However, we can be human, well, we are human, and with being human comes being human.

And, BTW, here are this week's spoils from the Market.

An Advocate of the Devil

I live in a bit of a dilemma as an American in Belgium. On the one hand, I am supposed to somehow fit into a slotted role of the ex-patriate, a role that I have flat-out avoided and refused to embrace, and then on the other, I should be respectful of the culture in which I chose to be a part of, for better or worse. In some ways, I have failed at both horns of this dilemma in that I neither subscribe to being the American abroad, nor do I fully respect what I see here, though would rather offer an informed and somewhat scathing critique, something I have held back in doing, out of some outmoded form of gentlemanly respect. In other words, I chose to be here, and though at some level I am "stuck" here now because of life's choices and events, I am wearing thin of the veiled decency that we view other cultures with and with which they view us.

This is a problem for me.

Why? Why should I not just unleash vitriolic venom on what I see being "wrong" with Belgium, and consequently my cultural surrogacy that I have acquired being a father to a half-American, half-Belgian daughter, thus securing my ties to this country for the rest of my life?

There are many reasons why this is a problem, and I have been trying to sort through them of late, and I find myself wanting.

In the first place, my daughter is also part of this country, and with genetics, we all inherit, like it or not, certain characteristics of our ancestors. And, this can go back many generations, not just to the immediate one that I am American and her mother is Belgian (and some would correct me here and say: Flemish). But, even further, my own background goes back to German, Scottish, and perhaps English. My ex-wife's lineage is not entirely clear and my suspicions is possible somewhat southern mediterranean, even Greek. Though, that is speculation, but nonetheless, my daughter is a mixture of several cultures, and I feel that it is incumbent upon me to help her to see the best of all of the worlds that she is coming from, even if I don't agree with them.

This is the first level of the challenge, to go beyond my own issues and potentially negative responses and observations about living in Belgium, so I want to stay positive for her sake, and I will, but I will also remain realistic about the good and bad of both being American and Belgian (Flemish, European, Northern European).

However, a few years ago, I was also designated as a Fulbright visiting professor to the Universiteit Antwerpen. Part of my charge as a Fulbright is to both be an ambassador of my own culture as well as a conduit for the culture that I am in to help bridge any differences on a level of cultural, social and educational discrepancies. I have tried to fulfill this charge whenever I am in Belgium, back in America or even in a third location such as India or Italy, or wherever.

But, when we put our best foot forward, put on our best face, or dress up in the Easter-Sunday garb of being such an ambassador, I fear that there is a disjunct between reality and dress up.

What does it mean to be a representative of one's country? I don't envy my President, Mr. Obama, nor any of his predecessors because what does it really mean to represent an entire country, especially one on the level and magnitude of the USA?

I've reflected quite a bit on the details of whom I have been and what I have "represented" as being an American abroad here in Belgium, though also in Italy, India and the numerous other countries I have visited in my years alive on this planet, and I have done the best that I could, despite being che brutta figura at times, or merely a bumbling American. The flip side is that it is not always easy and definitely not a bad thing to be American, but it does bring out the devil's advocate at times on both sides of the equation. It's in the details.

To be continued....

The Color of Spring

I live in Zurenborg, which is part of Old Berchem, which has become over the years, part of southern Antwerp. Layers upon layers, upon layers. Here are some things which caught my eye today as Spring tries ever so valiantly to invade my neighborhood, stirring dull roots with spring rains, hoping to one day prove Mr. Eliot wrong.

The Sweet Here, After

Today a nation mourns.

At 11 am, GMT +1, Belgium held a moment of silence for the victims of the tragic bus accident that occurred this Wednesday in Sierre, Switzerland, killing nearly two dozen school children and six adults on the way back from a school-sponsored ski trip.

The unthinkable became thinkable to many this week, to bury your own child. It is a horrible thing, and something that happens every day, everywhere, in every country and every time. But, that makes it no less the easy concept to conceive. I have known several friends and acquaintances that have either lost a child, or nearly, and it is heart-breaking.

What makes such events even more difficult to bear is when there just is no rhyme or reason to it. The concept of Theodicy is the explanation of how there could be “evil” in a world that was created by a perfect Godhead. How could there be such imperfection at the hands of perfection?

This tragic story brought much to my mind these past two days. There is a movie called “The Sweet Hereafter” by Atom Egoyan from 1997, which tells the story of a tragic school bus accident in a small, Canadian town and the aftermath that ensues. The community is ripped apart by guilt, blame, and utter loss and confusion as to how this could happen. One of the parent’s actions are put into question about the potential cause of the accident. Families and friends are torn asunder. How can you continue living after such an event?

I had the privilege of meeting Judy Collins several years ago when I worked at the Harry Ransom Center and part of my job included meeting with several famous people. Without a doubt, Ms. Collins left the most lasting impression upon me though. She spoke with a candor and sincerity that is so rare in life, and when she spoke to you, you would feel like you were the only person on the planet. With her piercing, Sweet Judy Blue Eyes and flowing mane of shock-white hair, she gave whomever she was speaking to her total attention. One of the things she spoke about was the suicide of her son, Clark, who suffered from alcohol abuse and depression, which often go hand in hand. She spoke with such clarity and understanding, and most of all, acceptance that one would almost doubt her words if they were merely written. But, to see her and hear her in person, there was no doubt.

One of the things that she said in a similar interview with Bill Moyers was that when she got through the “fog” of his death, she was able to see that the world was a funny place and that there are the very, very simple things in life that she can enjoy and that make it possible for her to continue, including her sweet music, especially a song that she wrote about her son.

I have had to confront my own mortality and mistakes that I have made in my life that could have cost the lives of my own family, that of my young daughter and her mother several years ago. I was responsible for a single-car accident in which they were with me. To this day, I know that had I been alone, it would have been worse, or fatal, for I do believe that it was so mild because something was looking out for them, not me. But, it did happen, on a small dark, country road in Italy, when I should not have been driving after having had wine that evening, even though it was merely a short drive down the road.

But, it did happen, and I lived that night over and over in my head for years, knowing that I had been responsible. The next day, as we were part of a large project that involved many students and faculty members, I walked the grounds of the project for several hours, speaking to every member and student in person, face to face, telling them what had happened and that it had been a direct result of my irresponsible actions, and that I was sorry that they had to be a part of that experience. My life was never the same after that event, for many reasons. The nightmares eventually ceased, but the agenbite of inwit, or literally the re-morse, the re-chewing of the conscience will perhaps always be there, as is the case for all traumatic events in our lives.

What was initially, however, a negative, bitter chewing at my conscience, eventually became sweet. It became sweet because I had been given a chance to live a different life, with the constant awareness that our lives are always in the balance, sometimes from our own foolish actions, as was the case in mine, or from the capriciousness of accidents, such as what has happened this week for Belgium. Both are stark reminders that our lives are limited and that the children are unfortunately the innocent victims of both negligence and fate.

My life and my relationship with my daughter are blessed in many ways, and there is so much sweetness in our lives. I will, when she is older, need to talk to her about the issues of negligence and consequences of being responsible, both from my experiences and from those of others that I have learned vicariously through: with alcohol, with drugs, with sex, with honesty, with ... fill in the blank, but I will also speak with her about the sweetness of life and how, as Ms. Collins says, that it can be funny. It is hard to think that life is funny in times like this, because I find no humor in the thought of this week’s events nor from that dark night in Italy. There is no-thing funny about them.

Yet, there is an After, and in that After, the only consolation sometimes is to seek out that Sweetness, and to embrace it, in spite of the Bitter, Bitter indifference of the face of Death. It may take many, many years, but it is our only Hope as humans with a conscience and with memory.

May they Rest in Peace.

And, if interested, Ms. Collins says it better than I could, as with her song at the end.

A Very Sad Day for Belgium

My deepest sympathies go out to the families and friends of the victims in the horrible bus accident in Switzerland today.

This is a devastating tragedy, and a very dark day for Belgium.

My deepest condolences.

I Hear Voices

The vogue for the past few years on television in Belgium  (and elsewhere is seems) revolves around three major themes as far as I can tell: housing (usually surprise renovations or extreme cleaning sessions), eating, and singing. Throw in the unbridled and uninhibited, shameless racism and sexism that permeates almost any prime-time program and you pretty much have covered the spectrum of what you will find while zapping the digital airwaves here.

However, leave it to Belgium to inject the political rift between the French-speaking Walloons and the Flemish-speaking Flemish in a way that clinically would only be known as schizophrenia, leaving me to wonder if that is in fact the diagnosis for this “country.” Why the quotation marks you ask? Well, if you know anything about Belgium identity, it is that there is no such thing as Belgian identity, except for well, being born within the borders of the UN-recognized, sovereign state currently known as Belgium. A tautological conundrum, to say the least.

So, if you are living in the northern, western provinces of Belgium, chances are you speak Flemish as your native language and consider yourself Flemish (meaning there is a good chance that you share some political sympathies with a leaner, meaner Bart de Wever) before Belgian, and certainly European before Belgian, usually. But, we’ll get to that in a moment. Furthermore, if you are from Ghent or its environs, chances are you may have even grown up also speaking French, but the only place you would most likely ever dare to speak is in France, because if you are truly Flemish, when you go to predominantly French-speaking Brussels, which is neither really feline (Lion), nor fowl (Rooster), you will often begin in Flemish because, by God, Belgium is supposed to be tri-lingual (we’ll leave the poor German-speaking stepchildren alone for the moment).

Yet, when you quickly become annoyed that the Brussels denizen does not speak Flemish, primarily because nobody in Brussels is actually Belgian (see definition above of “Belgium”), but rather from northern Africa, Turkey, eastern Europe, western Europe, Asia, America, or anywhere else BUT Belgium, then you will resort to French or English begrudgingly, but all the while secretly feeling superior because you also speak Flemish. Snarky and snide? Absolutely. Comes with the territory.

However, on the other hand, if you live in the southern part of the region of Belgium, you will most likely speak Walloon, a very antiquated dialect of French, as you first language and are probably more or less comfortable calling yourself Belgian and/or Walloon, without too much anxiety either way, and you are wondering if your compatriots, using that term very loosely, are really series about establishing a Confederacy without you, even though for the first 100 years or so of the sovereign state of Belgium, it was the South who carried the North on their backs. How quickly we forget.

So, when it comes to television, the lines are drawn equally so ferociously and never the twain shall meet. For, if you live in the North, you are eagerly awaiting the impending finals with Bert, Glenn, Silke, and Iris of the singing show, The Voice van Vlaanderen (The Voice of Flanders), while in the South, you would be watching the The Voice Belgique (The Voice of Belgium), which airs on the French-speaking network La Une. And, what’s more absurd? Neither show acknowledges the other one on its website, and as you will note, the majority of the songs sung by the contestant are in English. This pretty much sums up the dilemma here.

There is no cooperation, no compromise, and as a result, one is left with petty regionalism to spite the other. Bart De Wever and co. have called for a Flemish Confederacy (I will suppress the Kennedy Toole temptation for allusion here) yet again, after finally the country deciding upon a government. Excuse me, Neem me niet kwalijk, Excusez-moi, or Entschuldigen Sie mich, bitte, but is that not a bit counterproductive? To spend over a year establishing a government and before it even has a chance to be proved effective or not, not even a year’s probation of sorts, he is already clamoring for secession.

There are many Voices here in Belgium, and unfortunately they are often talking to themselves, and not looking at the big picture, but rather choosing for the fractured, factionalized schisms that plague this country. My question, I guess, is what show the German-speakers chose to watch?

Or, is there yet another Voice in my head?