Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Santa and six to eight black men

After reading Lauren's post today, I found a copy of this on the web. It's written by David Sedaris, short story writer extrodinare and read on his "Live at Carnegie Hall" album.


I've never been much for guidebooks, so when trying to get my
bearings in a strange American city, I normally start by asking the
cabdriver or hotel clerk some silly question regarding the latest
census figures. I say silly because I don't really care how many
people live in Olympia, Washington, or Columbus, Ohio. They're
nice enough places, but the numbers mean nothing to me. My second
question might have to do with average annual rainfall, which,
again, doesn't tell me anything about the people who have chosen
to call this place home.

What really interests me are the local gun laws. Can I carry a
concealed weapon, and if so, under what circumstances? What's the
waiting period for a tommy gun? Could I buy a Glock 17 if I were
recently divorced or fired from my job? I've learned from
experience that it's best to lead into this subject as delicately
as possible, especially if you and the local citizen are alone and
enclosed in a relatively small space. Bide your time, though, and
you can walk away with some excellent stories. I've heard, for
example, that the blind can legally hunt in both Texas and
Michigan. They must be accompanied by a sighted companion, but
still, it seems a bit risky. You wouldn't want a blind person
driving a car or piloting a plane, so why hand him a rifle? What
sense does that make? I ask about guns not because I want one of
my own but because the answers vary so widely from state to state.
In a country that's become so homogenous, I'm reassured by these
last touches of regionalism.

Guns aren't really an issue in Europe, so when I'm traveling
abroad, my first question usually relates to barnyard animals.
"What do your roosters say?" is a good icebreaker, as every country
has its own unique interpretation. In Germany, where dogs bark "vow
vow" and both the frog and the duck say "quack," the rooster greets
the dawn with a hearty "kik-a-ricki." Greek roosters crow "kiri-a-
kee," and in France they scream "coco-rico," which sounds like one
of those horrible premixed cocktails with a pirate on the label.
When told that an American rooster says "cock-a-doodle-doo," my
hosts look at me with disbelief and pity.

"When do you open your Christmas presents?" is another good
conversation starter as it explains a lot about national character.
People who traditionally open gifts on Christmas Eve seem a bit
more pious and family oriented than those who wait until Christmas
morning. They go to mass, open presents, eat a late meal, return
to church the following morning, and devote the rest of the day to
eating another big meal. Gifts are generally reserved for
children, and the parents tend not to go overboard. It's nothing
I'd want for myself, but I suppose it's fine for those who prefer
food and family to things of real value.

In France and Germany, gifts are exchanged on Christmas Eve, while
in Holland the children receive presents on December 5, in
celebration of Saint Nicholas Day. It sounded sort of quaint until
I spoke to a man named Oscar, who filled me in on a few of the
details as we walked from my hotel to the Amsterdam train station.

Unlike the jolly, obese American Santa, Saint Nicholas is painfully
thin and dresses not unlike the pope, topping his robes with a tall
hat resembling an embroidered tea cozy. The outfit, I was told, is
a carryover from his former career, when he served as a bishop in

One doesn't want to be too much of a cultural chauvinist, but this
seemed completely wrong to me. For starters, Santa didn't use to
do anything. He's not retired, and, more important, he has
nothing to do with Turkey. The climate's all wrong, and people
wouldn't appreciate him. When asked how he got from Turkey to the
North Pole, Oscar told me with complete conviction that Saint
Nicholas currently resides in Spain, which again is simply not
true. While he could probably live wherever he wanted, Santa chose
the North Pole specifically because it is harsh and isolated. No
one can spy on him, and he doesn't have to worry about people
coming to the door. Anyone can come to the door in Spain, and in
that outfit, he'd most certainly be recognized. On top of that,
aside from a few pleasantries, Santa doesn't speak Spanish. He
knows enough to get by, but he's not fluent, and he certainly
doesn't eat tapas.

While our Santa flies on a sled, Saint Nicholas arrives by boat
and then transfers to a white horse. The event is televised, and
great crowds gather at the waterfront to greet him. I'm not sure
if there's a set date, but he generally docks in late November and
spends a few weeks hanging out and asking people what they want.

"Is it just him alone?" I asked. "Or does he come with backup?"

Oscar's English was close to perfect, but he seemed thrown by a
term normally reserved for police reinforcement.

"Helpers," I said. "Does he have any elves?"

Maybe I'm just overly sensitive, but I couldn't help but feel
personally insulted when Oscar denounced the very idea as grotesque
and unrealistic. "Elves," he said. "They're just so silly."

The words silly and unrealistic were redefined when I learned that
Saint Nicholas travels with what was consistently described as "six
to eight black men." I asked several Dutch people to narrow it
down, but none of them could give me an exact number. It was always
"six to eight," which seems strange, seeing as they've had hundreds
of years to get a decent count.

The six to eight black men were characterized as personal slaves
until the mid-fifties, when the political climate changed and it
was decided that instead of being slaves they were just good
friends. I think history has proven that something usually comes
between slavery and friendship, a period of time marked not by
cookies and quiet times beside the fire but by bloodshed and
mutual hostility. They have such violence in Holland, but rather
than duking it out among themselves, Santa and his former slaves
decided to take it out on the public. In the early years, if a
child was naughty, Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men
would beat him with what Oscar described as "the small branch of
a tree."

"A switch?"

"Yes," he said. "That's it. They'd kick him and beat him with a
switch. Then, if the youngster was really bad, they'd put him in
a sack and take him back to Spain."

"Saint Nicholas would kick you?"

"Well, not anymore," Oscar said. "Now he just pretends to kick

"And the six to eight black men?"

"Them, too."

He considered this to be progressive, but in a way I think it's
almost more perverse than the original punishment. "I'm going to
hurt you, but not really." How many times have we fallen for that
line? The fake slap invariably makes contact, adding the elements
of shock and betrayal to what had previously been plain, old-
fashioned fear. What kind of Santa spends his time pretending to
kick people before stuffing them into a canvas sack? Then, of
course, you've got the six to eight former slaves who could
potentially go off at any moment. This, I think, is the greatest
difference between us and the Dutch. While a certain segment of
our population might be perfectly happy with the arrangement, if
you told the average white American that six to eight nameless
black men would be sneaking into his house in the middle of the
night, he would barricade the doors and arm himself with whatever
he could get his hands on.

"Six to eight, did you say?"

In the years before central heating, Dutch children would leave
their shoes by the fireplace, the promise being that unless they
planned to beat you, kick you, or stuff you into a sack, Saint
Nicholas and the six to eight black men would fill your clogs
with presents. Aside from the threats of violence and kidnapping,
it's not much different from hanging your stockings from the
mantel. Now that so few people have a working fireplace, Dutch
children are instructed to leave their shoes beside the radiator,
furnace, or space heater. Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black
men arrive on horses, which jump from the yard onto the roof. At
this point, I guess, they either jump back down and use the door,
or they stay put and vaporize through the pipes and electrical
wires. Oscar wasn't too clear about the particulars, but, really,
who can blame him? We have the same problem with our Santa. He's
supposed to use the chimney, but if you don't have one, he still
manages to come through. It's best not to think about it too hard.

While eight flying reindeer are a hard pill to swallow, our
Christmas story remains relatively simple. Santa lives with his
wife in a remote polar village and spends one night a year
traveling around the world. If you're bad, he leaves you coal. If
you're good and live in America, he'll give you just about anything
you want. We tell our children to be good and send them off to bed,
where they lie awake, anticipating their great bounty. A Dutch
parent has a decidedly hairier story to relate, telling his
children, "Listen, you might want to pack a few of your things
together before you go to bed. The former bishop from Turkey will
be coming along with six to eight black men. They might put some
candy in your shoes, they might stuff you in a sack and take you
to Spain, or they might just pretend to kick you. We don't know
for sure, but we want you to be prepared."

This is the reward for living in Holland. As a child you get to
hear this story, and as an adult you get to turn around and repeat
it. As an added bonus, the government has thrown in legalized drugs
and prostitution-so what's not to love about being Dutch?

Oscar finished his story just as we arrived at the station. He was
a polite and interesting guy-very good company-but when he offered
to wait until my train arrived, I begged off, saying I had some
calls to make. Sitting alone in the vast terminal, surrounded by
other polite, seemingly interesting Dutch people, I couldn't help
but feel second-rate. Yes, it was a small country, but it had six
to eight black men and a really good bedtime story. Being a fairly
competitive person, I felt jealous, then bitter, and was edging
toward hostile when I remembered the blind hunter tramping off
into the Michigan forest. He might bag a deer, or he might happily
shoot his sighted companion in the stomach. He may find his way
back to the car, or he may wander around for a week or two before
stumbling through your front door. We don't know for sure, but in
pinning that license to his chest, he inspires the sort of
narrative that ultimately makes me proud to be an American.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

There be dragons...

Gianni, Dr. X and I mounted our trusty steeds and tilted at a few of these beasts yesterday. Testing one's metal is always better with friends.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

I guess it's time...

to think about racing!

Did a little pre-season status check yesterday (ouch!) and the results were favorable. A 12% increase in MSS power conbined with a 12% loss in weight has everything headed in the right direction.

Guess all those weights and measures are paying off!

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Tough Love

You're gonna think I'm kidding, but I'm not.

I love this woman .
Sometimes a good dose of tough love is just what you have coming to you. But they always coming running back for the good stuff.

I heard her on Larry King a few weeks ago and she said if she weren't a judge she'd be a teacher. Judy, you've got an open invitation to my classroom any time.

Monday, January 15, 2007

I'm too tired for this...

Random Guy:"Nice battle back there on Wildcat"

I had noticed him as he descended. I was in the middle of a climbing interval and he was pulling into a turnout about a third of the way down the hill. I remember thinking 'Strange place to turn around'. I didn't think much more of it and kept working on my climbing interval until I happened to look back a minute or two later. There he was...I wondered 'Is he trying to catch me on this climb?' Whatever!! I checked again a few minutes later and he had faded. Maybe I was just being paranoid. I reached the summit, finished my interval and decided I'd done enough intensity work for the day.

Then he was there.

Random Guy:"Nice battle back there on Wildcat"

Merkeley Bike: What? Oh, ya...(I'm too tired for this)

Monday, January 08, 2007

Mama mia

Although we get a lot of crap for how much vacation time we log, we truly need it. So after 2 weeks off, a 10 hour day in the saddle (that being the professional saddle), leaves me like this.
The funny thing is, the kids arrived at school this morning more like THIS
Stay turned for the next installment of "Seeds and Spouts."

Sunday, January 07, 2007

Groundhog Day

Winter vacation is officially over? How do I know? My school was broken into over the holidays and a large amount of technology (TV/DVD players, etc.) was stolen. Those of you who know me may remember back in 2003 when my Oakland classroom was broken into for similar reasons. When taking a job in Berkeley this year, I assumed that I would be escaping much of the crime which plagues urban schools. Think again.

The craziest part, though, is the similarity in the crimes. All schools have alarm systems which custodians are sure to remind you of if you're working there in the evening. My Oakland school was once burglarized at least half a dozen times within the span of only a few months. Each time, the alarm was supposedly set, but either it wasn't triggered when the burglers came or if it was the police didn't respond.

Speaking with my current principal in Berkeley on Friday, he reports the exact same scenario...he had no idea of whether the alarm simply didn't go off or whether it did and the police didn't respond. Apparently the police department didn't have this information either.

Huh? You can come up with all sorts of conspiracy theories for this. We certainly do. And yet, it happens again and again (and again) in urban schools. As my principal said as I was leaving on Friday, "The saddest part is that we just come to expect it." I wish we could leave the solving of crimes to the police, but in my experience, that hasn't been their priority when it comes to urban schools.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

What we learned on our winter vacation...

During our final day of vacation in Jackson Hole, we learned several new things:

Snowboarding? Nope.

Sledding? Wrong again.

We freed the heel and took a telemark lesson in the hopes of one day being able to tackle the backcountry pow pow like pros. So, we look a little stiff here on day one, but come next winter, we're gonna be tearing it up.

We also learned that seared caribou makes for an exquisite dining experience. And finally, we learned to never, ever buy tickets through Orbitz. What a nightmare!