The German Cult

Those who have ever taken a German class will know exactly what I am talking about.  For those who haven't, I will do my best to explain. 

People who study German are a minority.  Therefore, every time you get a large group of them together, there is an instant bond.  It doesn't matter if you have anything in common outside of German, or if you have entirely conflicting personalities.  There's still a sense of recognition, and a basic respect.

A German class will invariably come up with its own inside jokes.  "Gebiesten," happened in my high school (I have the T-shirt to prove it), "Deutsches L" is a big one at my college, and "...oder?" seems to be the Steven's Point catchphrase. 

Now here's what sucks about the study abroad program:

The students in my class come from all over the world:  Taiwan, Cameroon, Saudi Arabia, China, Sri Lanka, just to name a few.  They are here in this language course in order to take this monster of a test (The DSH - Imagine the ACT/SAT in German without bubbles.  I miss bubbles.) that they need in order to study at a German university - presumably to get a better education than they could in there homeland.  The Americans, on the other hand, are in the language course because that is where our program puts us.  We are here in Germany for fun, to experience German culture, and because we have sold our souls to ther German language.  The other foreigners are merely selling their bodies and minds, and don't understand why we would learn this ridiculous language just for fun.  Therefore, we are not meshing into a true German cult, and that saddens me.

It is true that learning German is difficult, but so is learning any other language.  In fact, for native English-speakers, German is one of the easier languages to learn, being part of the same family.  The myth that Spanish is easy is quickly dispelled by the multitude of irregular verb stems, some of which barely resemble the original verb. 

It is also a commonly held opinion that German sounds ugly.  Personally, I think it's sexy.  No, really. It has a deeper tone and a soothing rhythm, compared to English.  Spanish, Italian, French, just sound shrill and agitated.  Although in my class, the woman from Hungary would get my vote for the coolest accent.  It just sounds so sweet and musical.

For me, German is also a way to get in touch with my roots - I'm half German, as I may have mentioned.  Many Midwesterners have German heritage, and it is not uncommon to meet ones who try to show off and say "I took two years of German in high school - but I don't remember any of it except Guten Tag and Scheisse."  These are the ones who managed to escape the German cult before they signed their souls away - or rather, the souls who were not strong enough to make it all the way to the end.  Or, you know, decided on a more practical path of study.

It is true that German is not a highly marketable skill.  Yes, Germany is important in the business world, but most Germans speak English and have been learning it since grade school, which makes an American trying to learn German in college almost redundant.  Almost all of the German cultists have a second "career" major, German fulfilling the university's ridiculous requirement of needing more than one field of study, or simply for pure enjoyment.  That is another thing that sets us apart from the students of Spanish or Chinese or Computer Programming.  We are not suffering through this in order to make a lot of money further down the road. We are here by choice, because to some degree, all of us have fallen in love with the German language.

And that is what sets us apart from the rest of the class.

Please note that I am using the word "cult" in a humorous and/or metaphorical sense.  We do not sacrifice kittens at midnight.  Though we are secretly plotting world domination.

That was also a joke.  It wouldn't be a secret if I told.

A Senseless, Tragic Accident

http://www.startribune.com/local/south/118025164.html

I knew that kid.

And now he's dead.

I found out over a Facebook message, of all things.  His mother must have sent out a message to all of his Facebook friends, a brief, generic message telling that he died in a car crash.  A freaking car crash.  In fiction, a car crash is a euphemism for "killed by plot."  You forget that since it is used as a generic cause of death, that it really does happen a lot to people.  Sometimes people you know. 

I'm sure there's a plot in here somewhere, though.  I met him in high school.  In a film club that a mutual friend had started, and even though I had no particular interest in film, he needed a certain number of people to keep the club going, I liked the people there, and I had no better way to spend a Friday afternoon.

I think we first started talking when I was reading Stephan King's Dark Tower series.  (Of course everything comes down to books in my life.) He thought they were the best thing ever.  I thought they were good, but kind of a mindscrew.  I gave him a copy of King's Insomnia for his seventeenth birthday. 

And my senior year of high school, his junior year, I was not so dense as to miss the fact that he sort of indirectly asked me to prom.  But I was dumb enough to accept.  I brought my best female friend along, because it wasn't like a date or anything, I didn't like him that way...and I think I forgot to make that quite clear.  But hey, prom is an important plot point in any high school drama, and I was intrigued by the image of doing something so normal as going to plot with a boy (and a girl).  I wore a dress that night for the first time in about 12 years.  And even though I had probably one of the sweetest, most gentlemanly prom-boys (not a date) ever, I realized that night that I would never be able to like him as he (might have) liked me.  He was a nice boy, but he was still a boy, with a boy's sense of humor and a boy's taste in literature, and we didn't really have much in common anyway.  Nothing about him even struck me as particularly interesting, though admittedly I was wary of getting too close to him.  But his friends seemed to like him, and when I say he was nice, I'm not just searching for a generic, positive adjective; he really was one of those people that really tried to be polite and never really acted like a jerk.

So then I graduated, and we went on with our respective lives.  I thought of him only occasionally, mostly as a stepping-stone in my coming out story.  There was a squirmy feeling of unresolved issues, that I never really told him I didn't like him back, because I was not quite sure that he really liked me as such.  And going along with that, that I never came out with him.  That I more or less went to prom with him under false pretenses.  I felt that I had used him.  But such is life, and you move on until the pain is nearly forgotten, and you never see these people again, except perhaps at a reunion, or by mystical accident.

But not even that will happen.  I'll never be able to explain any of this to him.  That brings me no relief.  The only relieved feelings I have that I might feel guilty about are because I am in Germany and don't have to feel obligated to go to the funeral, to mingle with his relatives, and his friends who I vaguely knew in high school.  People who feel a greater absence for his loss than I do. 

It's strange.  When someone close to you dies, you go through the grieving process, that's perfectly understandable.  But when someone dies who wasn't particularly close to you but you knew beyond merely a face and a name, you don't know how you're supposed to feel.  Or you feel guilty because you aren't sad enough.  There's just shock, and the guilty relief at surviving this round, but you're still shaken by how close it was.  And of course life/death doesn't work like that, but emotions don't know that.

Plot:  A lesbian goes to prom with a boy who dies two years later.  What a stupid story.  I've put up with my Author's inanity thus far, but he really has a lot to answer for now.

"Frostfire" by Kai Meyer - Chapter 2, Part 1/4

The Chapter In Which We Meet the Girl-Boy Mouse.  And The Dangerous Roundsman.

            It is true that Mouse was a girl.  But only a few knew that.  Most took her for a boy.  And when Mouse looked in a mirror, sometimes she even believed it herself.

            It is also true that she was a thief.

            As though harried by a thousand devils, she ran through the corridors of the venerable Grand Hotel Aurora.  The man that followed her was hard on her heels.  Not a good day for a hotel-room thief.  Not even when she committed her theft with such great dexterity as Mouse.

            The upper floor of the Hotel Aurora was reserved for special guests.  At the front facing the boulevard, the famous Nevski Prospect, lay the splendid Czar’s Suite; a single night there cost more than Petersburg’s simple citizens earned in a year.

            Mouse rushed swiftly under the silver candle holders that emitted electric light.  The spittoons in the corners were of the finest porcelain.  Heavy commodes of mahogany stood against the walls of the corridor.  Lacy doilies fluttered in the backdraft as Mouse was chased past them.

            Sometimes she looked over her shoulder to see whether her pursuer had caught up to her yet.  But she still held on to her head start.  It was not the first time that she had escaped him.

            Mouse wore a page’s uniform that was patched in many places, if not so many that one of the highly esteemed guests would notice at the first glance.  Pants and jacket were of violet velvet, set with gleaming buckles and even shoulder loops sewn of golden carpet fringe.  Her patent shoes were immaculately cleaned – because that was Mouse’s task here in the Hotel Aurora:  to collect the shoes from the doors of all the guests at night, bring them into the celler, there to polish them bright and distribute them in front of the rooms before dawn.  Without switching a single pair, you understand.

            That took talent, claimed Kukushka, the dancing partner in the ballroom.  That took absolutely nothing, Mouse said.  Only the willingness to spend the night on your feet and to sleep during the day.  And not even that was an achievement, when one had no other choice.

            The footsteps behind Mouse grew louder.

            Was there a particular reason why, after all these years, she was about to be caught?  That evening she had cleaned her plate of the guests’ leftovers, and silently let the teasing of the pages and chambermaids pass over her. “Girl-boy,” they sneered.  “There goes the girl-boy, and it stinks like old shoes.”

            All this she bore every day.  She had done nothing to call blame upon herself, really nothing.

            Except perhaps this tiny theft.  Not her first by any means, but until now she had always gotten away with it.

            She looked back again.  The heavily carpeted floor almost entirely swallowed up her pursuer’s footsteps.  Mouse took the golden brooch out of the pocket of her uniform and tightly closed her fist around it.  The door to the room had been unlocked – that wasn’t her fault, was it? – and the brooch had lain out in the open on a heap of clothing.   And thieves were warned of everywhere at that, especially in such bad times.  Couldn’t the owner have paid better attention?

            No, Mouse was really not at fault here.  She had only accepted the invitation to put the thing in her pocket.  And what had happened, had happened.  Apologies, madam.

            It was a question/matter of honor to bring her loot to all the rest in the cellar.  Later, anyway.  For now she had to get rid of the thing.  Namely, a place where no one at all would stick their nose.  First of all, away with it, so that none but her could find it.  Certainly not the Roundsman, who had been waiting to catch her in the act for ages.  No evidence, no theft.  No punishment for Mouse.

I Got Gaynst, But I'm Not a Gayngster*

*Terms are defined here and here

I suppose I’m one of the lucky ones.  I grew up in a large city in a country where I am at least legally allowed to exist, was never picked on, have accepting parents without religious fervor, and a large circle of like-minded friends.  All I need is a lover, and I could make my own “It Gets Better” video.  Or maybe not, considering that it was never all that bad in the first place.  Except for maybe the uncertainty and self-loathing, but that came from a lot of sources.

Dear Dan Savage, it’s great to know that I'm going to have a great life with my partner and sperm-donr baby when I'm, like, 40, but that doesn’t make being nineteen today any better.

For instance, today in my German class, the theme was divorce.  We had a lovely sheet of statistics telling us that couples who live in a city have a 44% greater chance of separating.  Or if the woman works full-time, a 25% increase.  Or if the woman has more education, a 45% increase.

Looking at those numbers, it occurred to me that they had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH ME.  I am never going to have to deal with being more educated than a husband.  But according to this worksheet, I don’t exist.  In a marriage, there is “the woman” and “the man.”  No other option.  In fact, it is essentially illegal for me to get married (in my home state/most places in the world).  So I simultaneously do not exist and am illegal. 

Now imagine discussing this topic in a room of 20 people who all are just treating it like another worksheet and are not having their existence violated.

Do you:

a)  out yourself, make a scene, and complain to the management about implied homophobia in the curriculum material?

b)  keep silent and do not take part in this discussion, all the while hating yoursef for a coward?

c)  mention the existence of homosexuality while not directly connecting the issue to yourself and test the waters, seeing what the rest of the class really does think about homosexuality, while at the same time wondering how many of them are now suspicious?

d)  Turn into a raging feminist and ask why can’t the man stay at home why the woman works, and why is manly pride socially acceptable but one can’t have female pride without turning into a raging lesbian feminist?

When people think of homophobia, they think of gay-bashing and bullies and suicidal teenagers and Don't Ask, Don't Tell, but in reality, homophobia does not come from laws.  It doesn't matter that I can get married in Iowa, or that I can be in the military and talk about my sex life (had I one) at the same time.  Homophobia comes from homework and television commercials.  It comes from a girl complaining "That's so gay!" and being called on it, explains that she isn't homophobic because she has a (token) gay friend.  Being systematically ignored, outlawed, and laughed at is better than being burned at the stake**, but far from an equal existence.

Another incident:  "'Schwuel', that means humid, right? Not 'schwul.'  That means...like when a man is very feminine. (Giggle)."  Well, no, it means when a man is sexually attracted to another man, but that's all details.  Every single one of my complaints here is a tiny little detail, and perhaps it could seem like I am blowing this out of proportion and making too big a deal out of this.  But it adds up.  Always being the butt of a joke.  Always finding out that people you thought you respected consider you to be the butt of a joke, even if they wouldn't dream of applying it to you specifically.  And most importantly, the media that are not screened for political correctness and just go off general knowledge - those are the most dangerous.  Like worksheets for German as Second Language students.

So please.  Have some consideration, world.  Know we are out there.  Realize that 10% is not an insignificant amount in a class of 20 people.

-----

**The word "faggot" comes from an old English word meaning "kindling," back in the days when homosexuals were burned as witches.  So every time you call someone a fag, you are threatening to burn them at the stake.  Chew on that.

In Memoriam: Brian Jacques

Brian Jacques, author.  June 15, 1939 - February 5, 2011

When I was eight, I discovered the Redwall series.*  I think my dad started reading it to me.  Every night, another chapter - or more, if I was able to beg it out of him - until I realized that I actually read faster on my own.  Then I burned through the entire series, and read them over and over again while impatiently waiting for the rest to be written.

My Redwall obsession lasted two or three years, peaked at fifth grade and was gradually replaced by other interests.  But for a while, I hardly read anything else.  I always had one of the books on me.  Always.  And I swear not one single other person in my school had ever heard of it.  Is it any wonder I had no friends, if I was surrounded by people who didn't even read?

But what is so special about these mice?  Yes, there is a little mouse who just wants to be special and finally gets his chance - isn't that a fairly common motif in normal fiction as well?  But the rest of the books feature a variety of heroes from all different backgrounds - what is the common factor here?

I can narrow it down to two:

1)  All of the stories feature a hero facing real danger and impossible odds, but they simply have to accomplish their quest or the world will be left in ruins.  It was my first exposure to something truly EPIC.  It's just so much more interesting to read about a story that matters. 

2)  They were mice in a forest, not children in a school.  I had enough of children in school in my life - I didn't want to read about it too!  I didn't want to be reminded of how unlike everyone else I was.  Furthermore, I was never a very girly girl -  in the Redwall books, there are very few instances of actual gender roles.  Really the only difference is arbitrary pronouns.

Perhaps I could even narrow it down to one factor:  Books about mice with swords asked questions I actually cared about.  When is it okay to kill your enemy?  vs. say, How do apologize to your best friend for talking about her behind her back?  How to stand up to a bully, make a best friend, improve your home life, and succeed at your artistic goals, which is nowhere near as difficult/interesting as following a cryptic song to a mysterious place along a path fraught with danger in order to get allies to help you defeat the impossibly large evil horde.

I realize that I cannot claim that Redwall as the best series ever.  It has absurdly formulaic plots and a bad case of Slytherin Syndrome, which was what eventually caused me to lose interest - the villains obviously only existed to drive the plot forward.   Jacques did manage to do something truly creative at least once per book.  You know - an gigantic army that wears blue war paint, a hare with multiple personality disorder, etc. 

Still, it was a good introduction to the hard questions in life (simplified) and the dark side of the world (softened).  Moreover, it was just plain cool.

Brian Jacques, you will be missed.

Redwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalllll!

*If somehow you don't know, it is a set of books about talking anthropomorphic mice/other woodland creatures, who battle against evil rats/other woodland creatures, with swords/other medieval weaponry. 

Märchenmond - Fablemoon - Magic Moon

I am now reading a book entitled Märchenmond, by Wolfgang and Heike Hohlbein.  There is an English translation available entitled Magic Moon, though "Märchen" is actually the German word for a fairy tale.

I suppose something needed to knock German children's fantasy off the pedestal I had put it on.  Kai Meyer = Amazing.  Cornelia Funke, same.  Michael Ende (of The Neverending Story) as well.  The Hohlbeins...

It isn't bad.  Just so-so.  The story tells of a boy who is ten(?), whose four(?) year old sister is in a coma.  A mysterious old man appears and tells him that his sister's spirit is trapped in the magical world Märchenmond by an evil sorcerer, and so the boy, Kim, has to travel there to get her back.

My critique as follows:
1)  Kim, the hero, is established immediately as a sci-fi reader.  However, as soon as he enters Märchenmond, this fact is forgotten (though he did have to get there by flying a spaceship).  Regardless, unless the authors are trying to pull a Neverending story where the magical world is causing him to lose his memory, they are wasting a great opportunity for some wrong genre savvy conflicts.

2)  Even though Kim knows nothing about fantasy worlds, he should know better not to let the army of Black Knights take him anywhere without asking them a few questions.  Or drinking an unidentified substance given to him by them, though it seems not to have done any lasting harm.  In fact, he adapts almost too well to be believed. 

3)  Yes, it is a fantasy story, which requires a bit of suspension of disbelief.  Perhaps it is reasonable that he managed to knock out a Knight and steal his armor and horse and travel undetected with the Black Army for, what, over a week?  I mean, evil minions aren't expected to be bright.  And okay, maybe he wouldn't quite die of starvation from not eating because he was too afraid to take off his visor even for an instant.  But that begs the question - if he does not take off his armor for a week, how does he take care of certain functions?  There is a line between no one really wants to read about it, and you kind of have to wonder...

4)  I'm really not sure what kind of person Kim is.  Probably he is supposed to be an Everyman with a Hero Complex.  It's entirely possible that I am merely missing subtlety by reading a book in a foreign language, but Kim seems to be a very generic protagonist.  Sister in danger?  Go rescue her, without a care for the danger.  Magical world in danger?  Go rescue it.  Plus, the only characters that seemed to give him any development were one-shots (or possibly Chekhov's Gunmen). 

Example:  As Kim flees the evil citadel, he is conveniently rescued by a swamp-prince, Ado.  Ado asks to join Kim on his quest, but Kim tells him to stay in the swamp where he is needed.  First off, where did that bit of insight come from?  Personally, I find that Ado would have given Kim a lot more character development than the WTF companions he ended up with - a gentle giant and a grouchy bear, neither of which are very bright or have much personality.  So we don't get to see Kim's (presumeably) rational and caring demeanor contrasted with a rash and heedless best friend, but rather a hero surrounded by bumbling mistfit companions.

In short, this is the sort of story that blindly binds itself to genre constraints and does not even have any interesting side characters, cool scenery, or beautiful prose to make up for it.  Granted it was written in the eighties and seems to be a nostalgia piece for many, but I am nearly halfway through and as yet have not seen anything remarkable about it.  Besides the above remarks.

"Frostfire" Translation - Chapter 1, Part 3/3

            “What do you intend to do now?” he asked.

            “I will  arrange for her to find me.”

            “And then?”

            “Well – I will finish my assignment.  That is what my family should have done many generations ago.”

            “And take revenge for the death of your father?”  He sounded disappointed.

            Tamsin took umbrella and suitcase, but stayed standing before him.  “She wants the ice-heart back.  And she knows that only I can give it to her.  Therefore, she will come to me.”

            “You want to set a trap for her?”

            Tamsin gave no answer.
            “What a stupid, stupid idea,” he said.

            “Take care of yourself,” she told him as a farewell.

            “Wait!”

            She turned her face to the ground, then looked at him.

            “You should know something else.”  He let out a deep sigh, like that of a grown-up speaking to an unreasonable child.    “This sudden onset of winter, all the snow, this cold…it has to do with her.”

            “And?”

            “You believe that she brings all this with her, like a trail of winter weather, don’t you?  But it is not so simple.  What is here is a different kind of cold.  And only a taste of what is to come.”

            Tamsin looked at him questioningly.

            “Ever since you stole the ice-heart, her power has been fading,” he continued.  “The cold of the Beginning that was there before the world is flowing out of the Queen and reclaiming the place that once belonged to it.”

            “Then it will get worse?”

            “Much worse,” he said grimly.  “Only if the Queen gets the icicle back and regains her old power can she put the cold back in its place.  Otherwise, a winter like no other threatens us.  Not even I would stand against that for long.”

            “How much time do I have?”

            “To return the icicle and stop the cold?  Or to destroy the Queen?”

            “How much time?”

            “A few days.  At most.”

            Tamsin’s hand closed tighter around the rainbow umbrella. In her battered suitcase, something moved, rumbling quite softly.

            “I thank you,” she said, and left.

            Father Frost sadly opened up the pouch and carried on feeding the snowflakes with forgotten magic.