It is a Gift to you from the Belgian Government , that you are nonetheless obliged to accept.
On my 9th Christmas, I got a dress from my Grandma. She made it herself, despite not having seen me in person the 12 months preceding her Christmas visit. Opening the box, hoping for books, I was momentarily puzzled by what instead appeared to be a flattened purple and brown stuffed animal. “Had Grandma bought me a crazy stuffed flounder”? I thought as I gingerly lifted it from the box.
“Iiiiiiisn’t that adorable”, shrieked my mother snatching it out of my hands and holding the fuzzy fabric against my little 9-year old body. “Oh Colleen, look at the beautiful dress Grandma made for you (me: that's a dress???). Try it ooon”….
“uhhhhrrrmmm…” I said, looking helplessly at all of the beaming, nodding adult faces. Help was not to be found in any one of them. The closest I got was a barely perceptible wince from my Father… but it could have been the Christmas morning breakfast scotch, as he did absolutely nothing to prevent the fashion atrocity about to play itself out.
I was jammed. Not only did I have to wear the dress for my adoring family that Christmas morning (the photographic evidence of which was nearly completely destroyed in a highly improbable garburetor ‘accident’ in 1986), I was obliged to publicly display my transformation into a Muppet Show monster later that morning at Church.
Walking into Ste. Anne’s I heared the collective intake of breath from my schoolfriends like a flock of startled doves taking to the rafters. From my 9 year old perspective, there was snickering, there was pointing, young mothers clutched their babies to their breasts as I walked by. Only from one of my friends was there any sympathy. Wilhelmina Devoy met my misery-filled gaze with a sadness that first acknowledged and then exceeded it. Wilhelmina and I locked eyes as I walked past her in slow motion. Wilhelmina was seated next to her purple-clad Grandmother wearing a child-sized but otherwise identical purple polyester pantsuit with matching pillbox hat.
Today I went to the Onthaalbureau, in response to the nasty Welcome Letter I received from the Burgermeester-Meesterburger advising me that I had to register to be "integrated" or else I would be "punished with a money fine".
The nice lady at the Onthaalbureau told me that the integration lessons are "a gift to you from the Government of Belgium. A gift that you, nonetheless, are obliged to accept".
That is now my new all-time favorite line (replacing “Fuck you girlfriend, thanks for the canal tour") and you should, henceforth, expect to hear me refer to it often.
For example, as in:
It turns out that the integration lessons, involve such riveting and pertinent subjects as:
Oh, and on top of that, there are mandatory "non-intensive" Dutch lessons twice a week, 3 hours/session for 5 months (hmmm….I don't think they are using this word correctly).
In a world where I can't even get my laundry done, I have a hard time seeing how I'd make time for this. When I expressed this to the woman at the Onthaalbureau, she looked at me sympathetically and delivered a karate chop to my neck. I woke up in my car clutching a new letter, stamped and signed, that simply reads:
I suspect that my Kafka-esque nightmare has only just begun.
Stay tuned.
On my 9th Christmas, I got a dress from my Grandma. She made it herself, despite not having seen me in person the 12 months preceding her Christmas visit. Opening the box, hoping for books, I was momentarily puzzled by what instead appeared to be a flattened purple and brown stuffed animal. “Had Grandma bought me a crazy stuffed flounder”? I thought as I gingerly lifted it from the box.
“Iiiiiiisn’t that adorable”, shrieked my mother snatching it out of my hands and holding the fuzzy fabric against my little 9-year old body. “Oh Colleen, look at the beautiful dress Grandma made for you (me: that's a dress???). Try it ooon”….
“uhhhhrrrmmm…” I said, looking helplessly at all of the beaming, nodding adult faces. Help was not to be found in any one of them. The closest I got was a barely perceptible wince from my Father… but it could have been the Christmas morning breakfast scotch, as he did absolutely nothing to prevent the fashion atrocity about to play itself out.
I was jammed. Not only did I have to wear the dress for my adoring family that Christmas morning (the photographic evidence of which was nearly completely destroyed in a highly improbable garburetor ‘accident’ in 1986), I was obliged to publicly display my transformation into a Muppet Show monster later that morning at Church.
Walking into Ste. Anne’s I heared the collective intake of breath from my schoolfriends like a flock of startled doves taking to the rafters. From my 9 year old perspective, there was snickering, there was pointing, young mothers clutched their babies to their breasts as I walked by. Only from one of my friends was there any sympathy. Wilhelmina Devoy met my misery-filled gaze with a sadness that first acknowledged and then exceeded it. Wilhelmina and I locked eyes as I walked past her in slow motion. Wilhelmina was seated next to her purple-clad Grandmother wearing a child-sized but otherwise identical purple polyester pantsuit with matching pillbox hat.
Today I went to the Onthaalbureau, in response to the nasty Welcome Letter I received from the Burgermeester-Meesterburger advising me that I had to register to be "integrated" or else I would be "punished with a money fine".
The nice lady at the Onthaalbureau told me that the integration lessons are "a gift to you from the Government of Belgium. A gift that you, nonetheless, are obliged to accept".
That is now my new all-time favorite line (replacing “Fuck you girlfriend, thanks for the canal tour") and you should, henceforth, expect to hear me refer to it often.
For example, as in:
Belgium: Hey Colleen. I knit you this ugly brown and purple sweater!
Colleen: Ermmmm.... Uhhh...
Belgium: I see from your reaction that you do not love the gift to you from me. It is a gift that you, nonetheless, are obliged to accept [delivers karate chop to the neck and wrestles sweater over Colleen's semi-conscious torso]
It turns out that the integration lessons, involve such riveting and pertinent subjects as:
- How to ride the bus!... classes are three times a week for 3 hours/session (6:30-9:45pm) for 4 months!
- How to get a job!
- How to avoid getting impaled on a razor wire barrier during a political demonstration!
Oh, and on top of that, there are mandatory "non-intensive" Dutch lessons twice a week, 3 hours/session for 5 months (hmmm….I don't think they are using this word correctly).
In a world where I can't even get my laundry done, I have a hard time seeing how I'd make time for this. When I expressed this to the woman at the Onthaalbureau, she looked at me sympathetically and delivered a karate chop to my neck. I woke up in my car clutching a new letter, stamped and signed, that simply reads:
Geboren in Canada die woont in Overijse, Zich heeft aangemeld op het onthaalbureau.
I suspect that my Kafka-esque nightmare has only just begun.
Stay tuned.
posted by Penless Artist at 7:42 p.m.
2 Comments:
On the bright side - you'll know an awful lot about Belgium at the end of it. You could offer to write a new Lonely Planet guide. I hope you are going to write a book. When it gets that bad, it's the only thing you can do.
"I hope you are going to write a book. When it gets that bad, it's the only thing you can do".
Ok. THAT'S my new favorite quote. Thanks!
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