Smashing into That Cultural Wall--Part I

When I first moved to Germany, I was keen to learn all that I could about my new home. I ate new foods, sported some new glasses, took some German classes, and tried to incorporate German phrases and expressions into my vernacular. I studied maps, played CDs, listened to the radio, and cheered for both St. Pauli and HSV whenever a football game was on. When a tidbit of trivia or genuine cultural interaction was offered, I took it wholeheartedly.

But then I started to notice that my responses were met with surprise. They weren't what people expected to hear. Sometimes it was the words, the sentence structure or the intonation that threw people off...other times it was my very actions.

I learned that you don't smile on the street or nod to other mothers pushing babies in strollers. Don't talk with the cashier--she, and the other customers in queue, will wonder why you are taking up so much time. Don't strike up a conversation with the other parents in the park unless they initiate it; you are a stranger and why do you want to talk with me. Don't do anything that might intrude on someone else's privacy or their right to do XYZ. And, whatever you do, don't be loud.

A little problematic for someone from sunny California.

The other day, Dan's parents and sister, Sophie and I were in the park. A man and his little dog stood right by us. Sophie and the dog started to walk toward each other. Sometimes it's ok to pet dogs, other times not, so we always ask, and I said, "Bist du ein liebes Hund?"

"Have some respect!" retorted the man, yanked the dog's leash, and stomped away.

Stunned, I said to a sad Sophie, "some people and dogs are friendly, others are not. They did not want to play with us, but maybe another dog will."

Then I noticed my in-laws were trying not to laugh. "You just asked if that dog was a lover-dog." Ah. Liebes Hund = Lover-dog. Liebe Hund = nice dog. Won't make that mistake again.

Even though I have blond hair and blue eyes, my facial features tell that I'm not German. I don't wear my clothes with that panache, my walk swings to a different gait, I have to remember to use a fork to eat french fries. How many times have people innocently asked, "Where are you from?" Few expect to hear "United States", the shockwaves visibly flicker across faces accustomed to a display of stoicism.

"But you look Swedish/Russian/Danish/Ukrainian!" they exclaim. And I smile, "Yes, my ancestors are from Sweden and Russia, but I am an America."

"You German is so good!" they reply. "Americans usually don't speak German!" Oh God, how do I interpret this? My German is good, for an Amerikan Dumkopf? It really is good? No, not really...but I live in Germany, and I kind of have to learn the dominant language if I am going to buy groceries, take my kid to the doctor, or have any sort of life outside the house.

And then, nine times out of ten, whoever I'm talking to will correct my grammar. When did I give you permission to do that? While the intent maybe helpful, the action is not. Just let me speak and get the words out. Bunged up akkusativ or dative tense or correct, you still can understand the gist of what I'm trying to say. Lover-god or Nice-dog. Sometimes being supportive is more important than being correct.

I still get strange looks when I ask for tap water, or softly sing along to the song on the radio, or grimace when overhearing that the local high school is dangerous "because of all those foreigners." Hey, I'm one of them, and so's my kid. We might not be fulfilling a stereotype, but we are Auslanders, foreigners.

It's tough, it's tough, it is what it is. And I have it easy. I have a loving husband, great in-laws, and the toughness to make the best of almost any situation. What I bump into is minor league, but it gets tiring when you do feel like I have to constantly assess whether or not I'm doing the culturally appropriate thing. I'm beginning to "get" on a core level why some people choose not to join the dominant society. It's exhausting.

More on this at another time. The joy of the Christmas season has infused the house with a new delight.

Laterne, Laterne

Ich gehe mit meiner Laterne und meine Laterne mit mir... I go with my lantern and my lantern with me

-German folksong

We're entering the dark time of year. The newspapers report zero hours of sunshine. When it does appear through the clouds, the sun makes a low arc in the sky, at its zenith it's strength is that of a California sunrise. Throughout the day, the light is low, flat, and gray. By 4:30 in the evening, all is black. People scurry about in the cold, from one building to another, in search of warmth, friendship, light.

No surprise that the Germans have a holiday to bring in some cheer in what must be the dreariest month. Called "Laterne", or St. Martin's Day, it is a celebration of light and warmth, specifically the warmth that comes from the human heart. A time to remember how kindness can comfort even the most weathered soul.

The story goes that St. Martin was riding on a horse and saw a homeless man freezing in the snowstorm. Martin cut his coat in half so the man wouldn't die. That night, he dreamed that Jesus appeared wearing the torn coat that had been given away, and that Jesus spoke to the angels, saying "Here is Martin, the unbaptized Roman solider."

Giving away a coat might not be a big deal in warm California, but trust me. Here in cold cold Germany, that half a coat is a charitable act that means a lot.

Today, children celebrate St. Martin's day by making lanterns and going on a parade. We went to two celebrations: one sponsored by the local Opel car dealership (over 500 people!), and the other a family-friendly one by the neighborhood Martin Luther Church. Sophie made a lantern, complete with candle. We donned out thick ski parkas, hats and gloves, and met up with others at the church.

First, there was the bonfire. Large and bright, it cackled warmth. Kids gathered around and adults added more logs. Warmth and heat. A priest dressed as St. Martin appeared, and told the old stories about the holiday. We sang songs. Sophie was hungry, so we ate some Weinerwurst (sausage) and I drank Gluhwein, a hot spiced wine, yet another source of warmth. Then the band appeared, and it was time for the parade. The first song was "When the Saints Go Marching In", and we sang with gusto.

We marched around the rather big block, the band playing St. Martin's Day songs, kids dashing here and there or riding on their father's shoulders, mothers chatting with friends. Families, grandparents, and lots of seniors gathered at their windows to take in the celebration. The parade brought warmth to their homes.

Sometimes the most precious fire is the kindness of the human heart. The simple hello, a song, the friend who listens when you share a story. A coat in the snowstorm. Thank you, St. Martin.