Search results matching tag 'cultural differences'

Third Culture Story: Waiting for the New Car...

MimiLynn — Thu, 11 Oct 2012 11:29:00 GMT

I had to finally buy my very own car so I could drive four states away to my first job out of college. My dad and I walked into one dealership, looked at a few models, chose one, signed some papers, walked out. I drove my new car home in time for lunch. I could literally pack my entire life, including four seasons of clothes, a box full of wine (I had recently gotten back from my “nannyship” in France), and my teddy bear. That same car drove me up and down I-75 countless times. It carried my wedding dress and flowers. It held my first baby to and from her pediatric appointments.

Then, our family arrived in Belgium. I adjusted from driving my small yet spacious American-model car to a simply small European car. It was alright because I had just one small 11-month old child. I could tote her around in a fold-up city stroller which fit perfectly in the trunk, even with groceries.

Soon came small-model child number two. The car seats fit side by side, although they both sat at window seats. The one-child fold-up stroller was soon replaced by the practically double-decker two-child push cart (“chair” just doesn't tell it right), which snuggled into the trunk if I took off the front wheel. Once the extra-curricular transportation was on board, I could take them all around town, to parks, to playgrounds, to anywhere but the grocery story or to anywhere possible purchases would need to be delivered home. Once I forgot to take the double stroller out before food shopping and had to drive home with paper bags (when they still gave out bags) stacked in between the toddler and her baby sister, under their feet, and seated beside me like a passenger. Sharp turns threw vegetables onto my lap. Once home and the car emptied of its contents, including my daughters, I made a mental note to insist on a new, bigger car with adequate trunk space. That was over eight years ago...

To read how I and my daughters have grown in and out of the car, read on at Good Night, Sleep Tight -

http://www.gn-st.com/2012/10/third-culture-story-waiting-for-new-car.html

Why French Parenting is Superior...Really?

MimiLynn — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 07:27:00 GMT

I recently read the article, Why French Parenting is Superior, in the Wall Street Journal (Feb.4, 2012) about a new parenting book, Bringing Up Bébé: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting by Pamela Druckerman. I have, literally, just read the book. Druckerman unveils aspects of French parenting, in general, that she has personally encountered and researched. Some points are helpful; some are nothing new. I did chuckle at a few parts because I could relate to the situations. But, being one of those mothers who suffers from mommy guilt à l'américaine, I do have issues with the author's tone. Yet, I didn't have to read the whole book to be annoyed.

Already, I have problems with the title of the Wall Street Journal Article. It implies that the statement “French Parenting is Superior” as fact. The word “superior” is dangerous. Stating any attitude, diet, religion or faith is “superior” only implies that anything else is wrong. In general, the French “educate” their children, as she says, differently. But, within the French population, individual parents educate their children differently just as do American parents. Not only do the slew of parenting books on the market show us how “wrong” we're doing it. Now, we have the further guilt of not being born into the “superior” parenting nationality.

As an American, married to a Frenchman, having lived in France and now in Belgium, I'd like to add my two centimes worth. I have witnessed parenting practices that span the spectrum while living with French host families during college and as a nanny to French children (just outside of Paris) after college. Not to mention, I have two children of my own. So, our little ones “benefit” from American and French parenting. Sometimes my husband's and my ways of “educating” complement each other and other times, we roll our eyes at each other and walk out of the room.

One of my first experiences of French parenting started in an upper middle-class neighborhood outside the capital. A rather reserved father walked me into the front door one night and introduced me to his wife as the new nanny. The children, ages 2 and 4, were sleeping at the grandparents' home nearby. Despite the time, the mother insisted we go meet them “tout de suite!” (right away). At 11pm, we rang the doorbell. The grandmother in her dressing gown and slippers led two, very groggy, young children in their dressing gowns and slippers down the hallway. Hardly after saying hello, the mother prompted the 4 year-old to “parler en anglais. Montre-la que tu sais parler en anglais.” (speak in English. Show her you know how to speak in English). The adorable, in a Madeleine way, young girl rubbed her eyes trying to think of something to say. I told her it was ok, that we'd talk in the morning when she wasn't so sleepy. To which, the mother insisted, “Non. Elle peut parler maintenant” (No. She can talk now). And thus started my séjour en enfer – pardon my French.

Almost nightly, starting with our very first night all together, the mother woke up screaming because one of the children had woken her up, either for a bad dream or a wet bed. Talk about “pas possible!”. That's just what I was thinking trying to sleep – that the mother was pas possible.

Not only was I to speak English to the children all day – which I do agree is the best way for them to learn – but, a young Spanish woman would also come speak and “play” in Spanish throughout the week. Before leaving for the high school where she was a French teacher, the mother would pull out various toys and explain just how to play them to optimize her son's language acquisition. (At this time, I had already earned a teaching degree. But that didn't count, apparently).

Besides the languages floating around, and out of fairness I do agree it's best to teacher languages at the youngest ages, the sister had various other lessons outside of pre-school. As a result, I often found her lying on the couch half asleep in the middle of the afternoon. The family only rolled out the TV stand after bedtime to watch the news. So, she wasn't just relaxing in front of a cartoon...she was exhausted. Choosing my words very carefully, I expressed my observations to the mother. Her response, “Tu n'es pas la première personne à me le dire. Mais, quand moi, je vois qu'elle est fatiguée, je ferai quelque chose.” (You're not the first person to tell me that. But when I see that she's tired, then I'll do something about it.)

Finally, one warm afternoon, we packed up the children to go swimming at the grandparents' house. I thought, “Enfin, some fun downtime.” I held the girl's hands, her arms stretched out and her legs kicking behind her. I said, “Let's be a motor boat” and started puttering my lips to make the noise of the motor. She smiled! Her eyes widened! What did the grandmother say to her daughter? “Regarde ça. Elle ne nage pas comme il faut.” (Look at that. She's not swimming correctly).

I...could ...go... on! Besides with this particular French family, I have attended and hosted playdates where more than one French child (French-French, not french-speaking Belgian) systematically jumped on and over the furniture. Evidently, their cadres (family framework) had a few loose nails.

Like Druckerman, I have met other French parents who have found a perfect balance of instilling respect and the notion of living up to certain expectations without suffocating the children.

On many occasions, I have been at dinner parties where, during the apéro (cocktails), the children pass around the finger foods. The parents or grandparents either secretly signal to the children to do so or they just know. Possibly, they have seen older siblings or cousins do the same. Good examples are very powerful.

I can say that my children were happy when I finally let them serve the apéro snacks– once they were at an age when I was fairly certain they wouldn't drop the (breakable) plates and bowls. After the apéro comes dinner, which can last hours. During which time, the children are not at a separate table in the corner. They are not eating pizza and hamburgers because “it's just easier.” They are sitting amongst the adults. They listen to conversations. They eat what the adults serve – including but not limited to foie gras, escargots, duck, various seafood and fish (even when there are bones).

A few years ago, we attended a wedding in France. The following morning, my husband and I were chatting with other guests in the lobby when I did witness the epitome of good parenting. At one point, three teenage boys were talking amongst themselves when one of their fathers said, “Allez descendre les affaires de mamam.” (Go bring down your mother's things). Mind you, the mother in question was a perfectly fit SAHM in her fifties. But with no hesitation, not even a break in conversation, all three boys turned to walk towards the elevators to go get her luggage from the room. No eye rolling. No back talk. Just did it. Being once a high school teacher with, let's say challenging, teenage students, I was very impressed!

So, back to this book about the “wisdom of French parenting,” there is some wisdom to French parenting. But, there is also some wisdom in many styles of parenting. Just like you need food to survive, you need a variety to be healthy.

Children have to, in any culture, deal with what's on their plate. They can eat it. They can chuck it against a wall. I believe parents have to present their children with limits and boundaries as much as fruits and vegetables. All of it makes for a good mind and body.

So rather than panicking about the latest parenting opinions, look at what you are serving your children in terms of love, support and education. Whether you are an American parent or a French parent or a parent tout court (period), observe how they digest it all. Then, adjust the seasoning as necessary.

For more personal reflections on raising Third Culture Kids and stories for children, visit Good Night, Sleep Tight (www.gn-st.com)

Third Culture Story: Princesses in a Bouncy Castle

MimiLynn — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 12:49:00 GMT

I don't remember ever dressing up as a princess. Although I do remember princesses...the ones in bright colored dresses in between hard-cover books from a certain “D” company. I do recall my mother sighing deeply after asking her to please read me Cinderella yet again. I didn't really believe that princesses existed outside of my story books. I suppose, though, I wanted to believe in the “happily every after” ending of each story.

But in comparison, my daughters, have gone through an almost clinically-defined princess phase...

To read more, visit Good Night, Sleep Tight at www.gn-st.com

The Gift of Bilingualism

MimiLynn — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 09:43:00 GMT

Having two languages in the house is amusing, to say the least. During meals, my children will turn to their father and say, “Je peux avoir du pain, s'il te plaît?” and then turn to me and ask, “May I have more milk?” Now that our daughters are six and eight years old, they have passed the normal phase of mixing languages in the quest for bilingualism. Although I had been a language teacher and had read several articles and books on language acquisition, I could still be caught off guard.

One day while I was pregnant with her sister, my first daughter was calmly sitting on the couch in the living room while I was preparing dinner. She was just a year and a half but had been talking since she was ten months old. With a picture dictionary on her lap, I knew I had a few minutes to get our meal prepped...until I almost dropped the casserole dish.

What had I heard my sweet girl mutter? She repeated it again. I held on to the counter to think where she possibly could have heard that word. She was saying it over and over again. “But we don't say the “F” word,” I told myself.

Catching my breath, I inquired in my softest voice, “Honey, what are you talking about?” and walked towards her. She was pointing at something and, very joyfully, calling it by name. I peered over the book and saw a simple, gray drawing. To her, in French, it was a “phoque”.

“Wow, look at the SEAL!” I said enthusiastically with great relief.

A few months later, we headed to Cornwall, England to the family cottage located in Crantock Village. I love it because you can walk the perimeter in as much time as it takes to walk the length of an American shopping center. The bakery, grocery and post office share the same surface which is no bigger than any of the adjoining cottages.

Our little white house hugs me like a good memory every time we arrive through the front sun room. My parents-in-law have many friends in the area who like to come by and see my husband and his siblings all grown up. When one particularly nice couple heard that we were coming for the first time with our daughter, they stopped by for tea one afternoon.

I dressed my daughter in her cutest sundress, with a sweater, of course. The Cornish coast is not South Carolina, where I spent Spring break as a child. We sat in the conservatory very prim and proper like any good English family would. Although I am American, I wanted to give the impression that I knew how it was done. Biscuits (not cookies) on the table. Tea cups counted out, spoons out, sugar out. Pour the milk before the tea. This last point is a long-time debate so I went with how my father-in-law prepares his tea...it's his cottage anyway.

We saw our guests walking up through the garden (not the front yard). Past the flower beds, they beamed their smiles as we opened the front door. Lots of “ohs” and “ahs” as my little girl walked and skipped up to give them each a bisou (not a kiss) on each cheek. Frenchness seems to charm people in any country. I stood beside my husband in my English-looking, pastel floral, maternity skirt thinking everything was just lovely (not just good).

Then, my cheeks turned as red as I wished the sun would in Belgium. My brain flash-backed to the day my daughter sat on the couch with her picture dictionary, to what I heard from the kitchen...

This friendly couple announced they had a little something. They handed my daughter a small stuffed animal as a souvenir of her first trip to Crantock Beach. The sea is known to be home of wondrous mammals that like to sunbathe on the rocks just off-shore. One of these creatures even swam up to my brother-in-law on one visit.
With a mother's instinct to avoid disaster before it has time to explode, I reached over to my daughter holding her by the shoulders. “What a cute seal! Thank you so much!” I sighed and calmly reiterated for further reference, “Isn't it a cute seal, Sweetie? Thank them for your lovely seal, please.” When I heard the words fall out of her mouth, I thought my job was done. “Thank you for the seal.”

The rest of the holiday (not vacation) went according to plan – coastal walks, garden visits, rainy afternoons with a good book. My daughter watched seagulls while bundled up in jeans, a sweater and an anorak. All the other English kids on the beach were in their bathers (not swimsuits).

On the flight home, my daughter sat calmly playing with her new little toy. I smiled at her, satisfied. She had already been to England at a year and a half of age. I was in my twenties the first time I crossed the Channel from France. She was speaking her first words, sentences, full thoughts in English and French. I had to spend years in university classes and semesters abroad to speak French the way she will naturally do so. Why study vocabulary lists when life is the best teacher?

Then, she dropped it in between the seats. In a volume only children use by nature, she cried, “Mummy! I dropped my phoque. Where's my phoque?”

Just as loud, I replied, “SEAL, Sweetie! Let's find your SEAL!”

Sex, Drugs and Rock-n-roll...relatively speaking

MimiLynn — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 18:59:00 GMT

At this age, mine and my children's, our concerns have been more along the lines of Kisses, Wine and Nursery Rhymes.

Kisses: The first time I went to France, just after high school graduation, I was delighted to have so many attractive French boys kissing me as soon I met them. Ok, they weren't really kissing in the sense Americans may think of it. But, for me, it was close enough. These little lip-flap cheek touches, known as bisous, were flattering nonetheless.

After subsequent trips to France and marrying into a French family, these bisous are now completely second nature. During school drop-off and pick-up, parents, children, and teachers exchange this salutation. I think my mother would be shocked to see me kissing so many married men. And, I hardly blink anymore when my husband has to greet a beautiful mother of one of our children's friends. (Although I do feel it odd how, for certain play dates, he is more willing to drive them).Walking through the grocery store, acquaintances greet and give a bisou. While a salesperson is speaking with a customer in a boutique and a colleague walks in, she will stop in mid-conversation to embrace him (more on customer service in a future post). I am so used to this custom that I sometimes catch myself trying to kiss my American friends when I go back to visit. It may look chic-chic, but I am just really saying hello.

A few summers ago when my daughters were about four and six years old, we spent several weeks at my mother's house. The girls enjoyed playing with the children of my childhood friends at the public pool. They were in swim classes together in the morning and we usually met back up after lunch to splash some more. We mothers enjoyed catching up on each others' lives in the sunshine. The days went quickly and it was soon our last morning poolside.

Swim certificates in hand, our sons and daughters were bouncing around on one last sugar-high from the candy their instructors handed out. I started packing up wet towels and goggles. I casually told my girls that we were flying back to Brussels in a couple of days and wouldn't see our friends again until next summer. “Go say goodbye, please.” That's all I said before it happened.

A heavy, plastic lounge chair fell back with a squeak and a clunk. Heads of instructors, parents and swimmers turned. The commotion caused an abrupt silence. My friend's eight-year-old son was just catching his balance, backwards no less, when his mother very matter-of-factly leaned towards me and said, “Yep, that would be his first kiss.”

As her little sister stepped back from his brother, my then 6 year-old stood still, eyes shocked open. She had never before had such an effect on the opposite sex. I wonder if this is how all young French women get their seductive reputations – just by being themselves while abroad.

(To continue reading about wine and nursery rhymes. please go to www.gn-st.com)

Third Culture Story: School - Getting that Culture Right

MimiLynn — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 09:08:00 GMT

Originally published Sept. 1, 2011 on www.gn-st.com

I am one of those women who just always imagined herself as a stay-at-home mother. My mother was. I assumed I would be. Once my children would be school-age, I also assumed I would be a room mother, on the PTA board, and/or organizing monthly bake-sales for sport team uniforms and the like. And, I assumed I would be in America.

First of all, when we were still on the East Coast and my daughter was 6 months old, I went back to work. As my husband was traveling often for his job, I got to run to daycare in the early morning, go to work, run to daycare in the evening, get home in time for her final feeding, bath and put my new baby to bed, both of us exhausted.

Then one evening, my husband was home before my daughter and I. He told us to sit on the couch. I propped her up beside me.

"We're moving to Belgium," he said.

I jumped off the couch. She slouched to one side.

“I won't be allowed to work!” I screamed (inside my head).

I envisioned four years at home with my little girl, going on walks, talking about the world around her, playing dress-up, doing crafts, going on outings... Well, at the very least, my new stay-at-home status started off that way.

During a playgroup in our new country of residence, a few of the other mothers were talking about choosing schools for their children. I thought, “Whatever for? They are only two years old.” So, I asked and learned that I would actually be a stay-at-home-alone-with-her-baby-sister mother in just six months time. She was only a toddler. I still had cooking projects and outings planned!

Free education in Belgium starts for children as of the day the child turns two and a half years old. Literally, a child can show up at a public school on any given day of the school year if it corresponds to the day the child turns two and half years old. Conveniently, my daughter would start school in September.

I had work to do. Since parents can enroll their children in any school they choose, I wanted to research my choices. My husband and I decided to concentrate on the local public schools rather than the international schools. At the time, my husband's assignment was just for two to three years (over seven years ago). So, we thought public school would be a good place to immerse our daughter in the local culture.

After visiting and interviewing the principals in five schools (I had been a teacher and knew just what I wanted), I made a decision. Each school had a different pedagogical philosophy and one suited our family best. I enrolled her. A place was available. Finally, I had to get school shopping. I found an adorable, teeny, tiny backpack in the shape of a ladybug. What could children possibly need to pack but a snack at that age? (I was later told, by the teacher, that it was entirely too small.)

The first day of September arrived with lots of sunshine. So, I dressed her in a little navy-blue Snoopy dress, white socks, and red shoes. I strapped her sister in the stroller and off we went. Although the children are welcomed for a full day at that age, I opted to pick her up after lunch - to the astonishment of the teachers. She can nap at home, I reasoned.

I found out during the course of my interviews that a PTA, in the American sense, does not really exist. When I asked one principal the question, “How do you encourage parents to participate in the school?” she looked confused (a little like Karen on Will & Grace). She basically replied that parents can drop off their kids and then get going.(And yes, I promptly crossed her off my list). Consequently, I looked for some way, any way, to get involved.

The kindergarten classes (referred to as 1st, 2nd and 3rd maternelle) requested parents to sign up, on a rotating basis, to bring in snack for the class. Bingo! I love to bake. This is my chance.

My daughter's school did a great job encouraging healthy eating. They asked parents to fill up the class basket with water or juice, a fruit, a starch (cookies, cereal or breads) and a dairy item. One boy in her class had an egg and dairy allergy. So, I looked up recipes on the internet until I found ones without egg or dairy, or had at least an easy substitute. Unfortunately, I have yet to find an egg substitute in Belgium, so it was tricky at times. In the end, my snack was a big hit. The mother of this particular boy was very appreciative of the effort. The class "oohed and ahwed" when we'd walk in with the basket overflowing. I found my place. I couldn't be room mother, but I could be “the snack lady.” Unfortunately, my popularity didn't last.

Without even thinking, I signed up to take charge of the snack basket the first week of February. I filled it up with all the usual goodies, washed and separated the grapes, found a couple boxes of organic cookies (egg and dairy-free), etc. and heaved it into the car. Upon arriving into the building, my daughter said she had wanted me to make crêpes. I love crêpes too but hadn't yet mastered making them. “But, the other mothers made crêpes,” she pointed out. I looked around. True. One mother from each class walked down the hall with her snack basket and a plate of crêpes.

“What?” I said out loud, and in English (I need to stop that).

“Mommy, it's Chandeleur (Candlemas) today.”

How could I not have made crêpes? I had been a French teacher. I made crêpes for my students. Now, I was free-flying without a lesson plan. I pleaded jet-lag, although we'd been back already a month from Christmas vacation in the U.S.

I tried to reassure my daughter that not every class would have crêpes. “Surely, not all parents have the time to make them.” She couldn't even look at her teacher in the eye when she and I handed over the snack basket. Not one word was uttered.

Having believed my own reassurances about the snack “requirement” that day, I had forgotten entirely about the crêpe issue by lunch time. After feeding the baby, I placed her in the stroller and started down the hill to school. As we were walking back up the hill, I asked my schoolgirl how her morning went. “We were the only class without crêpes.”

Mommy guilt, a big dose of it settled into the bottom of my stomach. How could I redeem myself?

...Valentine's day!

If public school celebrates the Catholic holiday of Candlemas, surely it would do something for St. Valentine.

I told my daughter about the little Valentine cards my classmates and I made for each other in grade school, “You're super!” and “Be Mine” scribbled in magic marker on index-sized cards. I helped her decorate a little Valentine bag to collect the cards that her American grandparents and cousins would be sending. I even told her how everyone always wears red on Valentine's day. It was one of my favorite days to go to school...always hoping a certain little boy would hand me the “Be Mine” versus the “You're Super!” card. I didn't want to get too carried away, though. She wasn't quite three years old.

On the day itself, I dressed my little schoolgirl in a red sweater, a red skirt, red and white-striped stockings with sparkly hearts on the ankles and her red shoes. (Even in black and white letters, the outfit sounds a bit much. But, honestly, how many of us went to school looking similar?)

I packed her lunch of heart-shaped finger sandwiches with a Valentine napkin in a red cooler bag and put a heart sticker on it (left over from my teacher days). How could anyone say now that I was a “party-pooper”? My daughter danced around like a Queen of Hearts until it was time to head out.

Upon arriving into the school building, we looked around at all the other children. They were dressed very nicely in their school dresses and freshly pressed trousers. But, the only red was the thin stripe in her classmate's Burberry jeans (as if three-year-old boys don't get mud and grass stains). Oh well. We would at least be having fun making heart-shaped sugar cookies this afternoon while everyone else napped.

When lunch was finished, I strapped my equally red-dressed baby back in the stroller and headed down the hill. We walked into the lunchroom where I found my schoolgirl at the little lunch table, empty red bag at her side. She stood up ready to go as usual. We walked over to her teacher to say goodbye. While my daughter received her usual cheek-kiss goodbye, I got odd, raised eyebrow looks from the lunch ladies.

“We saw her sandwiches,” her teacher said.

No “that was cute” or “what a nice idea.” Shrugging off the comment, we walked home. I asked her if she had a fun time at school.

“Yes.”

Silence.

“My teacher asked why I was dressed all in red.”

...Can I not win?!

This feeling of defeat can be common among expats trying to "fit in." Many years later, the feeling has subsided but can still creep up. Sometimes, it takes years to figure out just what went wrong.

Since that first year of school, I have never again insisted as much for Valentine's day. I have learned to dress my daughters more discreetly in red and wait until dinner to make a heart-shaped cake. Just last year, an English classmate of my eldest daughter asked their second grade teacher if the class could exchange Valentine cards.

“Non!” she answered in a very high pitch, according to my 8-year-old. “C'est la fête des amoureux (a holiday for lovers)!” I suppose that rightly explains the funny look I received from her first teacher.

As I leave now to pick up my two daughters from this year's first-day-of-school, I think of that first full year in Belgium, the first year with a school-age child. I miss the ladybug backpack and heaving that heavy basket of goodies around.

Now that they are in primary school, I help guide their French and English homework. I will eventually help them with their Dutch lessons. No matter how many "first days" go by, we are all still learning...and that's true in any culture.

An Aha! Moment about Place-Conscious Writing While Swimming in Austin (Heather)

Anonymous — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 04:03:32 GMT

Click to view slideshow.“Write about what makes you different.” ~Sandra Cisneros

Amy and I lounged in a bath-warm infinity edge pool under a full moon, overlooking Lake Travis at a recent retreat at The Crossings in Austin. About 15 of us teachers were swimming that night, following a long day of developing resources to take back to our Writing Project sites around the country. For some of us, this felt like the first time to truly unwind after teaching summer school, taking classes, conducting research, or traveling for conferences and presentations. What do you get when you put a group of over-worked teachers together in a pool? Synchronized cannonballs, doggie paddle races, chicken fights on each others’ shoulders, and even underwater handstand races. We tried to avoid “talking shop,” but inevitably the conversations led back to writing.

Earlier that evening, Amy and I had shared our digital stories at an open mic session. Now we were by the edge of the pool, talking to a new Writing Project friend. Paul mentioned that the story about my Finnish grandma was a strong piece of place-conscious writing. I hadn’t thought about this before, but it was true that most of the audience we had that night — from Arkansas to California, from Alaska to Colorado — hadn’t experienced the Finnish ways that seem so ordinary to me. They hadn’t heard someone call a scarf a “huivi,” or a closet a “koppi.” They were enamored with my grandparents’ small log cabin home, which looks like a gingerbread house, and the little sauna built in the back.

As we talked about this, I thought about other Finnish traditions that we have in our family. We eat foods like vilia, a cultured yogurt; pannukakku, oven pancake; and korpu maito, a twice-baked cinnamon toast soaked in hot milk. Over the years, we have taken the girls to Finnish-American family reunions, to Finn Fest (participating in the World’s Largest Sauna) and to an annual Christmas party called Pikkujoulu. Just a few weeks earlier, I had taken my daughters to the Juhannes potluck, where my parents’ Finnish Club celebrates the mid-summer festival. I noticed that my girls were the only children there, and even the adults were mostly elderly. This traditional Finnish celebration will soon go to the wayside in the Upper Peninsula.

Amy, Paul and I discussed these traditions that I so often take for granted, and then I started laughing. I had forgotten about the most unusual Finnish tradition in our family: St. Urho’s Day. Each year, Finns celebrate St. Urho’s Day on March 16. We wear purple and green in honor of the saint who drove the grasshoppers out of ancient Finland to save the grape crops. The funny part is that my husband Kevin sometimes plays the role of St. Urho. He dresses in a green wig, purple robe and wears a Viking helmet. The ladies line up and parade with Kevin around the dance floor.

“You never told me about this!” Amy said. I had never thought about it. Didn’t everyone have a St. Urho’s Day Parade? It seemed so funny at the moment. I started thinking about what evidence I have of this celebration: somewhere, there’s a picture of Kevin dressed up as St. Urho. Also, I remember in second grade, Mikayla had written a journal and drew a picture about her memories of the celebration.

After returning home, I dug out Mikayla’s journal, and here is an excerpt:

“On Saturday morning I had to pack my suitcase to go to my grandmas house for St. Orho’s Day. We stopt at my cousin Iris’s house and brat her to a hour later we got to my grandmas house when we got ther we had to get in are elfits on then we had to go to the partty. My dad was St. Orho my sister whas Mis. Orho and we danced all night long then we whent back to my grandmas house and whent to bed.”

Funny that it took going to Austin to realize what makes my family different back at home.

Tips for Working with Different Cultures in the Classroom

Anonymous — Fri, 15 May 2009 22:20:14 GMT

Consider the cultural differences before engaging in any of the following: Appropriateness of using telephone to communicate with parents Patting a child on the head as a sign of affection Expecting children to look you in the eye when being scolded Looking people you’ve just met in the eye when simply talking Shaking hands, pointing, gesturing “come” Being informal vs. courteous [...]