Daddy's Girl

It's Father's Day here in the UK and in the ole US of A and that means Hallmark once again sees its sales spike for a hot minute. There's always a couple people who grumble about the "greeting-card-holidays" - those days that seem to exist mostly for capitalist reasons based on flowers, candies, or cards. Say what you will, though, I like the idea of taking time out to celebrate specific people who deserve some kind of nod from the rest of us, as long as it's done in a spirit that understands that, in fact, these people should be celebrated everyday. That, I think is from where some of the grumbling may stem: the fact that mothers, fathers, secretaries, sweethearts, etc, are always around. Why take a single day to celebrate them, creating a guilty day when people feel obligated to buy some kind of trinket so as not to appear callous? But essentially, isn't that at the base of every holiday? Every year around December the 25th a certain story by a certain English author is put on display. It has, at its core, a specific message: this holiday should be celebrated, or kept alive in people's hearts, every day of the year. Its spirit of joy, love, and forgiveness should infuse everything we do. Précisément. And so, say I, should it be with these other days. However, the recognition, the global nod that these people deserve our affection, is an important aspect as well. Getting up in front of a group of people and declaring your admiration or love or appreciation for something or someone somehow gives it a new layer of importance, a reinforcement, if you will.

With that in mind, I am going to - surprise, surprise - reflect on my dad. Anyone who has ever met me will be able to attest to the fact that I hold my dad in quite high esteem. I think he's fantastic. That's in part because we've always had a wonderful relationship. From the days I was an infant and would coo and gurgle when he bathed me - as opposed to the screaming fits I threw when my mother tried - to the annual father-daughter dances he flew or drove 700 miles to attend while I was in high school, my dad and I have always been close. This is in part because we are so similar. We're both mostly type-A personalities, we both like the finer things in life, we both love hockey and football, we both freak a little when it comes to finances, we both enjoy a good laugh and a good drink, and we both love school more than is probably normal. We get each other. My dad and I can look at each other across a dinner table filled with 20 other people and immediately know what the other is thinking. We compare notes on having to write papers and the fact that we're both master procrastinators.

Now, some of all of that is genetic. I am, without doubt, my father's daughter. But lots of it has been nurtured over our 25- (almost 26 - yikes!) year-long relationship. From day one, my dad has been there, caring and loving, encouraging, guiding, and coaching both me and my brother. While my mom worked Monday-Friday, Dad was the one that got us up in the morning, braided my hair, and took us to school. He taught us to ride our bikes. He read to us all the time, sang songs with us, told us stories and jokes, and instilled values and morals we both have come to see as fundamental to who we are as people. (None of this is to downplay the role my mom played. But this is the Father's Day post.) Dad's the one that planted the seeds for my love of classical music but also good beers and liquors. More than anything else, my dad spent time with us and respected us and our opinions.

There's always differing opinions on dads. Sociology classes talk about the role dads have to play in our lives. Are people less well-off if they don't have a father-figure? John Mayer's song "Daughters" asks dads to be good to their daughters because it's their love that moulds their worlds and future relationships. I certainly don't have any definitive answers to society's big questions, but I do know that my life has been as fantastic as it has, and I have been given so many things to be grateful for, because of my dad. He is amazing and I do not know who I would be or what I would have become without him. Nor do I want to know. I think of my dad almost every day and we talk quite often, even being an ocean apart. But today I just want to say, in front of an audience, that I will never admire any guy as much as my dad and I don't think I will ever be able to completely express how much I love him.

Thanks, Dad.

Saturday, what a day..

So, I started this blog and then promptly got so busy in such mundane ways that no second post seemed worth it. But that's no way to run an internet communication! Lack of time? Bah! Lack of titillating events? Pish! Just write something, eh?! That sentiment is my motivation today. It's a gloomy, cloudy Saturday morning here in Edinburgh, something I have become used to, even in the month of June.

Ya know, everywhere complains about their weather. No population ever truly admits their weather rocks, or at least not for very long. Buffalo, NY, has fantastic summers but everyone always complains about the snow in March. The Carolinas have the most gorgeous springs, but their summers evoke rants and raves about the humidity, the temperature, and the horrific UV index. Even still, both those places are willing to take their nice seasons as times to forget the bad ones and just enjoy yourself. Scotland can have sunny days and Fall's not so awful here, but it pretty much takes the cake when it comes to miserable weather. What's even better is that people have just come to accept this and, moreover, have turned winging about it into a national past-time. An entire popular psyche has been formed around the fact that the weather will, inevitably, let one down. On a sunny day: "It won't last." "I'm in the office today and damnit, on my day off it will no doubt be raining." "Ugh, the sun is too hot!" On a rainy day: "It's just not worth getting out of bed sometimes." "Ach, it's no different from any other day." (For the record, all direct quotes from Starbucks customers.) On a gloomy day: "At least it's dry." That's as optimistic as it gets. "At least it's dry." To be fair, that's usually my response to a Scottish customer's characteristically gloomy statement. Oh my.

On a more uplifting note, I have nothing official to do today! No ghost tours, no barista-ing, no meetings. I do, however, always have research. Academia is the kind of job that follows you around. People in offices talk about constant projects and such, but those are usually short-term bursts that end in a couple weeks and then a new one comes along. Turnover is pretty good. People who work shift jobs generally take nothing home with them and just enjoy their lives guilt-free until the next shift comes along. Not so in academia. There is always something massive looming over your horizon. (Wait, is this a Scottish weather discussion or what?) A dissertation doesn't write itself and even in a week where I've been to the library five times, I feel as though I should use part of my Saturday to get that little bit more read. After all, it's past mid-June (eek!) and writing must commence in July. MUST. You may be detecting a hint of resentment in this explanation, but the truth is that I love this. True, it can weigh you down and you have to learn to actively let go in order to truly enjoy a nice time, but in the end it is so much fun. Research is a bit of a drug for me. Writing is a bit of a drug for me. Getting a degree is a bit of a drug for me and I enjoy every enslaved moment in the library, sifting through sources for great quotes, fascinating ideas, or simply the satisfaction of saying that particular historian had his head on backwards when he thought that theory was a good one. More immediately and less ephemerally important, perhaps, is the fact that I have a meeting with my advisor this coming week. So goals must be met, progress must be made, and Saturdays cannot be devoted to snuggling with my giant stuffed hippopotamus in my Little Mermaid sheets. To the library!

P.S. In case you thought the hippo was a joke:

That's my cue...

Starting a new blog is never easy. The first entry holds power and mystique like no other. What tone will one set? How does one grab a reader with a blank slate? What, pray tell, should the overall theme be? None of these questions can easily be answered. Hopefully this first entry doesn't die a horrific, flaming death. Always start with a positive, eh?


The reason for this blog is actually fairly unspecific. I used to have an LJ account where I pretty much just rambled on about various things that popped into my head. Sometimes simple updates on my life, sometimes massive universe-altering questions, sometimes politics, sometimes silly things. That is probably what this sucker is going to end up being. In fact, it's that old LJ that inspired me to begin anew. A friend I hadn't heard from in ages randomly messaged me saying they'd found the link while bored on Facebook and had thoroughly connected to some of the entries. So I went back and checked them out and, lo and behold, I'm not a total moron! Some of my entries were kind of witty, in fact! I'd been thinking about blogging for a couple months, anyway, and here was precisely the impetus I needed. And so, dear readers, Pseudobelge was born.


The name may be a bit strange to those of you who don't reside in the dark corridors of my brain. Some explanation, then: I am American, born to parents from the Buffalo, NY, region while they were in Belgium as my dad did his Ph.D. I was ripped from small-town continental life when I was 9, moving to Jacksonville, NC. Then I went to high school in Buffalo, NY, while my family moved to Rock Hill, SC. My first year of undergrad was spent there, going to Winthrop University and living at home. Undergrad was then finished at Canisius College in beloved Buffalo. Then a year in Lille, France, teaching English. Academia continued to seduce me, though, and I moved on to Middlebury College, VT, doing a Master's in French over 6 weeks in VT and an academic year in Paris. Then, broke, spent a year living with my parents, working for Starbucks and trying not to lose my mind. Now I'm finishing up my second Master's in Intellectual History from the University of Edinburgh in Scotland and my Ph.D. begins in September - glutton for punishment, holla!


That's the bullet-point biography, but it's useful as background for the fact that I feel strong connections to Belgium without actually being Belgian. It is the place I have spent more of my life than any other. And, as you can see, I have actively sought out living in Europe as often as possible. And one of my life goals is to revive (or begin?) interest in the Belgian Revolutions of the 1780s/90s. So, Pseudobelge.


I suppose some house rules are in order to finish off this introductory entry. Feel free to get in touch with any questions or comments. Feel free to comment directly to posts. I'll do my best to answer in a timely fashion, unless the comment/question is inappropriate, which I will point out and then use as the reason for ignoring you. Suggestions for topics are always welcome, too.


Alrighty, that about does it for me this Saturday morning. See you next time - same blog channel, same blog time!