To sleep, perchance to dream

With the days at their shortest and the skies gunmetal gray, every fiber of my being is telling me to sleep. When the alarm goes off in the morning, I surface in slow motion to full consciousness, the world a dark and blurry place.

Some days I never quite exit sleep, it drags at my limbs and fogs my brain. Every horizontal surface invites me to recline. On the Metro, I struggle to keep my chin off my chest as the train hums along between stops. The cold air outside the station provides a needed slap in the face, stirring me to full consciousness.

At night, the moment I shut my eyes I begin dreaming, disheveled arrangements of time and place overlapping in jagged storylines. I want to stay in this dream world where all time exists at once, where friends and family from the past, present, and future mysteriously come together and assume new roles. I could pass the whole winter wrapped in warm flannel sheets and my favorite red fleece blanket.

It’s been weeks since we’ve had a sunny day, and I think that’s at the root of my lethargy. I desperately need to recharge my solar battery, to tip my face up to the sky and not feel rain, to step out the door and reach into my purse for my sunglasses.

Blue skies and white clouds,  a dream on the horizon.

Copyright 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

December 22, 2005

Remembering Fallen Americans in Europe

Last Saturday, my husband and daughter traveled to Bastogne, Belgium to participate in a walk commemorating the Battle of the Bulge. More than 78,000 Americans soldiers died here in December 1944, defending Belgium from Germany’s final major offensive.

78,000 Americans slaughtered in one battle the week before Christmas.

It’s hard to even comprehend the magnitude of that number, let alone imagine what it was like for individual soldiers struggling in the bitter cold and fog or for their loved ones glued to radios at home, praying for good news before Christmas.

During a time when the U.S. government has come under fire from its allies in Europe, I wanted to let Americans at home know that whatever Belgians think of the tactics used in the “war on terror,” they have not forgotten those who fought on their behalf in World War II.

In addition to erecting a memorial to the soldiers who died in the Battle of the Bulge and sponsoring an annual commemorative walk through the battlefields, every year the people of Belgium donate a large native fir tree to the American Embassy to serve as its official Christmas tree. It is decorated and displayed prominently in the Embassy lobby, grown from the soil that saw so much blood and heartache and desperation.

“Peace on earth. Goodwill toward men.” Our ultimate Christmas wish.

Poor, poor pitiful me

I woke in the night to the unsettling music of an orchestra from hell. First the slow building crescendo of a howling wind section was joined by the  percussion of rain splattering against the windows. The vibrating garage doors provided thumping bass. The flapping vent cover in the kitchen added its own discordant notes.

I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I was in a gothic movie, set on the windswept moors.

I am so tired.

Walking the children to the bus stop in the pitch black this morning, we were bundled up in big coats so only the white circles of our faces peered out from under our hoods. Wrestling our umbrellas, trying to stay one step ahead of the shifting wind direction, we nevertheless got wet.

I have to go to the chiropractor today—which means a 10 minute walk to the bus stop, catching the Metro into the center of Brussels, and then walking another 10 minutes to the doctor’s office. Half an hour later, I get to do the whole thing in reverse.

39 degrees. 30 mph winds. Rain, rain, and more rain.

How can Friday morning feel worse than Monday?

December 16, 2005

Confessions of a Clueless Consumer

Until I moved to Belgium , I took for granted the wealth of knowledge I had accumulated on the retail landscape in the U.S. I was a shopping guru and didn’t even know it. Years of experience and a nose for a bargain had made me a master of the retail universe.

I knew which grocery stores had the freshest produce, the best bakery, the slowest checkout lines, the lowest prices, the best service, the largest imported food section, and the best and worst delicatessens.

Inside the stores, I could locate the jars of pimento peppers, the canned black beans, toothpicks, cupcake liners, Splenda, and anything else I might need. I knew the difference between the types and qualities of the flour in the baking section, the subtle variations in the numerous kinds of canned tomatoes, when it was safe to go with a store brand versus a name brand, and when to avoid the crowds. I even knew what day the shelves were stocked and when the weekly sales were launched.

My knowledge of other retailers was also extensive. Sure Wal-Mart had better prices overall, but Target often had better designs on everything from clothing to housewares. Yet Wal-Mart had better quality kids’ shoes, but Target had better women’s shoes—see what I mean about having market intelligence?

Who knew Costco’s cakes were as delicious as they were inexpensive? A pleasant surprise since most discount bakery cakes taste like they contain petroleum byproducts.

In the mall I could tell you the best place to buy men’s shirts, and who had the best selection of ties and the lowest prices on khakis. I knew the starting price for a pair of Levis , the most common sale price, and the truly good deal. I could tell you where to buy a fabulous leather handbag or a special occasion dress for your daughter.

I could predict when items would be marked down and how far. I knew all sales were not created equal and could spot a bogus 50-percent-off sale a mile away.

I knew where to buy appliances and furniture and who delivered and how fast. I could tell you which brands were rated highest by Consumers Reports and who had the best selection of everything from washing machines to children’s bedroom furniture to leather sofas.

I had Lowe’s and Home Depot’s respective strengths and weaknesses tallied on a spreadsheet in my head. I could tell you where to buy paint and which brands were best for different applications. I knew that you should not buy hardwood flooring at a giant DIY store but get it directly from the mill. Never heard of that tiny family owned mill? No problem. I’ve got their number.

Despite living in an area with a remarkable number and density of stores, I was not overwhelmed by my choices. I was lord of the shopping universe, moving with confidence and grace through my kingdoms.

And then I moved to Belgium , where I became a hapless and clueless consumer. Nowhere was this more evident than in the grocery store, which looked so straight-forward but was full of hidden puzzles designed to confuse and humiliate.

Sure, the produce section was self-explanatory, though we committed a big faux pas in not weighing our purchases before going to the checkout at Carrefour. The checker and the other patrons were remarkably patient as my husband dashed back to the scales on a busy Friday night.

We quickly figured out how to use the bread slicing machines, though we occasionally came home with the wrong type of bread. (Oh no, this isn’t raisin bread? What are those brown things in the bread? Nuts? Why does it taste bitter? I thought this was a sweet bread!)

The meat section was challenging because we couldn’t distinguish the different cuts of beef and pork. A Southern girl, I wanted to make BBQ sandwiches but didn’t want to humiliate myself trying to explain to the butcher I needed a “pork butt roast.”

It was the dairy case, however, that was our complete undoing. Was the selection really as enormous as it seemed or did I just not pay attention in the U.S. ? I’m not sure, but my impression is that Belgians enjoy as many varieties of yogurt as Americans have types of soft drinks.

I was baffled by the rows and rows of dairy products. How were they different? Were any of them low-fat? Which bottle of milk was skim? And what about all these blocks of cheese—what was what?

I’ve come home with yogurt when I thought I was buying sour cream. I once unwrapped what I thought was a block of cheddar cheese and was quickly overcome by its vile smell. (Not feeling adventurous, I tossed it straight into the trash and took the bag outside so it wouldn’t pollute my kitchen.)

One morning I opened and poured what I thought was milk into my coffee and it curdled. Oops, that was buttermilk in disguise. Ewwww.

With the dairy section at the grocery store leaving such a sour taste in my mouth, it was clear I had to be better prepared. I knew I needed a Dutch-English dictionary but where to find one? Once again, I was lost. It took me weeks of wandering into bookstores before I triumphed.

However, my elation was short-lived. One problem solved, another revealed. It’s not enough to own a Dutch dictionary, I must bring it with me to the store. Somehow I always forget it and keep repeating my shopping mistakes.

Hmmm, if only I could replace my foggy brain with an upgraded model that has improved memory. Anyone know where to purchase that?

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 15, 2005

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh ChristmasTree

OK, after delivering my nice holiday sermon on the excess of Christmas in the U.S. , my two-faced heart showed its other side and reminded me that no matter how I might downsize my holiday celebration, low-key and simple are not words I want to use to describe my Christmas tree.

Sure I can leave all the holiday snowmen, lanterns, decorative plates, greenery, ribbon, gingerbread garland, carved wooden reindeer, candle holders, placemats, kitchen stuff, and window decorations in storage. No real sacrifice there and a lot less hassle. But the tree and all its accoutrements are the centerpiece of our holiday celebration—no way I’m settling for less.

I have three big Rubbermaid boxes of Christmas ornaments, most of them by Hallmark, others made by the children or friends or purchased one at a time at holiday bazaars and the little shops in my hometown. In 24 years, I’ve accumulated A LOT of ornaments, and I brought them all with me.

However, I left my American Christmas lights behind, figuring it would cost more to buy a transformer to run them from than it would to just replace them with 220 V lights. Friday night we went to Ikea to get some. Everything in that store is so cheap, we didn’t even check prices or shop around. Why bother?

There were stacks of lights to choose from. The boxes indicated each strand was 50 feet long. Wow! That’s a lot of lights! We bought three boxes because we weren’t sure how far they’d go. We figured, what the heck, we can always return the extras. We merrily headed to the checkout stand humming Deck the Halls.

Shock Number One: Show me the money, honey!

Hello?! Each box cost more than $15. Didn’t I pay about $5 or less for the same thing in the U.S. ? Of course, those were probably made by human rights activists imprisoned in China ; these were probably made by Union employees in Europe . In the interest of holiday cheer and Amnesty International, I don’t let the price get me down. Besides, these light strands are extra long so it’s worth it.

Ka-ching. Ka-ching. Pay for the bling.

Shock Number Two: Where’s the watts?

We were startled to discover when we unboxed the lights that the length “50-feet” applied mostly to the very long cords attached to the light strands. We bought a lot of cord, not a lot of lights! Uh-oh. We’re really going to have to spread them out on the tree.

There is a black hole in my Christmas fantasy, sucking the radiance out of my tree.

Shock Number Three: Dim as Jessica Simpson

We plug a strand in to test the bulbs and discover they are Jessica Simpson lights—rather small and not too bright.

And to add insult to injury, the lights flash or twinkle. No option for burning steady, the traditional Christmas look.

I have never liked twinkling lights. They remind me of the sad, neglected Christmas trees in bars and restaurants which seem kind of spastic and forlorn, just like the drunks at closing time.

I don’t want my tree to look like it’s having a seizure, yet there it stands in all its epileptic glory having light spasms.

Shock Number Four: Where’s the juice?

Yes, we spent almost $50 on what turned out to be three puny light strands, and they don’t plug into one another end to end. Each strand of lights requires its own outlet and has a big black box at the plug which means they’re too bulky to put into a power strip.

European homes are not known for being well equipped electrically. Economy is the norm, even in nice homes. They normally lack light fixtures, have limited circuit capacity, and are short on outlets. My three sickly strands of lights commandeered all the outlets in the room and put my lamps out of commission. We are entering the twilight zone in our own house.

To make matters worse, the cords are crisscrossing the floor in their desperate bid to find a plug to call their own. Hmmmm. Maybe if I get creative, I can make the cords form a star of David.

The Bright Side

In the end, we accept our plight. We resist the temptation to sing, “Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree, how dimly lit thy branches.”  We squelch our whiney Scrooge instincts. We strive to look on the bright side. 

We applaud our energy-efficient display--we're having a green Christmas. We tell ourselves that the tree looks lovely and old-fashioned, despite its blinking lights and illumination ADD.

As we decorate, we talk about our favorite ornaments, build a fire, make some popcorn, share Christmas memories and soon there's a warm glow in the room. I have a Grinch-like epiphany. It is our love, not our lights, that makes Christmas merry and bright. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

©2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 12, 2005

The Dark Side of the Season

Checking the Belgian news, I read that three homeless persons had frozen to death while I was on holiday in Paris.

I thought of my 8-year-old daughter.

While we were in Paris, walking through a fashionable neighborhood near the center of the city, she cried out to me, “Mama! Mama!”

I followed her pointing finger and couldn’t see what she saw. There was an element of panic in her voice that I didn’t understand. Where was the emergency? Finally I spotted the source of her despair.

A homeless man curled into a circle on the floor of a phone booth.

It was bitterly damp and cold. It had snowed the day before. We were chilled even in heavy parkas, scarves, and gloves, but we were heading home to a warm supper and a cup of tea.

This man was going nowhere.

And for the third time in as many days I struggled for words to comfort and enlighten my daughter. I’d had to explain about the man in the Metro wrapping his feet in rags and lining his clothes with discarded newspapers. I’d had to explain to her why there were crude tents and an informal commune under a lavishly decorated bridge over the Seine. I’d had to justify my decision not to toss change to the woman with the begging cup targeting English-speaking tourists on the Champs-Elysees.

Amid my broad explanations on the causes of homelessness and some of the ways we have helped those in need, my daughter saw not our successes but our failures. She didn’t care about our charitable donations or our work in a soup kitchen last summer—she cared about the sight of another human being sleeping on pavement in freezing temperatures.

“Why couldn’t we at least have bought him a hot chocolate? Why couldn’t he have a warm place to sleep?” Back at our apartment, my daughter threw herself down on the bed and wept, all the joy drained out of her holiday. Is it my role as a parent to try to harden her tender heart? Or is it her place as a child to deepen the compassion in mine?

From our American home near Fredericksburg, Virginia, to Baltimore, Maryland, to Washington to New York to Paris to Brussels, the faces and fates of the homeless have challenged our thinking, our politics, our inner peace. They highlight our helplessness to affect real change. They spotlight our confusion over the nature of their problems. They remind us of our failures to make a difference. They make us uneasy or arrogant about our wealth.

And they die on the steps of a church in Brussels.

From city to city, continent to continent, the problem of homelessness is one we can’t escape. We can move across the globe and become “strangers in a strange land,” but the harsher reality is that the homeless are often strangers in their own lands. They are expatriates in their own lives, homeless in every sense.

Yet in my daughter’s eyes, they aren’t strangers at all. They aren’t easy to forget or ignore. Theirs is not a complicated problem. They are simply people in need, and we are people in a position to help.

As we move into the holiday season with its glittering attractions and religious celebrations, let’s seek ways to share the actual and figurative warmth in our lives, to acknowledge without judgment the plight of the “expatriates” on the streets of Belgium and in the towns and cities of our home countries.

The poor will always be with us, but as we travel the world let’s be certain that compassion follows us from place to place as well. Let’s not avert our eyes but choose instead to face our shared humanity, expatriate to expatriate.

First published on Expatica.com

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

It's not a small world after all....

This morning, just as it was time to head out the door, A said, “I’m out of notebook paper at school!” And so begins a frantic search for notebook paper, and then an equally frenzied search to find a folder to transport it to school so it doesn’t wind up as a crumpled mess in his backpack.

A file folder would be ideal but do I have any file folders? Nooooo! Why? Because I failed to stock up on them before I left the U.S. and now we’re completely out. Why not buy them here you ask? Because European paper is not the same size as American paper. Their paper and their file folders are too big for my file cabinet.

In my life abroad, it’s little things like this that chafe and burn. Discovering I can’t buy 8.5 x 11 inch paper here. Trying to find wide-ruled notebook paper. Not being able to get a big map of the U.S. to help Andrew with geography. Being forced to pay $100 for printer cartridges for my new Dell printer through a dealer in the Netherlands. I tried to order a stockpile of office supplies online only to discover most U.S. companies don’t ship to APO addresses and international shipping charges are monstrous. Other companies will ship to an APO, but it’s a hassle. I have to fill out paperwork, establish an account, and can’t order online. I won’t have those file folders any time soon!

At the grocery store, I’ve come home with yogurt when I thought I was buying sour cream. Another time I thought I had purchased a block of cheddar cheese, but when I unwrapped it, it smelled so vile I tossed it straight into the trash. Imagine my shock when I opened and poured what I thought was milk into my coffee and it curdled. Oops, that was buttermilk in disguise. So yes, the dairy section at the grocery store leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I finally found a Dutch-English dictionary to help me grocery shop. That in itself took weeks of searching.

Meanwhile, we’ve been trying to get our oil changed for months. We have a 1999 Oldsmobile and can’t get oil filters for it here. For E to change it, he needs not only the oil filters but also a special tool to reach and remove the cap to the oil pan which is nestled in a cramped space in the undercarriage. We can’t find the filters or the tool and have family trying to ship them to us. When E’s tire gauge broke, we searched high and low for a replacement without luck. When he went to put air into the tires, he realized they don’t measure tire pressure here in PSI. Thank God he’s a geeky engineer because he had to convert to metric measurements in his head on the spot.

When we can find what we need, it’s often so expensive we cringe. Yes, we needed a jump start once and the mobile auto service wanted to charge us in excess of $300 for that. Oil changes that cost $32 at a Jiffy Lube in the U.S. cost more than $200 here. Ditto car tires—if you can find the right size locally, they are expensive. Ordering from the U.S., we run into complications or excessive expenses shipping.

We received our Belgian car tax bill recently. It was more than $1,400. Yes, that’s a rather large tax bill for a 1999 Oldsmobile. Unlike in the U.S., the tax isn’t based on the value of the vehicle; it’s based on the size of the engine. (Damn, we should NOT have had a v8.) Thank God we get a stipend to off set the cost of gas here—close to $8 a gallon. Because owning one car is painful enough, our plans to buy a second car have been dropped.

Before we moved, we read at least a dozen guides to living abroad, living in Belgium, and the issues of expatriate life. What to bring, what to do, what to expect—the books and Web sites were packed with information, most of it helpful. But many things fall between the cracks, and day in and day out, our lives are peppered with small frustrations. Some days we roll with it, other days we gripe and grimace. It’s hard to really settle in a place when you know you’re not going to stay. If the move here was for 10 years rather than three, it would be worthwhile to just convert over to all things European—computer equipment, DVD players, TVs, radios, CD players, kitchen appliances, lamps, hairdryers etc. We could be all 220V, European digital format, and metric. We could invest the time in learning Dutch and French and be able to read our mail, food labels, menus, and signs.

We’d buy a house, and I’d get to take hot baths and have closets. I would not be playing musical outlets. I would not be puzzling over how the heating system works, worrying about throwing a circuit breaker when I vacuum, or trying to figure out why sewer gas keeps entering the house. (There are drains in the basement that need to be filled with water weekly to block it. Who knew?)

For now we live with one foot in America and one in Belgium. On some level, we’re always in transit emotionally. We’re here and yet not here. Sometimes as I ride the bus and train, it’s like an out of body experience. I watch life happen around me. I am permanently an observer taking mental notes, trying to decipher the mystery of life abroad, seldom understanding what people around me are saying, trying to keep my American identity hidden, and navigating the physical and mental turf of a foreign country.

I can begin to understand why the immigrants rioting in Paris feel so disenfranchised. Even with the luxury of a nice home, car, and steady income, our outsider status simmers below the surface and nags our sense of well being. How much worse would it be to have suffered such feelings for a lifetime, to be recognized as an outsider by the color of your skin, to be committed to assimilating in a country and not be able to join, to suffer all those feelings while struggling to meet your most basic needs?

Hope, not police, will quell the unrest in France. It is hope that keeps us moving forward and pulls us out of the depths.

On her Web site, Granola-Grrrl quoted Ralph Waldo Emerson: “When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.” Today, tonight, thousands of miles away from home, I’ll be stargazing. I'll be looking for those twinkling dots of light, searching for the constellations that shine here and connect me to home.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

November 7, 2005

Christmas in November

Most of the leaves are still on the trees here. We haven’t had a frost. And I’m trying to complete my Christmas shopping, wrapping, and mailing. Go ahead, gag if you want to.

I’ve always been one of those people who shops early, mostly because no matter how fabulous the sales, I can’t bear to go to a department store in December and be crushed by the surly crowds.

I would officially begin my Christmas shopping every year in mid-July when Hallmark launches its line of Keepsake Ornaments. The July holiday extravaganza was on my calendar a month in advance, and I’d happily step out of Virginia ’s summer heat into the icy air conditioning and seasonal music that accompanied the big Hallmark sale. I’d been shopping there for years, and I knew the owners and employees by name. I’d have my first homemade sugar cookie in more than half a year, load up my basket, hand over my charge card, and carry my big honking bags of ornaments to the car—the first packages to be sequestered in the trunk and brought into the house under cover of darkness.

In the coming months, I’d hit Wal-Mart, Target, and the mall early in the morning when they were virtually empty. I’d milk the Labor Day, Columbus Day, and Veteran’s Day sales for all they were worth. And by Thanksgiving, everything would be purchased and ready to mail. This let me spend December decorating my home and going to parades, concerts, and holiday gatherings and avoiding the Bah-Humbug Retail Rodeo.

But this year is different. In mid-July, I dutifully sat at my desk, went to Hallmark.com, pushed my mouse, and ordered my ornaments. No music, no candles, no familiar faces, no beautifully decorated designer Christmas trees, no sugar cookies made by the store owner’s elderly mother, no fun freebies at the checkout. It was a virtual experience in every sense of the word. Disappointing.

I’ve repeated the process in the past few months, pointing and clicking across the Web, hunting for gifts. It’s convenient but boring. No fun. No great deals. And I’m having a hard time finding the right gifts for some folks.

Why not shop the Belgian stores? Well, for one, I don’t’ know where to start. There are very few big stores, mostly small shops and I have no clue where to find the types of things I’m looking for. The small shops are expensive and the sales tax here is 24 percent. If they had truly original items, it would be worthwhile, but much of what they carry is the same as you’d find in any American store, so there’s no incentive to buy it locally.

Plus, I don’t have a car and have to get to the shops by bus or Metro and carry my purchases home. I just bought an LL Bean rolling duffle bag to help me with this task but shopping this way is a drag—literally. I’m pulling my purchases behind me as I go from store to store and the duffle can’t get too heavy or I’ll hurt myself lifting it onto the bus. Plus, shoes and clothing here are sized using a completely different system: Does Emily wear a 130 or a 140? Should I get those slippers in size 39? What’s the return policy at the store? You get the picture.

The final insult to my holiday shopping—I need to get everything mailed well BEFORE Thanksgiving this year. Because we use the military postal service, all our packages are transported from Europe to the U.S. by the armed services and then plugged into the U.S. postal service when they arrive there. During peak mailing times, it can take weeks for items to reach their recipients. So I either have to mail very early to make sure items arrive in time or risk that they won’t get there until January. So no, I can’t wait to see what’s offered at the big outdoor holiday markets next month—it will be too late. Sigh.

It’s enough to make a Grrrl say Bah-Humbug—in early November.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 3, 2005

Something to Protest About

Everytime I see a protest, even an unpopular one, I smile and think “Democracy in action!” Thank God for protestors. Even the ones who stop traffic and delay us. They’re trying to get our attention. Let’s at least listen for a few minutes and consider their issues. And more importantly, let’s consider what issues we’re willing to raise our voice to address.

I’m thinking about protests because I just got an alert from the American Embassy about upcoming protests in downtown Brussels. Approximately 70,000 members of the Socialist, Christian, and Liberal unions are marching to express their displeasure with proposed changes in retirement benefits. While they’re marching from one major rail station to another in the city, a much smaller protest consisting of 300 Congolese will take place, highlighting the lack of human rights for women in the Congo.

Many years ago, the Congo was a Belgian colony, and King Leopold committed untold atrocities in his quest to maximize the resources in that African country for the benefit of Belgium’s citizens. My husband’s grandmother was quick to settle in the Congo, happily leaving behind Brussels and the social constraints women of her century faced. She was ambitious, and in the Congo she was free to run a number of successful enterprises. But eventually the trampled Congolese rose up in a bloody fight for independence. My husband, Eric, a Belgian citizen born in the Congo, lost his father in what some said was a suspicious plane crash in the aftermath of the revolution. His grandmother lost everything.

His mother remarried, to an American working for the Embassy, and Eric soon left the Congo and his Belgian citizenship and relatives behind, living in Algiers, Greece, and Turkey before settling in the U.S. as a teenager.

And here we are, thirty years later, living in Belgium. The Congolese, once exploited by the king of Belgium, are now abused by their own. And the Belgian workers, with one of the highest standards of living in all of Europe, are irate because there will be a delay in collecting their generous retirement benefits. If the government has its way, retirement age will bump up to 60. (I think it’s 58 now.)

There are 70,000 people willing to spend a day protesting the age at which one can collect retirement benefits and only 300 souls willing to fill a street to protest the treatment of the estimated 40,000+ women who have been raped during the six year civil war in the Congo (figures from Amnesty International). The BBC reports that these women are emotionally and physically traumatized, exposed to or infected with HIV, rejected by their husbands and families as being “unclean,” denied medical care and justice, and often burdened with caring for the children conceived in violence.

Many were abducted from their homes and held for days, even weeks, being raped repeatedly. Some are as young as 12. Some, after being raped for hours, drag themselves down the road to get medical care for their serious injuries—and encounter more men who rape them all over again. Many are mutilated as well.

In America, as in Belgium, we’re quick to holler or sue if someone threatens our piece of the national pie, the American Dream. Show me an American who isn’t willing to stand up and explain what they’re entitled to, and I’ll show you a dead American.

But what we’re “entitled” to is getting to be ridiculous. I read on CNN that Congress is in heated debate over a broadcasting law change that will eliminate analog TV signals at the end of 2006, meaning owners of older TV sets will have to purchase a $100 converter to continue to get network TV. Keep in mind that according to MSNBC, 85 percent of Americans receive their TV signals by cable or satellite and will be unaffected by the switch from analog to digital broadcasting in 2006. Still, this “issue” that affects 15 percent or less of the U.S. population has many Congressmen red in the face as they declare the INJUSTICE of this proposed change and ask how the government is going to fund all those signal converters that people MUST have in order to meet the American standard of living which means freedom and TVs for ALL. We all know it’s impossible to expect those affected by this change to SAVE $100 over the next 14 MONTHS and upgrade their OWN precious TVs. You can see this is a BIG CRISIS worthy of tuning in to C-Span. Maybe this will be just what Bush needs—he can bring all the soldiers home from Iraq under the guise that they’re needed here to install signal converters in the homes of underprivileged Americans that own multiple analog TVs!

OK, let’s face it, we all know the Congressman's rants really have nothing to do with the poor and their TVs, it has to do with the business interests of those manufacturing expensive digital TVs, the interest of others in re-developing those abandoned analog channels, and of course the business interests of the broadcasters, their advertisers and the power of their political action committees. After all, what will politicians do if they can’t reach that 15 percent of the population with cleverly produced ads of half-truths and lies? Those political ads can determine which politicians get to plant or keep their porky asses in the leather chairs on Capitol Hill. Can we risk losing access to the 15 percent who may base all their decisions on what they see on TV? Maybe the rest of us can—the pols can’t.

So today in America, the difference between the haves and the have-nots boils down to the value of your TV and your ability to watch Desperate Housewives and Monday Night Football in 2007. This is what our politicians are fighting for. In Belgium, it’s about when you get to stop working and enjoy a comfortable retirement. And in the Congo, a handful of women are risking their lives to ensure that others will one day be able to live without suffering multiple gang rapes, and that today’s victims will have access to medical care to deal with their injuries.

Does the injustice of all this make you want to scream? To hang your head and weep? To hit the streets yourself and protest? It should. Our hearts should curl up with shame over some of the things that preoccupy us and incite our outrage. We should all ask ourselves what’s worth fighting for—and then fight the GOOD fight wherever and whenever we can.

© 2005 by Veronica McCabe Deschambault

October 28, 2005

Heart in Two Places

So strange to have my heart in two places. I was checking the Brussels weather today and then clicked over to see the forecast at home in King George and suddenly felt so divided, longing for home yet glad to be here in Europe.

It’s getting much colder at night in Virginia now, though sometimes the day time highs are about the same as here in Belgium. I visualize my old neighborhood, the kids in hooded sweatshirts at the bus stop in the morning, their hands jammed in their pockets, their breath turning white in the brisk air.

The fall colors are probably just past their peak. The acorns are rattling off the oak tree in our back yard and clattering onto the roof and the back deck. The gutters are undoubtedly stuffed with leaves, the backyard afloat in them. I’m sure there’s a hint of wood smoke in the air at night.

I miss gazing out my kitchen window and taking it all in, especially the flutter of falling sweet gum leaves and the forlorn rattle of the brown pin oaks’, many of which will cling to the tree until the spring. The persimmons are ripe, I’m sure. I used to be able to spy them on the tree from the big window in Emily’s room, but maybe by now the white pines that rim the yard are blocking the view. They grow so fast.

The swing set has only the wind for company. I remember how the children used to rake leaves into a heap at the bottom of the slide and gleefully plow through them. And every fall, I’d stand my September “babies” in front of the garden gate and take their picture, watching them rise higher against the fence line each year. I miss the bright-colored mums Eric planted each fall by the front sidewalk and the big round pumpkins we’d post like sentries at the door.

We used to buy them at Westmoreland Berry Farm, relishing the fall foliage as we trekked out farther into the Northern Neck, the drive as satisfying as the destination. We went there at least once in the fall—buying pumpkins and plants, going on hayrides, letting the children climb on the hay bales. The kids would order hotdogs and ice cream from the kitchen while Eric and I relished the BBQ sandwiches and hot cider.

One October we took a horse-drawn wagon ride around the farm at night and saw the full moon rise over the Rappahannock River and spill silvery shadows onto the fields. They had a bonfire that night, and the kids’ faces glowed as they roasted marshmallows. We always saw people we knew. And last year Emily’s best friend, Hannah, celebrated her birthday at the farm.

Fall is different here. Yes, a few homes have mums but I rarely spot a pumpkin on a doorstep. I don’t have any sense of there being a harvest celebration or holiday. I’m wondering if children will appear on my doorstep in costumes on Halloween night or if that’s strictly an American custom. At home, I planned for 50 kids, and each year there would only be a few pieces of candy left in the trick-or-treat bowl when I switched off the porch light at night’s end.

Living here has made me realize how important holidays and traditions are to the psyche and how difficult it is to preserve them away from home. I didn’t realize until I left the U.S. how much the communal sharing of holidays matters. Sure, you can reproduce some traditions from the U.S. in Belgium, but the fact that everyone else in the community isn’t sharing the holiday greatly diminishes its appeal. It’s not just putting your own Halloween decorations out, it’s seeing that others have done the same thing. It’s the collective experience of looking forward to something, sharing the excitement with strangers. The holiday store displays, even the grocery sales (and crowds) all made the U.S. celebrations bigger and better.

Sure, this year we had a cookout on Fourth of July and attended a festival hosted by the U.S. Army here. The crowd seemed sparse and knowing that everyone else in the country was working and there would be no fireworks or parades to applaud dampened my spirits. Even Labor Day felt strange. In the U.S. it marked the official end of summer, one last hurrah, one last cookout, one last trip to the beach—a complex mix of jubilation and melancholy. Here it was just another weekend.

I couldn’t bear the thought of celebrating Thanksgiving in Belgium, so far from family and our homes and the long lines of grocery carts loaded with canned pumpkin, apples, cranberries, turkeys, potatoes, green beans, and sweet potatoes. I decided I’d rather not celebrate at all than cook a huge dinner for four on a day undistinguished from all the rest across Belgium. No, we’re going to take that holiday and transform it into a European adventure. On Thanksgiving morning we’re having croissants and coffee and catching a high-speed train to Paris. We’ll spend five days in the city of heavenly lights—and skip the traditional American feast.

Maybe I’ll roast a turkey for Christmas, and we’ll count our blessings then. Just knowing my Belgian neighbors are gathered with their families around a table doing the same thing will give me one more thing to be grateful for.

© 2005 by Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 27, 2005