IT YMMIGRANTE-AVENTOER

Foreword:

Emigration has fascinated many people: researchers, family members and descendants, the people who stayed behind, storytellers, and many more.

Hylke Speerstra is one storyteller who pursued the experience of the emigrant seriously.  He traveled to three continents to gather the stories; then he wrote a book, It wrede paradys.  It became an immediate best-seller in Friesland, and it sold well in the Dutch translation too.  [I translated it later: Cruel Paradise.]

The book incited so much interest that the Leeuwarder Courant, Friesland’s main newspaper, decided to sponsor a symposium on the topic of emigration.

Researcher Annemieke Galema who wrote a book on the emigration wave of the 19^th century (Frisians to America, 1880-1914: With the baggage), author Hylke Speerstra, and I were invited to be presenters to an audience of more than 500 in the Harmonie Hall in Leeuwarden, in October 1999.

Part of my speech follows, in the language in which it was delivered, here offered for those who can still read the ancient tongue.

An English version follows the Frisian one.

IT  YMMIGRANTE-AVENTOER: It longerjen om der by te hearren/The Quest to Belong

Ynlieding

Ik bin Hylke Speerstra en Pieter Sijpersma fan de Ljouwter Krante tige tankber foar de

ùtnoadiging,want ik bin o sa bliid dit evenemint mei te meitsjen.  It ûnderwerp, emigraasje, leit my ticht oant  hert.

Kearn

Ik ha myn noas omtrint myn hiele libben yn’e boeken hân.  De  bibleteek fan de“School met de Bijbel” yn De Pein yn de jierren 40 wie net sa grut.  Ik leau dat ik dy hiele kollektsje fan boeken wol twa kear trochlêzen ha.  Uteinlik is it lêzen en it ûnderwiis yn de literatuer myn berop wurden.  Literatuer dat ús sjen lit hoe’t wy ús minsklikens en ûnminsklikens blike litte in ús deistich libben.  En yn de literatuer  fernimme je al gauachtich dat in minske om minske te bliuwen, fan hiel wat dingen ferlet hat.  Ien fan de belangrykste is, wat wy yn’t Ingelsk neame, “a sense of belonging.”  It gefoel dat men der by heard.  Dat gefoel jout wissichheid.  It jout tefredenheit.  It jout “a sense of significance,” de oertsjûging dat jins libben wearde en betsjutting hat, en dêr kin in minsk eigenlik net sûnder.

No, de ûnderfining fan de emigrant set dat minsklik ferlet om der by te hearren yn noed.  ‘t Is wol wier fansels dat de minsken somstiden, as se it gefoel krije dat se der net mear bij hearre, dat se net meitelle, dat se net mear akseptearre of respektearre wurde-- dat se dan flechtsje: hja emigrearje om dat minsklik ferlet op in oar plak te fersjen.
Mar faker, tinkt my, wurdt it beslút om te emigrearjen makke sûnder folle oantinken te jaan oan it ferlet om der by te hearren, oan “the quest to belong.”
Mar dat feroaret gau as de ymmigranten wekker wurde yn in frjemd lân mei allegeare frjemde minsken, mei in frjemde taal dy’t se net ferstean, mei in kultuer dêr’t se net oan meidwaan kinne.

Lit my in pear foarbylden jaan.

Nei ús oankommen yn Hoboken, NJ, yn maaie, 1948, namen wy de trein fan de iene ein fan ‘t lân nei de oare.  Ik hie omtrint ien jier op de ULO west en hie dêr wat Ingelsk leard.  Sadwaande tocht ik dat ik wat ôfwist fan de Ingelske útspraak.  Op in stuit frege ik in man yn de trein: “We stop in Chai-cai-go?”  Ik fûn it wol wat frjemd dat net ien oait fan Chai-cai-go heard hie.  Mar wy stoppen wol yn Chicago, en dêr moasten wy oerstappe yn in oare trein dy ‘t ús hielendal nei de steat Washington bringe soe.  No, ik wie sa’n bytsje de tolk fan ús famylje fansels.  In man frege ús doe’t wy al moai op reis wienen, “Where are you going?”  No, dat wiste ik wol en ik wie der suver grutsk op dat ik sizze koe fan “Seetle.”  Dêr wie wer gjin minsk dy’t wiste wêr’t Seetle wie.  Lokkich binne wy wol yn “Seattle” kommen, mar myn betrouwen yn myn kunde fan ‘t Ingelsk hat doe wol in lytse stjit krigen.
Wy wiene frjemdlingen yn in frjemd lân; de minsken seagen ús oan út nijsgjirrigens, wy besoargen har wat ferdivedaasje.

Dy earste simmer yn Washington ha ‘k yn de ierdbeifjilden en framboazenfjilden wurke mei in soad oare bern fan myn leeftyd.  Dy waarden myn ûnderwizers yn de nije taal.  Yn de earste wiken fregen se my wolris in boadskip oer te bringen oan de fjildbaas of opsichter.  No, ik woe graach wat foar har dwaan fansels, dan hearre je der wat mear by, no?  Mar ik hie noch gjin idee wat de wurden fan it boadskip betsjutten.  Dus ik nei de baas mei it boadskip fan myn nije freonen, en ik sei sonder te witten wat ik sei:  “You’re full of shit.”  En in oare kear: “Move your ass.”  “En ek, “Fuck you.”  Ik fûn ‘t wol aardich dat myn nije freonen der sa’n wille fan hienen, folle mear wille as de baas fansels.  Ik wie net mear op de ULO, mar ik ha in protte leard dy earste simmer yn it nije lân.

En wat ik hjir mei sizze woe is dat taal  miskien de sterkste bân is dy’t ús as minsken oanelkoar ferbynt. 

Lit my dêr nochris in oar soart foarbyld fan jaan.

Wy ha in lyts ploechje Friezen yn Grand Rapids, dy ‘t wy, samar foar de aardichheid,  “de Fryske freonen by de iterstafel” neame.  Om de 14 dagen ite wy middeis meielkoar om it Frysk der wat yn te hâlden.  Wy binne omtrint allegear neikommelingen fan de earste generaasje fan Fryske ymmigranten.  Us jierren rinne fan yn de 30 oant yn de 80.  Wy binne allegear net fan ‘t selde berop en wy doche allegear net oan deselde polityk. 

Wy ite meielkoar omdat wy sa graach de âlde taal fan ús âlders prate, ek al is ‘t mar gebrekkich.  It bynt ús oan elkoar.  Wêr’t wy elkoaren ek treffe, yn in winkel of op ‘e strjitte of by in konsert, wy groetjse elkoaren yn ‘t Frysk en dat makket mei-ien in bân.
En omdat yn Amearika it Frysk funksioneard as ús twadde taal hoecht it net suver te wêzen om ús it gefoel te jaan dat wy in “shared identity” hawwe, in djipgeande konneksje, dat wy by elkoar hearre.

Mar at der wat mis is mei jins taal as de taal fan it lân dêr’t je wenje, dan komt de konneksje yn gefaar of it is brutsen.  En dat wie faak sa mei de ymmigranten.

Us heit, mei de âlderdom fan 52, hie it tige swier mei de nije taal.  Doe ‘t er yn partnerskip wie mei in heareboer moast er fansels wol saken besprekke mei dy man, mar hy koe de wurden net fine.  En ús heit wie in man dy’t oars noait om in wurd hoegde te sykjen, want hy wie in lêzer en in skriuwer en mocht o sa graach prate.  No moast er de help ha fan syn bern om de wurden foar him út te drukken.  Men kin je yntinke hoe frustreerjend dat wol wêze moast. Hoe koene de ymmigranten har thús fiele sûnder de taal fan it nije lân!

En ek as je de taal op ‘t lêst in bytsje yn’e macht hawwe en je der goed mei rêde kinne, mar dochs ist noch net hielendal geef en der sit noch in swiere aksent oan, dan lûkt de taal trochgeande oandacht nei it feit dat de taal jin apart set, dat je net echt ien binne mei de minsken fan it lân, dat je der eigenlik net by hearre.

Begripe jim no wat fan it konflikt dêr ‘t ik it yn ‘t begjin oer hie?  It is “a struggle,” in wrakseling, sels-bewust of net, foar elke emigrant dy’t te âld nei in nije lân komt om de frjemde taal te behearskjen.  It is de reden dat bern fan ymmigranten har faak sjenearje en besykje wat distânsje te lizzen tusken harsels en har âlderlike ôfkomst.  It is ien fan de redens werom ‘t ik my hjir net mear sa thús fiele kin as yn Amearika, omdat ik gjin “native fluency” mear yn ‘t Frysk en Nederlânsk ha.  En it betsjut ek dat de measte ymmigranten har noait hielendal thús komme te fielen yn har twadde lân.  

Mar at taal dat “sense of belonging” dat wy allegear nedich hawwe yn gefaar stelt, wat wurdt der dan foar yn ‘t plak set?

Foar in soad ymmigranten hat dat de tsjerke west. De tsjerke dêr ‘t se nei preken hearre koenen yn har bekende taal.  Dêr ‘t alles gemiensum is, dêr ‘t alles bekend oandocht.  Dêr ‘t alles bliuwe koe en moast sa’t se altyd wend west hiene: de learstikken en útlizzings, de opfettings en gewoanten, de liturgy en de muzyk.  Dêr ‘t se mei oare ymmigranten prate koene sûnder om wurden te sykjen.  Dêr ‘t se wat te sizzen hienen.  Dêr ‘t se meidwaan koenen.  Dêr ‘t se har thús fielden.  Dêr ‘t se oanelkoar ferbûn wienen, dêr ‘t se by hearden.

De tsjerke: in feilige haven yn in ûnbekende see dêr ‘t se bytiden wol yn ferdrinke koenen; in punt fan hâldfêst yn in frjemde wrâld dêr ‘t alles yn feroaring is.

Alle ymmigranten wiene net tsjerks, fansels.  Dy hiene it faak noch slimmer mei de iensumheid.  Se woenen fansels wol fryske selskippen oprjochtsje, mar dat slagge har mar op in pear plakken, yn grutte stêden dêr ‘t  in hiel soad ymmigranten wennen.     

Myn leitmotif yn dit taspraakje is “the quest to belong,” it longerjen om der by te hearren.  De taal, sei ik, hie dêr hiel wat mei te dwaan, mar der wiene ek oare dingen.

Om as bern sa hurd mooglik mei te dwaan yn it twadde lân, moast men fansels op skoalle.  Ik wie eigenlik al fan de legere skoalle ôf, mar heit en mem, op rie fan oaren, stjoerden my nei de 8ste klasse om de taal der goed yn te krijen.  (At se dat net dien hienen, no, dêr doar ik eins net iens oer nei te tinken want dan hie myn libben hiel oars beteare kind.)

Dus, ik soe op skoalle.  Dan mar mei mem nei de winkel om wat skoalleklean te keapjen.  Dat koe net folle lije fansels, want de âlders sieten earst ferskriklik krap oan jild.  Mar mem woe har Hindrik, nei pake Hoekstra neamd, wol knap yn de klean ha.  Dat kreaze broekje fan wol mei in moai kleurich triedsje der troch koste wol wat mear as de gewoane katoenen broekjes, mar fuort dan mar, har soan moat dochs in goede yndruk meitsje.

Mar dat gie ferkeard fansels.  Alle jonges hiene katoenen broekjes, en dêr stie ik yn myn deftige broek dêr ‘k wol mei nei tsjerke koe.  As in nij boekemantsje op in frjemde skoalle yn in frjemd lân woenen je leafst sa ûnopfallend mooglik wêze.  Mar ik hie de ferkearde broek oan.  Alles wie mis. It wie omtrint sa’n spultsje as mei Josef en syn bûnte mantel.  De kweajonges fan de 6de klasse ha der my mar raar mei pleage.  Doe moast ús earme mem wer nei de winkel om in nije katoenen broek te keapjen.

Foar jongelju tusken de leeftyd fan 12 en 18 is de “quest to belong” foaral geweldich sterk en wichtich.  Dat wie faak in probleem foar bern fan ymmigranten.  Foar my yn de earste jierren ek.  

Yn de 8ste klasse wienen  ek in pear oare jonges fan Fryske ymmigranten.  En dat wie oan de iene kant wol moai, want dan hienen je wat selskip.  Mar  oan de oare kant joech dat ek ferlies, want wat mear as je meielkoar as ymmigranten omgongen, wat mear as je apart stienen fan de oare bern dêr je byhearre woenen. 

En dan de sport. As jonges woene je fansels hiel graach meidwaan oan sport.  Mar de sport wie net fuotbal mar basketball en baseball, en dêr wisten je noch neat fan.  Je stienen der wat helpleas nei te sjen, en de ûnderwizers hienen gjin tiid fansels om je der wat fan by te bringen.  De “quest to belong” wie hjir ek wer frustrearre.

En de famkes.  Ik hie al in each op leave, knappe famkes.  Mar de measten fan dy leave, knappe famkes woenen net folle te dwaan ha mei ymmigranten.  Want dy famkes hienen har eigen “quest to belong” moat je mar rekkenje, en omdat ymmigranten mar leech yn rang stienen, kearden de leafsten en de knapsten ús de reach ta.

De measte bern fan Fryske ymmigranten yn dy tiid kamen mei de 8ste klasse fan skoalle ôf.  Dat wie mei my ek sa.  It wie in swiere tiid en wy moasten heit en mem helpe.  Mar dat betsjutte ek fansels dat je eigenlik gjin omgong mear hienen mei de jongelju fan je eigen leeftyd dy ‘t allegeare nei skoalle gongen.  Dy tiid fan it ymmigrante-aventoer stiet my noch hiel helder foar de geast.  Somstiden at ik mei de trekker yn ‘t fjild dwaande wie gong ik yn myn gedachten werom nei ‘t heitelân, nei de fjilden om ús pleats hinne dêr ‘t my elke richel en toarnbosk bekend wie, en nei de famylje en freonen dy ‘t wy net meinimme koenen. Ik wie der eigenlik sels oer fernúvere, mar dan koenen de triennen  my samar ynienen yn de eagen sjitte en it djippe gefoel fan ûnwennigens koe dan eefkes swier op it hert lizze.  Sadwaande miskien bin ik ek begûn oan famkes te skriuwen yn Fryslân en oare plakken yn Nederlân.  Mar it giet net maklik in skarrel by in brief yn te stekken, dus dêr is op ‘t lêst net folle fan kommen.

“The quest to belong” yn it nije lân gie lykwols troch, foar de âlderen, mar ek foar de jongeren.  En sa ‘t de tsjerke in hege rol spile yn ‘t libben fan de âlders, sa wie ‘t ek faak yn it libben fan de bern.  Yn myn tsjerke--en ik gong letter nei in oare tsjerke as heit en mem—waard ik lieder fan de jongelingsferiening, in sjonger yn in mânljus kwartet, krige ik freonen dy’t net ymmigrantebern wienen, en waard stadichoan hielendal yntegreard yn it geastlike en kulturele en sosjale libben fan myn twadde lân.  De tsjerke hat foar my altyd in hiele positive ynfloed west.  En dat is er noch.  En dêr bin ik tankbar om.

Der binne fansels in soad dingen dêr’t ik wol fierder op yn gean koe.  Oer de konsekwinsje

konsekwinsje foar de ymmigranten wannear ‘t de tsjerke ek begjint te feroarjen.  Oer de swiere jierren fan skreppen en skuorren foardat de takomst in bytsje ljochter begûn te lykjen.  Oer de ambysjes fan de bern fan ymmigranten en it opmerklik sukses dat sa folle fan de earste en twadde generaasje berikt ha.

Mar wy hawwe Galema har boek en  Speerstra syn boek en der komt aansens gelegenheid om fragen te stellen.

Myn lêtste wurd is dit, en ik woe graach dat heit en mem hjir by west hawwe koenen om it te hearren, foaral hjirre yn de haadstêd fan Fryslân, want it soe har hert goed dien hawwe.

Ik wit net wêrom ‘t ús heit en mem emigrearden.  Ik fyn it o sa spitich dat it foar har, yn mear as ien opsicht, in emigraesje wie nei “it wrede paradys,” foaral omdat heit sa jong ferstoar foardat er de kâns krige om wat te genietsjen fan syn swier arbeidzjen.  Mar myn broer en susters en ik binne har ivich tankbar dat hja dy reis makke ha, want dat hat ús libben ûnmjitlik ferrike.  [Ik moat hjir noch wat beidwaan, dert myn frou om frege.  Doe’t se my nei it fleanfjild brochtr, sei se: “Do moast dy minsken fertelle dat it har libben ek ferrike hat.”  Wat leaf, net?] Emigratie iepene foar ús in nije wrâld fan ûnderfining en mooglikheden yn in lân dat wy no leaf hawwe.  Mar it hat de bân mei ús heitelân ek sterker makke, dit heitelân, dêr ‘t de dyk it lân omklammet, dit lân, sa moai en sûnder wjergea mei har hiel eigen karakter.  It lân dêr ‘t ús woartels lizze, dêr ‘t wy de omkes en muoikes en neven en nichten achter lieten; it lân dat ús noch altyd oanlûkt, want it foldocht ek no noch altyd oan ús eigen “quest to belong,” oan ús eigen longerjen om “der by the hearren.”

English version

THE IMMIGRANT ADVENTURE: The Quest to Belong

Speech given at a Symposium on Emigration, held in Ljouwert (Leeuwarden) in October 1999, featuring talks by Dr. Henry J. Baron and Dr. Annemieke Galema, and an interview with the author Hylke Speerstra.

________________________________________

 Introduction

I'm very grateful to Hylke Speerstra and Pieter Sijpersma from the Leeuwarder Courant, because I'm really happy to be participating in this event. The subject of emigration is, after all, close to my heart.

Body

I've had my nose in the books practically all my life. The "School with the Bible" in Opende couldn’t boast of a large library in the 40s; I must’ve read through the whole collection at least twice. The reading and teaching of literature eventually became my profession; literature that reveals all the ways in which human kind practices its humanity and inhumanity. And in literature one soon discovers that a person, in order to remain human, has certain basic needs. One of the most important is a sense of belonging. A feeling that one is part of things. We need it for security. It gives us a feeling of satisfaction. It gives a sense of significance, the conviction that our life has value and meaning, for we cannot live without that.

 Not really. But the immigrant experience jeopardizes that sense of belonging. Now it’s true, that sometimes, when people feel they don’t belong, they don’t count, they have no standing or they’ve lost it, they flee: they emigrate, to pursue that quest in another place. But more often, I think, the decision to emigrate is made without much thought of that basic need to belong.

However, it quickly raises its insistent cry when the immigrants wake up in a strange place where they don’t know anybody, don’t understand anybody, and feel estranged from the culture.

 Let me give you some examples.

After our arrival in Hoboken, NJ, in May of 1948, we took the train from one end of the land to the other. I had had one year of ULO (high school)-English , and I thought I knew something about the pronunciation system of the language. So I asked a fellow passenger: "We stop in Chai-cai-go?" I soon discovered there was no such place, but we definitely would stop in Chicago. We transferred to another train there that would take us all the way to the state of Washington. When passengers asked us how far we were going, I announced confidently, "To Seetle." There wasn't a soul that had ever heard of "Seetle." Fortunately we did make it to Seattle eventually, but my confidence in what I knew of English plummeted dramatically. We were very much strangers in a foreign land, objects of curiosity and even entertainment.

I worked in the fields that first summer, picking strawberries and then raspberries weeks after landing in the new land. The many other boys and girls I worked with became my language teachers. During the first few weeks they would tell me to deliver messages to the field boss. Well, I was eager to please, of course, for that sense of belonging, you know? But I still had no idea what the words I was to say meant. So I go to the boss with the message of my new friends, and I say without realizing what I said: "You’re full of shit." And another time: "Move your ass." And “Fuck you!” I sort of enjoyed that my new friends got such a kick out of that, much more so than my boss, of course.

I wasn’t going to the ULO anymore, but I learned a lot of English that first summer.

The point is that language functions as perhaps our strongest bond of connection.

 Here’s another illustration. A group of us meets every other week for lunch. We call ourselves, just for the fun of it, "the Frisian Lunchers." Nearly all of us are offspring of first generation Frisian immigrants. We range in age from 30 to 80-plus. Not all of us are in the same profession or belong to the same political party. For nearly all of us English is or has become our first language. We get together because we love to practice the language of our parents, even if it’s rather brokenly. It links us together. No matter where we meet each other, in a store or on the street or at a concert, our greeting is likely to be in Frisian, creating an instant bond. Moreover, because in the States Frisian functions as our second language, it doesn’t have to be perfect to make us feel that we have a shared identity, that we belong together.

 But when language fails as the language of the land where you live, the connection is jeopardized or broken. And that was often the case with immigrants.

 I remember what a struggle my dad had with the new language at age 52. How frustrated he would get when he had to communicate with the farmer with whom he was in partnership and didn’t have the words. And Dad was a man who never had to search for a word, because he was a reader and facile with his pen. Now he had to depend on his children to find the right words for him. It’s not hard to imagine how frustrating that must’ve been for him. How could the immigrants feel at home without the language of the new land!

 When you finally gain some mastery over the new language and you can handle it well, but still it's not altogether right and there's still a thick, foreign accent, your tongue is a constant reminder that you don’t quite belong, that you’re different.

 Does that explain my struggle I alluded to at the beginning? It’s a struggle, self-conscious or not, that plagues nearly every immigrant who came to their new country too old to fully master the new language. It’s the reason that typically immigrant children at a certain age would feel embarrassed by their parents and tried to distance themselves from their parental roots. It’s one of the reasons that I, because I don’t have native fluency in Frisian and Dutch anymore, don’t and can’t feel as much at home here as I do in the States. It’s an important reason that most immigrants never quite come to feel at home in their adopted land.

 But if language jeopardizes their necessary sense of belonging, what then takes its place?

 For many immigrants, that’s been the church... the church where they could listen to sermons in their own language... where everything was familiar. Where everything could and should stay as it had always been for them: the doctrines and interpretations, the points of view and practices, the liturgy and the music. Where they could meet and talk with fellow immigrants in their own tongue. Where they could feel at home; where they could belong. Church: the safe haven in a sea of change that sometimes threatened to swallow them; the point of stability when everything else was in flux.

Not every immigrant belonged to the church, of course. Those that didn't often had an even more difficult time with loneliness. They tried to establish Frisian societies, but that succeeded only in those large cities where many immigrants had settled.

 My leitmotif in this talk is "the quest to belong." The language, I said, had much to do with that quest, but there were other problems as well.

 To accelerate their sense of belonging as children, they would have to attend school, of course. I had finished grade school already, really, but my parents on the advice of others decided to send me to 8th grade to gain a full mastery of the language. (If they hadn't done that, well, I hardly dare think how differently my life might've turned out.)

 So I went to school. But first shopping with mom for some new school clothes. We couldn't afford much, of course, for it was slim picking at first. But mom wanted her son, named after grandpa Hoekstra, to be well dressed. That good-looking wool pants with the nice-colored thread was a bit more expensive than the ordinary cotton pants, but OK, her son needed to make a good impression, after all.

 But that turned out quite the other way. All the boys had cotton pants, while I was in my dressy pants that was good enough to wear to church. As a new young fellow going to a foreign school in a foreign land you want to be as inconspicuous as possible. But I wore the wrong kind of pants. Everything went wrong. It was a situation something like Joseph and the many-colored coat. The 6th grade boys teased me mercilessly. So poor mom had to go back to the store to buy new cotton pants.

 For young folk between the age of 12 and 18 the quest to belong is especially an urgent and important one. That was often a problem for children of immigrants. In the first years for me too.

 A couple of other immigrant boys were in the 8th grade with me. That was good for some company, on the one hand. But there was another side: the more you would hang out with other immigrants, the more you were separated from the other kids you really wanted to be a part of.

 And then there was sport. As boys you really wanted to participate in sports, of course. But the sport wasn't soccer but basketball and baseball, and you knew nothing about those sports. All you could do was watch kind of helplessly, and the teachers didn't have time, naturally, to start teaching you some of the basics. So the quest to belong was frustrated here too.

 And then the girls. I already had an eye for cute girls. But most of the cute girls didn't want to have much to do with immigrant boys. Those girls had their own quest to belong, to be sure, and because immigrants were pretty low on the totem pole, the cutest and best looking turned their backs to us.

 Most Frisian immigrant children at that time were finished with their education after 8th grade. Though I wanted to continue, I too quit school. It was a difficult time for my parents, and as children we had to help out. But, of course, that also meant that you hardly had anything to do anymore with the young people of your own age who were still in school. I recall that time of the immigrant adventure still very clearly. Sometimes when I'd be working in the field with the tractor, my thoughts would wander back to the fatherland, to the fields around our farm where I knew every gully and thorn bush, and to the relatives and friends we had left behind. It would catch me by surprise, but all of a sudden the tears would come and a profound feeling of homesickness would momentarily weigh on my heart. Maybe that's why I started to write letters to girls in Friesland and other places in the Netherlands. But it's not easy to stick a date inside a letter, so that finally didn't go anywhere.

"The quest to belong" in the new land, however, continued, for the parents, but also for the children. And as the church played a role in the life of the parents, it often did likewise in the life of the children. In my church--and later on I attended a different church from my parents--I became a leader of the young people's society, a singer in a male quartet, became friends with non-immigrant young people, and gradually became completely integrated into the spiritual and cultural and social life of my second country. The church for me has always been a very positive influence. And it still is. And I'm grateful for that.

 I could, of course, go on to talk in detail about a lot of other things. About what happens when the church changes too. About the years of hard work for most immigrants before the future began to look a little brighter. About the ambitions of immigrant children and the remarkable success achieved by so many of the first and second generation. But we have Galema's book and Speerstra’s book, and we're still going to have a discussion period.

 Let me end on a personal note; and I wish that my dad and mom could’ve heard me say this, especially right here in the capitol of Fryslân, for I think it would’ve warmed their hearts.

I don’t know why my parents emigrated. I regret that for them, for the most part, it turned into "it wrede paradys," especially because dad died before he had the chance to enjoy the heavy labor of his hands. But my brother and sisters will always be grateful that they did, for it has enriched our lives immeasurably.

[I must add something here too, at my wife’s request. She said on the way to the airport where she was dropping me off, "Tell them that your wife is happy too." Wasn’t that sweet of her?]

Emigration opened up a New World of experience and opportunity in a land we have come to love. But it also intensified our connections to the Old World, our fatherland with its unique beauty and identity; the place of our roots, of the family we left behind: uncles and aunts and many cousins. We’ve kept coming back to all of it because it still fulfills for us our own "quest to belong."

A Child's Christmas

This is a story for children of all ages.
It may exist in different versions, by different titles, with different settings.
I’ve never seen an author’s name.
It goes something like this:

It’s early Christmas morning.
It’s still dark. And it’s cold.
Father John pulls his hood a little tighter around his ruddy face.
He shuffles his way through the fresh snow toward the church.
There’s still much to do before the first Mass.
He smiles at the spotlight shining on the crèche in front of church.
He is so proud of the nativity scene. It’s the most beautiful in town.

But then the smile changes into a frown.
Father John sees something terribly wrong:
the Baby Jesus is missing!
The old priest cannot believe his eyes.
He hastens his step to have a closer look.
But it’s true: the crib is empty! Only some tufts of hay are left.

The priest is upset and angry. With quick little steps now he enters the church.
Someone stole the Christ Child! Who and why?!
Someone who was jealous?
Now the day is ruined. People will point at the empty spot.
Maybe some will laugh.
The priest grows red with shame and indignation.
Then he runs up to the church bell rope and begins to pull with short angry jerks.
The people must know that the Holy Infant has been stolen.
They must begin at once to look for the lost Baby Jesus!
And they will find the thief who has done this unholy deed!

The anxious priest hurries outside again.
Here and there people have come outside.
They wonder why the church bell is ringing so early and with such an angry sound.
“Someone stole the Baby Jesus, someone stole the Baby Jesus!
Find out who stole it and bring it back at once!” cries the priest.
Then, as fast as he can, the old priest begins to run up one street and down another.
To everyone in sight he shouts to find and bring back the missing baby.
At last the priest nears the church again.
And there, just ahead of him, he sees a little boy pulling a bright red wagon behind him.
His eyes grow large and his pace quickens.
On that wagon he spots something familiar.
And now he sees it clearly: it’s the Baby Jesus!
The priest runs to the little boy, grabs him roughly, and demands:
“What do you think you’re doing with the Baby Jesus on your wagon?!”

The little boy looks at the angry priest, smiles up at him, and answers:
“Well, Father, you see I got this wagon for Christmas.
And I wanted to give Baby Jesus the first ride for his birthday present.

The old priest does not move now. He looks at the boy for a long moment.
Then a big smile lights up his flushed face,
He bends down to the little boy and gently asks:
“My son, may I help you pull the Baby Jesus?”

                                              from Talking with God, available at Schulers
                                                      and Baker Books in Gr. Rapids, ebooks,
                                                     Amazon, and at exxelpublishing.com

A Christmas Story

Note: the story that follows was written quite a while ago by a good friend, Herman de Jong. He has passed on now, where, in heaven above, he's in rapture by the pure, perfect music of Christmas.
Since it was originally written in Dutch, I've translated and adapted it for this Blog.


“From Heaven Above”

It happened a long time ago and far away: 1944, in Holland. I was 12, and it was the day before Christmas. My best friend was Johnny who had become my neighbor a few months earlier. Our parents became friends too, even though the Lefferts were Roman Catholics and my parents were Reformed.

Johnny had invited me to come to early mass with him on Christmas Day. I wanted to go, of course, and begged my parents for permission. But my father didn’t like the idea. To be friends was okay, but to attend each other’s church was more than friends had the right to expect from each other. Mother finally persuaded Dad to let me go, since I would be back in time to attend our own church service.

At five o’clock on Christmas morning, Johnny and I ran through the flurrying snow. Johnny was wearing a new pair of high shoes for the special occasion, while I wore my ordinary wooden shoes; Mom said they’d be warmer. Since the snow packed well this morning, we decided to see who could pack the most snow under his shoes. We slowed down, and carefully, step by step, we tried to get as much to stick as possible. I kept winning, since snow sticks better to wood than to leather.

But Johnny didn’t like losing. He kept trying harder and harder, until it dawned on him that I was winning because of my klompen. “I could easily beat you if I had klompen too,” he said. I didn’t agree, of course. In fact, I challenged him to give me his shoes and I’d show him I could still beat him.

So it happened that on the way to early mass, two cold but proud little fellows sat down in the snow to exchange their footwear. But before we could continue the Christmas Day competition, a large Catholic family caught up with us. One of the girls called out, “Hey, Johnny, you better hurry, ‘cause the service starts in five minutes and you still have to change to your choir robe. We’re late too, ‘cause Mommy overslept.”

We ran the rest of the way till the cathedral loomed straight ahead through the early morning shadows. Black figures hurried over the white snow and then under the yellow glow of the gas lanterns that lined the sidewalk. “You have to go through the big door,” panted Johnny, “I have to go through the door of the sacristy ‘cause I have to sing in the choir.”

I followed the crowd through the big doors and landed in the narthex of the packed church. Behind an ornate railing stood a group of Protestant visitors, jostling each other for the best view of what was to come.

As for myself, I stood close to the entrance and watched people dip their hands in a little bowl and then quickly make the sign of the cross. Without thinking, I decided to participate too, but the tall man with a terribly long nose (I can still see the drip hanging at its end) hissed at me: “Keep your hands out of there, you’re not Catholic, are you?” I have always wondered whether “Mr. Nose” was Catholic or Protestant.

Thoroughly frightened, I quickly pulled back among the visiting Protestants and wormed my way gradually to the railing. Just in time too. A Santa Claus type stood before the altar and bowed so low that his nose must have nearly touched the floor. But I didn’t see Johnny anywhere. All of a sudden I remembered that he was still wearing my clogs. At least his feet were warm; my toes in Johnny’s icy shoes were freezing. I wanted to jump up and down to warm them a bit, but the memory of “Mr. Nose” kept me quietly standing in place.

I almost jumped, though, when the organ suddenly started. The music was terribly loud; no wonder--I was standing right under the pipes. The people in the sanctuary rose and began to sing. I didn’t recognize the tune, but I remember clearly what a tremendous impression that music made on me. The sound seemed to climb along the whited walls, higher and higher, only to cascade down again and rejoin the leading melody. I stood entranced, and I shivered, more from the music, I think, than from the cold.

That must’ve been my first experience of beauty—an aesthetic experience, as they call it. I don’t remember much of the mass itself. I didn’t understand the strange language nor the strange rituals among what I thought of then as the Santa Claus figures. Besides, I was too cold, and the whole service seemed much too long. It was what happened toward the end of it that I have remembered so clearly through all these years.

The organ played again, very softly now, and then a clear girl-soprano voice rang through the cathedral. I noticed that all around me people began to listen with rapt attention to the beautiful melody of “From heaven above to earth I come.”

I held my breath. The pure, delicate voice of the singer seemed to fill that whole immense cathedral. It seemed to float through space like a fine-bodied swallow. It bounced off the walls and as the notes went higher it seemed to disappear into the vaulted dome and out into the outside air until it became an angel choir of glorious music. I don’t know how to explain it exactly; it’s hard to find words for such feelings. But it filled me with such great gladness that I wanted to run with the shepherds over the hills around Bethlehem, arms flailing like a windmill, faster and faster, to see Jesus, my Jesus.

After the service I waited for Johnny at the door of the sacristy. “How did you like it?” he asked. He didn’t wait for my answer but pulled me inside. Beneath a candle-lit statue of Mary we exchanged our footwear. I followed his example when he crossed himself. “You didn’t need to do that,” said my friend, “you aren’t Catholic, are you?”

A couple of days later Johnny was terribly sick with pneumonia. He had kicked off my klompen and in his wet socks had followed the bishop into church. And there he had stood, on the stone floor, throughout the long service.

I moped around the house, feeling guilty about Johnny’s illness and resentful that my best friend had to get sick during Christmas vacation. We prayed for him at mealtimes, and I noticed that Dad’s prayers became increasingly more urgent.

One day, Mrs. Lefferts, pale and fatigued from many nights of interrupted and uneasy sleep, stopped by. Johnny wanted me to come over. “Is Johnny getting better, then?” I asked eagerly. Softly she answered, “With God all things are possible. Please come along quickly.”

I didn’t know what to say at first when I got there. Johnny was so weak; he could hardly speak. After a while I told him about the girl’s solo and how beautiful I thought it had been. “That was no girl,” whispered Johnny, “listen to this.” As he began to sing, very softly, I heard the same voice, the same melody. I couldn’t believe it. When he finished there was mischief gleaming in his eyes. “Well?” he asked. His voice was so soft now, I hardly heard him. But I tried to tell him something then of what I had felt during his singing that Christmas morning.

When I finished, he reached out a thin, pale hand. Impulsively and self-consciously at the same time, I took his hand in mine, and I whispered that I prayed for him and that I was sure Jesus would make him well again. I felt the pressure from his hand as he whispered back, “From heaven above to earth he came….”

Jesus did make Johnny well again. We stayed friends for a long time till finally we moved too far away from each other. But I’ve never forgotten Johnny. And I’ve often thought that the whole Christmas event became real to me in that breathless moment when I followed that graceful swallow far beyond the cathedral. It was at that moment that I knew without the slightest doubt that Jesus came as a Child for me and that as a Man he had to die for me. And when in bygone years I sometimes had to struggle through thoughts and experiences that shook my faith, I always returned through my memory to that place and to that moment when my white-knuckled hand hung on to the wrought-iron railing, and a gentle Savior made me hear again that pure girl-soprano voice: “From heaven above to earth I come!”

Thanksgiving

It looks like God blesses some more than others.
Some rarely see a doctor or a psychiatrist.
Some enjoy a happy marriage and family, achieve professional distinctions, have many stimulating friends, and lead an exciting and rewarding life.
Others are seldom without pain, want but never find a suitable marriage partner, never graduate from that mundane job, rarely enjoy the attention and company of others.

Yet those more blessed are not necessarily more grateful.
In fact, it may be more difficult for the highly favored to experience true gratitude.
For gratitude is not the invariable consequence of health, happiness, and prosperity.
Genuine gratitude is, rather, a condition of the heart.

I remember a short film I’ve seen several times, a poignant documentary that gives us a glimpse in the life of Leo Beuermann, a twisted dwarf of a man.
At first glance Leo strikes one as grotesque in his deformity, plagued by so many physical disabilities that one is likely to think of him as both helpless and hopeless.
But he was neither.
He lived each day with courage, dignity, and faith.
Though his afflictions were many and severe, he lived out of a grateful hearty that was constantly tuned to the mercy of God.

Gratitude is more than a prayer of thanks on Thanksgiving Day, or any other day.
It is essentially a way of living, a life style impelled by the heart’s response to the constancy of God’s goodness and grace.

We need to pray for such a heart, as did George Herbert centuries ago:

Thou that hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more—a grateful heart;
Not thankful when it pleaseth me,
As if thy blessings had spare days;
But such a heart, whose pulse may be
Thy praise.

from "Talking with God"

I Believe

I believe.

But why?
Because I was baptized, raised in a Christian home, educated in Christian schools, studied the catechism, was active in church youth groups, and included prayer and Bible reading in my formative years?

Perhaps.

But life’s journey is often rough.
The fabric of faith gets torn.
It can unravel.
More than once it nearly did.

Yet I believe.
For there is beauty beyond description of tongue or pen.
And there is evil no human power can overcome.
And there were Dante and Milton and Shakespeare.
And Bach and Mozart and Handel.
And Mother Theresa and Smedes and Yancey.

Yes, I believe.
For there was a cloud of witnesses in the place I worked.
And a great company of saints in the church I worshipped.

But most of all, I believe, because one starlit night,
a Baby was born, pure and perfect, whose name was Jesus.
It’s the power and glory of his Life, and Death, that changes mine.
It’s the Truth of his words I wish to live by.
It’s his Way that leads through the valley to God that I must walk.

This I believe.

Veteran's Day: More WWII Memories

In a few weeks it will be Veteran’s Day.
A day for all to remember and honor those who paid the ultimate price exacted by freedom.
A day to weep for the evil among us that chooses war rather than peace, that chooses to destroy life rather than to make it flourish.
And a day to pray that “war may be no more,” and that peacemakers may be blessed.
***
One day the young boy saw planes falling out of the sky. And bodies falling out of the plane. Because there was war in the sky too.
Dozens of bombers were flying high overhead, escort planes circling around them constantly like sheepdogs.
Then he saw the German planes suddenly appear out of nowhere and racing fast to get to the bombers before they’d be spotted. Three got tangled up into dogfights with Allied planes before they could penetrate.
He stood there, hardly breathing, as he watched the planes chasing each other, like a dog chasing a rabbit, shooting at each other, and then one got hit and there was smoke and the plane came tumbling out of the sky and he saw a parachute come floating down too.
But then he watched with horror as two enemy fighter planes got to a straggling bomber. The bomber crew didn’t have a chance.
He saw puffs of smoke and the bomber went out of control and no parachutes came out and the plane looked like it was going to come down right on top of him and two other bombers now were hit too and hurtling down, and he stood frozen to the spot as the first plane plunged into the ground less than a mile away.
Twelve Allied Air Force soldiers were buried in the churchyard of his town.
***
Years later the boy, now adult, visited Margraten in the southern part of the Netherlands.
He walked among the 8300 American soldiers who lie buried there, young vibrant lives cut down by a crazed enemy that sought to destroy the freedom of others.
He wept for those lost lives and their loved ones who never held them again.

And then he remembered the young boy who one day after the war, on his way home from school, encountered an old white-bearded gentleman walking toward him, asking directions to the cemetery to visit his son’s grave.
And he remembered the belt buckle he had found in the burned-out wreckage of the airplane that he and his friends sneaked into when the German guards weren’t looking.
He had kept it for a long time. And every time he had held it in his hands, he remembered the feeling and the smell of death inside that ruined hulk.

For that’s what war is all about: death.

Childhood Memories of WWII

I woke up that May-day morning
from intimations of immortality
to the sounds and sin of World War II.

Behind me were five years of hazy bliss
of much innocence and memories few,
before me lay five years of fear
and a life-time of experience
whose recollections have the power
to haunt me still this year.

I remember now the bright-blue, spring-sprung sky
smeared suddenly with swastikas on gleaming wings,
the angry droning of a thousand warplanes
silencing the sounds of music from hedge and trees.

I remember now that father prayed that day
for God to help us all, to save our land.
But Hitler’s mighty forces had their way.
My little world became unsafe, and fear
moved in, a pallid and unwanted resident.

I remember now the man wanted alive or dead
for whom we made a hiding place.
One day the Germans came to cross our land.
My friend and I stood watching through the glass
when I saw a strange expression on his face,
when I saw a revolver in his hand,
to shoot himself, I wondered, or the enemy?
The soldiers skipped our door, thank God,
but I was terrified.

I remember now my mother on her bicycle,
side bags bulging with papers from the underground
she would deliver on her special paper route
while I feared constantly that she’d be caught
and we would never see her face again.

I remember now the deadly dogfights in the air,
the Allied bombers smoking, hurtling down
so close to us, I thought we would get hit.

Later friends and I sneaked inside the burned-out hulk,
where I smelled death of the 12-men crew,
found buttons, belt-buckles, a first-aid kit,
a half-burned boot, mementos of the men
who were buried in the village churchyard
far from their native soil.

I remember now the power of the flying bomb,
the German V-twos sent to London
as a hoped-for coup d’état.
This one fell not far from us
and left a crater deep and wide
enough to drop a house in.

I remember now the protest day when
farmers spilled their milk upon the ground
instead of shipping to the factory.
And Germans eager to retaliate
grabbed some townsfolk here and there,
and lined them up; they were shot and killed,
all sixteen of them, execution-style, then
thrown into a mass grave, as of no account.
One was a boy only four years older than I was.

I remember now on liberation day
when the forces of the underground
came to pick up collaborators with the enemy,
including dad and son whose land lay next to us.
When these refused to come outside,
their captors tossed a hand grenade.
Then they went in and found
the father dead with a bullet in his head,
the mother dead from the hand grenade,
only the wounded son survived; his hands were bound,
and then he stood before the crowd
whose wartime anger, long pent up,
was now unleashed; some slapped his face,
others spat upon him, all taunted him
who had just lost his dad and mom;
and these were good Christian folk.

I remember now the day
I met a man from far away,
walking down the main street of our town;
his hair was thin and white, his beard was long.
He asked how he might find the way
to the gravesite of his only son.
I showed him where the churchyard was,
but I did not invite him home with me,
I did not seat him in our best chair,
find the prettiest cup and saucer on the shelf
and make some tea for him.
I did not invite all the war’s survivors
of the town to come and thank this man,
thank this broken father for what his son had done;
for I was too young then and did not think of that.
But I would like to thank him now,
and all the others who gave more
than what we ever have a right to ask.

We learned while very young
that there is evil in the human heart;
the dreams of innocence were shattered,
we always looked through broken glass.
Even after 70 years, our vision has not been restored.
For some there’s only hope, grounded in faith,
that there will be a day, when face to face
we will know as we are known,
and shalom will have come at last.