Church and State Redux

Two things are weighing on my mind of late dearest blogadytes.

Both of them are tied to Iceland's growing pains, the trials and tribulations of a country that has gone from being a little-known poverty stricken outpost of Denmark in the North Atlantic with one of the most ethnically and religiously homogeneous populations in the world to being an independent player in international business and an ever-increasingly multi-cultural and polytheist society.

Issue the first is mainly due to a badly worded letter from the Ministry of Education regarding trips organized by elementary schools and the State Church for students about to be confirmed, which caused debate to re-erupted about the place of Iceland's State Church in the school system.

Some claimed the letter was the first step to driving the Church out of the schools.

If only!

But no, such appears not to be the case, as the Minister of Education recently explained, claiming that the wording of the letter had been twisted to serve the purpose of "fundamentalist atheists", a phrase so unbelievably fucking ridiculous that for a second after reading it I thought I had time-warped back to the Excited States of Hysteria.

The minister went on to say that Iceland is a society based on Christian values, and that the vast majority of people would oppose the Church being separated from the schools. This same minister recently decided that Icelandic kids should no longer be forced to learn Danish, as such was a anachronistic hang-over from the days when the Danes were Iceland's ruling power. Yet she defends the teaching of anachronistic mythology derived from a culture of desert dwelling semi-nomadic tribes from the Middle East dating back to the time when the Pharaohs ruled Egypt, David ruled Jerusalem, and Cesar ruled Rome as a necessity?

What the sweet leapfrogging Buddha Mohamed Christ kinda bullshit is she selling?

The powers that be have tried to make religious education more palatable to religious minorities here by including brief (and often very slanted) sections on Islam, Buddhism, Judaism, Catholicism, Hinduism, and very grudgingly Ásatrú. The only religious belief they refuse to acknowledge is the lack thereof, i.e. Atheism. In fact, many of the questions posed in the classes and books give kids the impression that it is impossible to be a good person without some form of belief in the supernatural. Now they've gone a step further and labeled anyone who doesn't agree with them a "fundamentalist atheist".

Well, guess what, we can call them names too. How about "self-righteous bible thumping hypocritical pompous asses"?

Bad enough that every time I change my address they re-register me as a member of the National Church, giving my hard-earned money to a bunch of collar-wearing wankers who get paid twice what I get (not to mention free housing) for talking about one branch of Middle Eastern Mythology once a week and pushing malleable children's minds down the rabbit whole of cognitive dissonance.

Bad enough that these same wankers automatically register every foreigner who moves here as a member, regardless of their religion or lack thereof. Or the fact that they charge for weddings, funerals, and baptisms, despite the fact that they're already supported by the tax-payers (the same could be said of the RUV the state-run radio and TV network, who despite getting funds from the tax-payers and from "licence fees" for TVs, still sell millions of króna worth of ads...). Bad enough that they continue to drag their feet when it comes to bowing to the will of the VAST majority of the population and allowing same-sex couples to wed.

Now they get to call atheists names and make hints about a conspiring minority set to destroy the "Christian Values" of Iceland?

What fucking Christian values are those? They certainly have nothing to due with the whole camel and needle vs rich man and heaven deal, not to mention the whole "render unto Caesar" thing. The whole bit about not coveting thy neighbor's whatever is totally lost on the average Icelander who doesn't just covet, he goes into debt to something even better. Hell, the only thing keeping the banks over here from putting their logos on the churches is the fact that the churches are REALLY WELL FUNDED unlike the schools, care-homes, and welfare system. Otherwise I'm quite sure the Bishop would be all for something along the lines of "God! Brought to by Glitnir, Iceland's most popular bank!"

Talk about money-lenders in the temple...

And anyone who lives here knows damn well that the whole "Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery" thing is fucking null and void...

Alas, I have to go take care of the good Christian children of Iceland now...so I'll have to hold off on ranting about the ever-increasing rise of xenopohobia in this rainy island paradise...until next time my sweaty little minions, this is the Sma saying why go to church when you could do some good?

Not exactly a model remodel...

So as is obvious from the last couple of posts. I've gotten all gloomy and melancholy and grouchy.

Again.

I apologize dear blogadytes.

Thing is though, I can't seem to shake it. Which worries me. I have a long and frankly disastrous relationship with Madame Melancholy (as well as her sisters Mary Mania and Clinica D'Pression) and I know that when I get like this there's a chance it might get worse.

So I try to get enough sleep, work out, take my lýsi, and relax like all the nice (although frankly all-too-often incompetent) doctors tell you to.




Yet I'm still just tired, unmotivated, and grumpy all the damned time.



Part of it is a very hard to shake anger/sadness cocktail resulting from the stupidity of last July, part of it is the inertia of living out of a suitcase for this long, and part of it is grandma. Add in a healthy dose of I've-been-working-overtime-galore-to-pay-for-a-ticket-home and a pinch of the-last-thing-I-wanna-do-after-being-surrounded-by-screaming-children-all-day-is drill-holes-in-concrete and you get a very unmotivated Sma.

But I can't keep going like this. The landclan (as opposed to a single landlord/lady I've got a whole mess of relatives involved in my housing situation) is getting pissed about the lack o' progress on the remodel front, so if I want to have any sort of say about what kind of kitchen I get, I'm gonna have to get my ass in gear and take charge again.

So tired or not, grumpy or nay, I've got to paint and drill and tile and chisel and all that all this weekend and all the next.

Anyone up to coming over to help?

The Good, The Bad, and the Completely Fucked Up.

So today started off sucky.

The kid I tutor in English in the learning lab was so incredibly angered by my daring to request that he at least try to answer questions in English that he loudly and angrily told me to fuck off (fokkaðu off!) before going on a tirade about how he can't be expected to answer questions in a language he totally doesn't understand.

This coming from a kid who can quote The Simpsons Movie verbatum.

After yet another day of little or no help in the lunch room, which forces me to eat my lunch surrounded by screaming teenagers (though not the little delinquent from the learning lab...he eats three meals a day at the corner sjóppa) because my lunch break is taken up with cleaning the disaster zone that is a post 1-4th grade lunch room, I threw on my coat to sneak off to the store, both to down a bit of carbonated caffeine and have a well deserved smoke.

On my way off of school grounds, I ran into a kid hiding outside the playground. I told him to get his ass back to the school strax, but turns out he's hiding from another of our "special" kids, who I discovered stalking the playground with a fist-sized chunk of concrete in his hand, totally set on bashing in the other kid's head. When I finally forcibly disarmed him, and told him never ever to pull anything like that again, he told me to "steinhjálti kjafti helvitis pólverji þítt". There was also some commentary on how ugly, boring, mean, and stupid I am.

About now, I can hear my beloved blogadytes wondering where the "good" is in all of this.

Well, simply put, walking back from the store, I discovered a soaking wet, yet perfectly legal chunk of tender totalling 5,000 króna.

Apparently this was karma's way of trying to brighten my day. I just wish it had seen fit to make that lotto ticket I bought Saturday a winner.

So, needless to say, I'm considering my employment options again.

I mean, there are jobs out there where you can go months at a time without someone screaming obscenities at you! There are jobs where one doesn't have to disarm deranged individuals armed with improvised weapons intent on inflicting splatter-gore on their fellow man, and then deal with irate phone calls from their parents claiming that you're "bullying" said would-be assailant. There are jobs where one's ears don't ring from all the screaming all afternoon. There are jobs where spit and snot on the floor are exceptions, not the rule. Hell, I could get my Yankee ass a job as a security guard and I'd still have more peace and quiet at work.

Not to mention that there are jobs out there that pay a living wage...

Shhhhh!

You have no idea my dear blogdytes.

Unless of course someone from my job has infliltrated your sweaty ranks.

All day long we've been trying to teach the kid's here a very simple lesson:

BE QUIET IN THE LIBRARY!

It doesn't work. And I'm not talking whispering or giggling or anything like that. I'm talking kids screaming at each other across the library, just to ask a question, shouting "Fuck you you fucking bitch!"*at each other across the table while they try to play some sort of educational game. Don't even get me started on the little bastard that decided to you the library's only copy of The Golden Compass as a football...

One of the things I like about libraries is that they're one of the very few places in our society where quiet is supposed to be the rule, not the exception. No Muzak, no blaring advertisements, no TV's pumping out crap pop videos into the ether. Quiet.

While I really hate most of the aforementioned affronts to calm, music (although definitely not Muzak) has its place. I like its place. Quiet in the backgrounds of resturaunts and cafés, pumping in the bars, pounding in the clubs. I love music. I sing, play musical instruments, listen to music while reading, cooking, whatever. But its got no business in the library, reguardless if we share space with the computer lab. That's what earphones were created for.

Of course, many of us, including almost all the kids here, have gotten way way way way too damn used to life with a soundtrack, which is where the earphones become a serious pain in the ass. I'm tired of trying to talk to people, kids at work, cashiers, people I see on the street or the bus, who can't for the life of them live one goddamned minute without the Ipod blaring in thier ear. I've always thought of music as something that brings us together, but these days, music is what we use to further alienate ourselfs from our fellow man, sonic insulation against the warmth of human company.

Take the fucking ear plugs out already...

*Swearing in English is not considered rude here, even if you're a little kid. I've had parents grin at me and tell me how wonderful it is that their little 6 year old is picking up English already, right after the little monster screams something about ass-fucking a donkey at his classmate. On the other hand, if you tell an Icelandic kid to "shut up" (þeyjiðú) they'll get all kinds of uppity about how you used a "banned word" (bannað orð). How fucked up is that???

Full of Thanks

This has been a really hard day for me.

I mean, I usually have a hard time on Thanksgiving over here. It reminds me of how far away I am from my family, and because so few people celebrate it, serves to remind me of just how much of an outsider I am, and always will be here.

Throw a death in the family into the mix and you've got yourself one mixed-up Sma.

But its not really supposed to be about turkey and stuffing, even if my tummy keeps telling me that it is. Today is supposed to be about giving thanks.

And I am thankful.

I'm thankful for my family, for their unfailing unflagging support for their silly-assed expat son and brother. I'm thankful for their humor and their love and the fact that they're shamelessly goofy and loud enough to make me seem like "the quiet one" for once. I'm thankful that they make the world a better, if considerably goofier, place just by being in it.

I'm thankful for my new little nephew Baby Jack and all the adorable little rug-rats like Askur and Trausti that have come into my life lately, all of whom I am proud to call my nephews, blood or not. They've made my friends and family happy, and for that more than anything I thank them.

'Cause I'm thankful for my friends, the people who've stood by me year after year, sharing joy and sorrow and far far far too many beers. People who've pulled me to my feet when the world has smashed me down, people who've danced along to my different drummer, sheltered me when I had no place to go, fed me when I was broke and so sick of ramen I dreamed of noodles strangling me.

I'm thankful for all the people out there struggling and striving to make this a better world, in the streets and on the job, in houses, schools, squats and mansions. People striving for peace in our time, justice for all, and the liberation of all that is good in the human spirit. I'm thankful for your bravery, resilience, commitment and passion. I'm grateful that people out there still dream big while working small.

Sometimes in the my despair for this world, I let cynicism and sarcasm form a shell around my soul, and it is these people; my friends, my family, my fellow dreamers and revolutionaries that always manage to bring the light into my dark times.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Arrivals and Departures

I'm going home soon. Not permanently, but it's unexpected. I wanted to go home for Thanksgiving to see my new nephew, as well as my new god-nephew (?), and all the other loved ones (and their seemingly endless clutch of babies) I've been missing of late. I thought it would be nice to see the fam for Turkey Day instead of Christmas for a change. Pay a visit to Grandma and Granny.

But it costs a fortune, and I had decided to use my dwindling savings to fix up my place.

But I'm not anymore. I'm going home next month.

My grandma died this weekend.

I feel like I should pay tribute to her, to her life and all, but its hard. Hard because I've always tried to be honest in this blog, and the kind of platitudes that people resort to when a loved one dies have always seemed a bit insulting to me, like sugar-coating the dead before we bury them.

I loved my grandma, but grandma wasn't an easy person to love. She had quirks the size of the Midwest prairies she grew up on. Big quirks, quirks like the Great Plains, like Montana, like Madonna's ego. Somehow at least some of these could be both endearing and annoying at the same time. Like hearing "We used to call it Lost Wages" at least three times everytime Vegas came up in a conversation.

Growing up during the Great Depression molded her into quite possibly the cheapest person I've ever met. She'd dole out spoiled food to her grandkids rather than let the leftovers "go to waste", leading to several cases of "grandma flu", and more than once I received a "whole roll of pennies" or some random doodad she'd found in the closet from her as a birthday or Christmas gift. She was obsessed with saving anything and everything she thought might be of use or value someday. Old food containers, scraps of paper, little bits of everything (in the mid 80's during the worst of the "Just Say No" drug hysteria I found a baggie containing tiny nubs of chalk that my grandmother had saved, and convinced it was crack, hid it in her closet before tearfully explaining to my parents that grandma was a crack-head...god I was a dumb kid). She'd save money on postage by slipping obituaries of people my mom knew into mom's birthday or Christmas cards, making the opening of such an exercise akin to emotional Russian roulette.

To be honest though, that was the least of my troubles with her. The thing that constantly troubled me about my grandma was her bewildering racism. Grandma didn't like immigrants see. At least not "brown" ones. The hypocrisy of it was what drove me nuts. Grandma was the child of immigrants, an immigrant herself, and yet she heaped scorn on others who came to the States for the self-same reasons as her parents. She and my late grandfather were members of the "Sons of Norway" even though grandpa was Swedish, and she was intensely proud, or as intense as she ever got, of her Scandinavian heritage, slipping bits of Norwegian (or was it Swedish?) into her speech, and trying to get us kids to eat lutefisk. Yet she complained bitterly about the US being "taken over by Mexicans" who "always want to speak Spanish". I never could figure it out.

In my early teens I'd go over the mountains to Yakima to "help out" sometimes in the summers. Say what you like about my grandparents, but grandma did keep a spotless home. I know. I had to help her clean it. Her homes were always small and ordered and clean, and yet somehow lacking in character and warmth. Empty somehow, and cut off from the world.

And forgive me for saying it, but I often thought they reflected grandma's psyche, a world of limits and borders, traditions, conventions, and as echoingly empty as an abandoned grain silo.

I always wondered what she thought of my decision to become an immigrant myself. She'd probably have approved, but only because I went somewhere she could easily confuse with her beloved Scandinavia.

But I never got to find out. Grandma didn't have in-depth conversations with her grandkids, and as my move to Iceland more or less coincided with the onset of her Alzheimer's, she hardly remembered who I was most of the time, aside from her sneaking suspicion that I was "stealing her shoes".

The last time I was home, I skipped an opportunity to go visit her at the care-home she'd been at the last few years, after she got too confused for my mom to take care of her at home.

I regret that now. Bitterly.

My grandma may have been a long way from perfect, and she may have bugged the hell out of me from time to time, but she was my grandma, my mother's mother. She was blood. For all her foibles and failings, she was in her heart a good person, and I let distance and illness cloud that fact from my mind.

I love her.

Loved her.

The past tense can be such a sad and final thing. I've had to go back and put things in past tense the whole time I've been writing this.

So I'm going home to be with my family, in mourning and bittersweet celebration. Grandma may not be with us anymore physically, but she'd wandered away a long time ago in her mind. Maybe now she's whole again. I hope so. I want her happy wherever she is.

Goodbye Grandma. Be at peace.

Oh, oofta! I'm crying again...

I feel old.

Don't know why.

Just feel really old and washed up and done in and cranky and such.

Hence the shortness of this blog entry.

Cheer me up this weekend gentle blogadytes?

Cheer me up or just fuck off...