Imaginary friends in a time of social distance

This little girl, with her purse, her flower, and — barely visible — reins to make sure she doesn’t wander off, was painted by Gerard Terborch, born in Zwolle and after whom my street here was named.

When I first started blogging about life in Zwolle, I pointed out that, not only are many Americans unclear about the exact location of the Netherlands, they believe that Amsterdam is the only city in the tulip-filled country of “Holland.” Sure enough, the Netherlands has been largely absent from the corona virus story, as narrated, at least, by CNN, BBCTV, Euronews and the New York Times, our main sources of information here on Terborchstraat. A few days ago, a Times map, showing the spread of Covid-19 in Europe, failed even to identify the Netherlands, while all four of these major news outlets ignored the first live television address by a Dutch prime minister since the oil crisis of the 1970’s. In keeping with what I call the “second single story” about the Netherlands (sex, drugs, and tolerance), Euronews finally ran a story yesterday announcing that tourist sites, restaurants, and even sex and marijuana shops were closed in Amsterdam. I guess we in Zwolle, like the rest of the country, are just leverworst.

Here in Zwolle, life is calm and also confusing. The restaurants and cafes (as well as the marijuana coffee shop) are now closed; of course we miss Swolse Friets, with its spectacular fries and ingenious plating, but we are also worrying about the proprietor and his three daughters. Windesheim Honors College, along with all the other universities in the Netherlands and so many others world wide, has moved online.

Note both the dedicated spot for dipping sauce and the ingenious grated holder, so that no fry is left behind.

This morning, in fact, we had a meeting of our “value creators” class, in which students work in teams to learn about and address in a specific, and potentially systemic, way one of the UN’s 17 sustainability goals. After a discussion about how the course’s grading structure might change (kudos to my European students for being a lot more phlegmatic on this issue than their American counterparts) and how end-products (the value created) might look different this semester, the conversation shifted to how, beyond their group projects, students might create value NOW in their communities. Someone suggested creating videos and lessons that might be used by our own faculty with small children, as well as other families abruptly coping with home-schooling. A colleague sent a link about “caremongering” in Canada. Suddenly, the chat window was full of links and suggestions, including one to online volunteering through the United Nations and another, translated as “Corona-proof volunteerwork.”

If you know me, you know that I love my students, And if you have read the “about” page of this blog, you probably know that I am on a quest: How do we guide our students to be, in a formulation not just for Jesuits, for and with others? How do we teach our students to address the challenges of the 21st century?

Loyola Honors and friends in Amsterdam: Nicole Margavio, Mary Kate Andrepont, Anne Frank, me, and Michael Pashkevich (photo courtesy of Khadija Moses)

Well, one of the world’s greatest challenges now surrounds us. We are all striving to make sense of a new normal, at least (as my mother would say) for now, in an ever-changing landscape. And, as always, the “teacher” is learning from her students, both here in the Netherlands, and back at Loyola in New Orleans, where many of “my” seniors — their classes moved on line, their recitals and shows cancelled, their commencement activities in limbo — used the funds remaining in their meal plans to buy nonperishables for the university’s food pantry.

Like so many others right now, struggling to make sense of the crisis engulfing us all, I am trying to figure out the correct path forward for me and my family. I am worried about my children and older family members and friends; I am trying not to think too hard about the tumbling of the markets, the people losing their jobs, those struggling with — or even losing that struggle to — this terrible illness.

And, if I am honest, I have to admit that I have also lingered a few moments in personal disappointment: my great Fulbright adventure is not, to say the least, as I imagined it might be. Even if I shelter on Terborchstraat rather than Calhoun Street, there will be no keynote to deliver at Windesheim’s international week celebration, no dedication of seventeen new stumbling stones here, no face-to-face meetings or coffees with students and colleagues, no seder with my new community.

courtesy of wikicommons

Perhaps, if you are lucky enough that the changes in your life right now are not overwhelming or tragic, you have also had such moments of wistful regret. And, despite Casablanca‘s timely reminder that “the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world,” that’s ok, for now. There is no need to flog yourself for feeling sad about the commencement you worked so hard for, the wedding celebration you dreamed about, the performance you so carefully prepared, the many things — large and small — that you imagined and which will no longer materialize.

But imagination is a powerful tool, and a two-way street. Thanks to streaming platforms, Casablanca’s compelling war-time love story can offer us a moment of escapism, but it also can encourage us to feel empathy for the pain of those all around us, caught up — like Rick and Ilsa — in events beyond their control. We can spend our time envisioning “what might have been, longing for a world where “corona” was an arcane Latin term for “crown” most of us only used or heard in advance of a solar eclipse.

Or we can use our imaginations constructively: taking the time to imagine how we can be for and with others, helping our communities, great and small, to navigate this crisis.

The senior rabbi at my beloved Touro Synagogue sent the board a “Covid Action Plan” that opened with a beautiful midrash (an elaboration of a biblical narrative) about how Noah was transformed by his time in the ark. Drawing from Aviva Zornberg’s book, Genesis: The Beginning of Desire, Rabbi Bauman explains that, before the flood, Noah was callous and materialistic, but that the raging water and confinement with the animals forced him “to focus on the essential. Every life on his ark becomes precious. He gains an awareness of his responsibility for the safety of others.”

For Noah, the flood is traumatic but also transformative. Rabbi Bauman writes that Noah “centers down in a way that would have been [previously] unthinkable.” Poignantly, she explains, the ark becomes “a ‘laboratory of kindness’ where Noah reclaims what is good in his soul and transforms himself into one who can emerge and merit God’s hope.”

Some (my husband included) may be put off by the reference to Noah, let alone God. But regardless of our faith orientations or personal tenets, our worldview constructions, I firmly believe in the power of “imaginary friends.” These “friends,” figures of the world’s great texts and traditions, can engage our imaginations, in essential ways, with issues regarding empathy and compassion. The “friends” can be compelling companions in our daily lives, but, for me at least, are indispensable in times of unfathomable challenge, offering companionship and guidance, along with intellectual and moral engagement.

Some of my “imaginary friends” in the Rijksmuseum. Note that “imaginary” does not mean, necessarily, that they are “made up” but rather that they engage the imagination.

In the weeks ahead, as I withdraw, like you all, into social distancing, I will be engaging — partying, even — with my imaginary friends, searching for new pathways forward. This term, “imaginary,” is not intended to be dismissive, or imply that they are “made up,” although some (like Harry Potter, or Homer’s Achilles, for example) emerge from some of the world’s most creative imaginations. Rather, “imaginary” implies that each of these figures, from a diverse spectrum of provenances — the Bible, children’s literature, history — engages my imagination, speaks to and with me, in many profound ways. At this unprecedented moment, we must find strength to imagine and then do what is best for our communities, transforming this strange moment of retreat and self-quarantine into an ark, a “laboratory of kindness,” where we all grow in ways we cannot even imagine.

Holding forth about my relationship with my imaginary friend, at the Shelter Cities kick-off on March 5

I look forward to sharing my friendships with you (starting with Anne Frank, as might be expected from a nice Jewish girl exploring the limits of tolerance in the Netherlands), and I hope you will share some of your friends with me, as well.

You may leave a comment or reach me at americaninzwolle@gmail.com; I answer every email.

 

Red light, green light, one two three.

The second story: Tolerance

Sarah van Sonsbeeck’s installation, “We may have come in different ships, but we’re in the same boat now”

When I was walking to the train station from the Rijksmuseum last week, struggling to keep my new Van Gogh umbrella (“almond blossoms”) from being blown inside out by winter storm Ciara, I suddenly noticed red lights twinkling around the windows I was passing. Some kind of Mardi Gras celebration, I wondered, feeling just a teensy bit wistful. Then I saw the woman framed by the lights, clad only in a black lace bra and garters, looking bored. Of course: the red light district.

I have seen similar women as I walked from my boutique hotel in Groningen to the synagogue, and out the windows of the Oude Kerk, the oldest church in Amsterdam, when I took students there to see an installation about refugees that had us struggling not to touch sheets of what looked like gold wrapping paper spread on the cathedral’s massive stone floor. The gold mylar blankets, frequently seen in photos of refugees after their harrowing sea crossings, serve to recall to visitors the intimate connection of this Dutch church to the sea, and to sailors, as a place of protection, blessing, and final rest.

The artist, Sara van Sonsbeeck, evokes Martin Luther King in her title, “We may have come in different ships but we’re in the same boat now,” but also reminds viewers that the church served an essential physical and imaginative role in a community dependent upon maritime industry. “The church was one of the few public, covered places where sails and nets could be mended, and a place where naval heroes were buried. The barrel vaulting was also fabricated like the inverted hull of a ship using shipbuilding techniques. And it is not for nothing that the main section of the church is traditionally known in Dutch as the ‘schip’, or nave. In the church there are actually fragments of paintings that feature motifs found on sailors’ tattoos.”

Like the installation in its local church, the Red Light District is part of a story of tolerance that is central to the Dutch narrative.The Netherlands became a haven for Jews after their Expulsion from Spain, and, despite its Calvinist outlook, adopted a sort of “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy toward Catholics in the 17th century.  The Dutch COC, founded in 1946 just after World War II, is the world’s oldest existing LGBTQ organization, and, on April 1, 2001, the Netherlands became the first country to legalize gay marriage. The Netherlands famously allows for the legal consumption (although not production) of marijuana, which you can buy in “coffee shops” (distinguished from cafes) throughout the country but particularly in Amsterdam.

And, of course, there’s the legalized sex trade. The Netherlands ranked 1 out of 167 countries, and was the only country to score an A, on the Global Slavery Index released by the Walk Free Foundation. But the trafficking figures in the Netherlands were reported to be five times higher than expected, with approximately 6250 victims a year, According to the report, 2 to 3 out of every thousand high school students falls under the control of a pimp, with authorities aware of only 11% of these situations.

On a more local level, my students tell me that, although sex education in the Netherlands is considered a model for other countries, access is variable. My “value creators” team (students at Windesheim Honours College are required to devote a semester to a team project designed to address one of the UN’s 17 sustainability goals) has chosen the topic of sex education for refugees. What the focus will be — anatomy and physiology, sexual harrassment, positive relationships, or how to give pleasure — has yet to be determined.

Like the complexities of the sex trade, my students remind me that tolerance is not static, but an exercise, something on which we must continually be working. Like Sarah van Sonsbeek’s golden sails, spread in the Oude Kerk, tolerance is not fixed; it must be expanded and furled and trimmed and maneuvered to catch the wind. Sometimes it needs to be mended. Sometimes there is no wind, and we all must row together.