On students

I was at KU yesterday, where I'm helping teach a course in magazine journalism, and got chatting to a colleague whom I taught with last semester. While we were talking, a student came up to say hi and tell us how things were going with him. His face was shining with enthusiasm as he told us how much he was enjoying the course he's taking right now, and how it's really getting him excited for his future. He has a grand plan all in place, and is busy urging other students to sign up for the internship he took during the summer, he told us. "And maybe one day I can sign my name to a scholarship here," he finished.

It got me thinking about the differences between American and British students. You'd never get a student in Britain so enthusiastic about their studies - or at least you certainly wouldn't have done where I was at university. Forgive me if I'm making a sweeping generalisation here, but British students don't, on the whole, come up to thank their professors for what they have taught them, or express their desire to give a scholarship to the university so other students can enjoy a little financial aid. They're more likely to grumble about their workload (likely to be far less than what the average American student has to produce per term), and then go and spend their student loan in the pub.

The meeting made me simultaneously encouraged and depressed. Encouraged because it is great to work in an environment where students are genuinely excited about learning. Depressed because I come from a country where that's not the norm. It makes me want to send my children to a US university when the time comes. When, of course, a little financial aid in the form of a scholarship might come in very handy....

On being American versus being a Brit

My cousin-in-law Adele (whose blog, Circus Queen, circusqueen.co.uk is really excellent btw), commented that it must be hard to leave the place where your child is born. The more I think about it, the more I think she is right. With the birth of our son, America really has become home, and leaving it will be hard.

I arrived here very definitely a Brit, with set ideas about what was good and bad (mostly, I have to confess, Britain=good, America=bad). I'm pleased to say I've chilled out a lot since then. Last night we watched a British film about a group of Muslims in Sheffield, called Four Lions. It was supposed to be a comedy (I think), but was a bit too close to the bone for comfort. The whole thing made me feel depressed, from the issues it was raising, to the gloomy weather and run-down streets in the background.

I used to laugh at American patriotism, with its gung-ho, we're-the-best-in-the-world enthusiasm. I still find it slightly uncomfortable, but at least here, the majority of citizens are genuinely enthusiastic about their country, no matter where they have come from. Even if they still identify as Greek or Italian or whatever, they are also Americans, and while they might hold on to many of the customs and traditions of their original homeland, they love America. I have a friend from Korea who recently became an American citizen and she was fervent in her gratefulness to America as a country - for what it offered her and for what it had, in effect, done for her. The film I was watching last night followed a group of Muslim Britons whose only desire seemed to be to blow up somewhere in Britain and cause havoc.

I found myself becoming more fervently British when I first got here, as I know many ex-pats do - suddenly you see Britain with rose-tinted glasses and fondly remember all its good points, while forgetting the bad. But now that we are actually going back, my enthusiasm for returning is waning. Perhaps it's the recent riots, perhaps it's the many tensions that seem to exist in the country at the moment, but I am almost dreading living there again. I'm sure that once I'm home I will slip back into my old life (with a few adjustments) fairly easily. But my attitude towards America has definitely changed, and I can see myself living here again. Not forever, I don't think - I am still too much of a Brit at heart (and couldn't cope with the healthcare system), but for a while, somewhere. Maybe when Baby A is 21 and we become eligible for a greencard we could all move out here for a stint. After all, I am the parent of an American citizen now!

Some ponderings

I realise that my last post was all about feeling guilty for not having updated my blog for so long... and that was in March. It's now August and clearly, I have been remiss. A fact pointed out to me by my dear uncle who asked if we could have a few more blogs. So here I am again. Hopefully not having put anyone off by being silent for so long.

A lot has happened since my last post. I've had a baby for a start. And, in reply to Anonymous who seemed to think it was a bad idea to be having a baby out here, yes, my baby is American. Which I think is a fantastic thing! First of all, he actually gets dual citizenship (two passports: very useful), which means he's a Brit as well. He also automatically has a social security number and an official presence in this country, which means should he ever wish to study or work here, it will be very straightforward for him (it ain't easy being a foreigner in the States when it comes to official recognition). The Major and I both feel we've given him a great start in life by conferring Anglo-American status on him - who knows what sort of state America will be in in 20 years time, but if it's anything like it is now we would be entirely happy for him to head over here to university or to work afterwards. So hurrah to American citizenship!

The same blogger also suggested that American hospitals are very dirty. Well no, they're not actually. In fact, from what I've heard, they're more like five-star hotels than hospitals. And you get pretty good care.
That said, I actually chose not to have my baby in a hospital. They're pretty hands-on when it comes to birth out here, and quite hot on massive amounts of intervention, which I wasn't so keen on the idea of. I wanted my baby to arrive naturally, when he fancied, and preferably without large amounts of drugs in my system. So I sought out a midwife, and found an excellent lady, very practical and peaceful, who was fantastic. In fact Baby A turned out to be breech, which means had I chose to have him in the hospital system I almost certainly would have had to have a caesarean. Fortunately for me, my midwife has had a lot of experience with breech delivery, and was enormously encouraging and confident in my ability to do it naturally at home. He arrived on his due date, feet first, at home. I was standing up with my arms around the Major's neck, roaring like a lion (he said afterwards he thought he had probably been in more pain than I was at that point. Luckily he didn't say this at the time). By 10pm we were all three of us tucked up peacefully in bed together. It was lovely. And I don't think I would actually have had anything like as good a birth in England. I love the fact that you can get a home birth on the NHS, but because home birth here is so against the norm, the people practising it are really dedicated to what they are doing - determined that the mothers in their care should have a wonderful experience. And I did - it was an absolutely fantastic way to give birth and I'd do it again like a shot.

In reply to another commentator - Janet - yes, Kansas. My earlier posts explain that my husband has been posted here for his job, so it wasn't exactly that I chose Kansas. But we have had a fantastic time out here - the people are, as you rightly say, enormously kind and nice and we have loved our experience.

In fact, as I write, I am feeling a strange sort of sadness. Because our time here is actually drawing to a close, and earlier than expected. We were due to stay here until December, but the Major unfortunately has to go to Afghanistan when we leave here and they want him out at the end of November, which means we have to return in October. It is strange and sad to think of leaving our adopted homeland. I'm not entirely sure when my feelings about Kansas changed. I came out here prepared to hate it - and did find it all very strange for the first few months (even now). The slower pace of life, the sometimes amazing ignorance etc etc. But gradually, it has crept up on me that there are many things I enjoy: the space, the friendliness, even the slower pace of life. And of course, it is my son's new homeland....

On neglect and unions

I am ashamed at how long it has been since my last post. And even more ashamed at the fact that I only realised I had neglected my blog for so long when an acquaintance emailed me with his thoughts on reading one of my posts. So apologies for those of you who are genuinely interested in what I have to say in this space.

It is March (just) and grey and rainy here in Kansas. Baby is due in four weeks time and I don't think I have got my head around the fact that I will shortly be responsible for a life in a way I have never been before. However, life is good. I recently took a flying visit back to the UK, for my goddaughter's christening, and was surprised at how eager I felt to get back to the midwest. Perhaps it was with the baby imminent that I realised that my place was here, with the Major, in the country where my baby will be born, but I felt genuinely relieved to be back. And since being back I have appreciated being out here in ways that I have never felt before. Suddenly the slow pace of life is relaxing, rather than frustrating. The Army Wife community no longer seems stifling, but supportive, and my teaching at KU genuinely fulfilling, rather than just filling a two-year gap on my CV. Perhaps I am softening at last, because despite the rain, Kansas feels like home - and those are words I never thought I would write.

I had meant to post a week or so ago, after listening to a story on the radio about the question of 'union-busting' in Wisconsin. Democratic leaders had 'gone into hiding' rather than vote on a bill which would have disabled unions further than they would have liked, and everyone was in uproar. But one comment really struck me. It was on the issue of whether unions should be allowed to deduct money directly from a person's wages, if that person had previously ok'd it. The person with an opinion was saying that he thought that public money - i.e. taxpayers money, which goes to pay the wages of public sector workers, should not go to unions in this way. But it got me thinking about the whole issue of public sector pay generally. At the moment, I am essentially living on taxpayers' money. My husband is paid by the British government. He is not a member of a union, because the Army doesn't have a union, but my mental question was, at what point does taxpayers' money stop being taxpayers' money and start becoming an individual's income, to dispose of as he or she pleases? I wouldn't dream of allowing any old random stranger to 'audit' our daily expenses, because as far as I'm concerned, that money is money my husband has earned and has every right to do as he pleases with. So if we agree that someone's salary becomes his own when it enters his bank account, is there then a problem with a deduction coming out to a union that person has decided to join? Or is the problem that the money comes out at the same time as the money comes in, so to speak?

It is a confusing issue, this question of accountability. I am in no doubt that the expenses which we are legally entitled to claim, such as help with utilities and rent, which the government allows us to claim as my husband is a public sector employee, should be open to scrutiny. But the rest - the sum which comes into our account as money well earned? I think at that point, it's our money, to do with as we will.

Perhaps the issue is whether you believe unions should be allowed within the public sector. Perhaps, as within the Army, they should not. I read or heard somewhere recently that the only employees who should be allowed unions should be private sector workers, to protect them from the greed of corporate employers. But I'm not sure I agree with this. Sure, if you sign up to work a government paid job, you know what you're signing on for, perhaps more so than with a big corporation. But I don't see why we shouldn't be protected from the excesses of government too, within a certain remit. Or, if not protected, at least allowed to have our say. After all, public sector workers are individuals too - just because you've signed on to work for the government means you automatically lose your voice.

On guns and things

I have been pondering, over the past week, on the mass shooting in Arizona recently, when a man named Jared Loughner opened fire with a semi-automatic weapon outside a Safeways supermarket, hitting 19 people and killing six. Naturally there have been enormous outpourings of grief for the victims, who included a nine-year-old girl, as well as instant and vicious political sniping, mostly from the left, accusing the right of inciting violence through political rhetoric. The Major and I first heard the news in Detroit airport, where we landed after an 11-hour flight from Chicago. A marked contrast to the hustle and bustle of Sao Paulo international airport, our first thoughts were of how civilised a country America was, until we heard about Loughner's rampage, and Sarah Palin's crosshair targeting of key Democrats on her website, and instant political vitriol immediately spewing forth.

I still do not understand, however, how a country which is supposedly the world's leading superpower can still allow its states to licence guns so freely. The Second Amendment is one thing: I don't agree with it, but can understand the history behind it, and why people support the right to bear arms. What I cannot understand it why this right is not accompanied by the most stringent regulations. Guns are designed to kill: surely to own a gun, one should be subject to the most rigorous checks to ensure the maximum safety in doing so? Arizona passed a law last year which allowed people to carry concealed weapons without a permit - why, in heaven's name? Why does one need to carry a concealed weapon in the first place? And why should one be allowed to carry an automatic weapon capable of firing off multiple rounds in one go?

It reminded me of when I was in Arizona over the summer, as part of the Ford Fiesta world tour. My first tour activity took place at Scottsdale Gun Club, America's largest public indoor shooting range. I'd literally just got off the plane, it was about 7.30am, and I was being handed an array of lethal weapons to fire. They included a Smith & Wesson 500, a Heckler & Koch MP5, an old-school AK 47 and a full-on, military-style M249 SAW, which came with a belt of bullets and which you had to lie down on the ground to fire. I hated it. The adrenaline that surged through my body made me feel sick; I hated the smell and the kick of the gun against my shoulder and the fact that the targets we were shooting were shaped like people. Even more disturbing was, when we had all had a go, the way the gun club staff enthusiastically took up position to blast off the rounds that we hadn't finished. They took such pleasure in it.

But I could see how that could happen. I could see how the adrenaline could become addictive, how hitting the bullseye could be a thrill, how it could make you feel really hard, and cool. Which is what makes me even more worried: if we, as human beings, have the capacity to enjoy shooting things so much, surely we should be saved from ourselves when it comes to regulating our ability to do so? Perhaps I will be derided as a namby-pamby, nanny-state fan who could be accused of not taking ones' rights seriously, but it's not me I'm worried about - it's all those nutters out there who can, because of these so-called rights, get their hands on a gun and use it on real live people. What about those people's own rights to life? Oh dear, it all gets a bit complicated, but I guess Time magazine summed it up best: surely something is awry when we live in a place where you can't take a bottle of shampoo in your bag on a plane, but you can quite easily buy a gun and use it to go and kill someone.

Rich v Poor in Rio

Yesterday I met a man called Rambo who lives in a cave. Well, I said I met him, I really just said hello and shook his hand.

The Major and I were on a tour of a favela in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. These unplanned sprawls of habitation are greatly feared in big Brazilian cities, because they are controlled by drug lords, they are where the poor people live, and they have bad and scary reputations - go into a favela and you won't come out alive, etc.

Except it turns out they're not all like that. Certainly the one we were in wasn't. It is called Rochinha, and is home to the largest number of favela dwellers in Rio - 300,000 people packed into 54,000 houses, some little more than shacks, perched on a hillside overlooking (of course) one of the most expensive pieces of Rio real estate. We spent about three hours walking around it with our guide, a half Brazilian, half American man who was born and raised in the favela and loves it with all his heart, so much so that he has tattoos of it all over his body.

It was most enlightening. Like any good tourist, we had bought the Lonely Planet guide to South America before embarking on our month-long trip around Argentina and Brazil, and had been warned to keep our valuables closely about us while in Rio and to never ever venture unaccompanied into a favela. But actually, all the people we met were lovely - friendly individuals, all of whom loved living in this close-knit community where people look out for one another and know each other by name. To be sure, we spotted occasional shadowy figures patrolling balconies - the drug boys who were keeping lookout from their patch, but according to our guide, the live and let live mentality of Rochinha means that, as long as people don't steal, kill or abuse, everyone will be fine. And it seemed that this was the case. We met one man, a German, who has lived there for 12 years, and never locks his house or his car. And of course we met Rambo, a rugged hairy type who lives on the edge of the favela in his cave on the hillside, and prefers to keep it simple.

It's not all idyllic of course. By and large, people live in favelas because they can't afford to live anywhere else - they are the maids, the housekeepers, the cleaners for the rich, earning R700-ish a month - a fairly pitiful sum and certainly not enough to rent a house in a proper planned area of the city. As our guide pointed out, if you tore down the favelas, Rio would grind to a halt, because the people who live here are the ones who keep everything ticking. The educational prospects are poor there, the majority of children don't end up at university and sadly, many of them turn to the drugs trade because they can earn more that way - although, thanks to an informal agreement with the police, it means they can never then leave the favela, because once they do they will be arrested.

It made us both think. Of how lucky we are to have enough money to go on adventurous holidays, to live in a nice house, to drive a nice car, to be able to educate our children well. But also of, how in many ways, we are spiritually the poorer for it - we don't have the same relationship with our neighbours, we get hung up on our possessions and whether we have the latest clothes and whether our thighs are too fat. For a brief moment, the Major and I contemplated coming there to live for a while, to engage with the people around us, to learn the language, to see if we could get by. But then we returned to our cosy little guesthouse perched in pretty Santa Teresa with lovely houses all around and weakly, foolishly agreed that we might not be able to manage it after all. A shaming thought, especially after meeting Rambo.

Mind the bump

Readers of my regular blog for the Lady magazine will know that I have prostrated myself upon the altar of the would-be family planners and am expecting a baby, due in April. Thus far, all has been well - no morning sickness, fatigue or any of the other discomforts that one is warned about. In fact, up until now I have pretty much been able to pretend I am not pregnant at all, as my 'bump' has just looked like the effects of eating a little too much. Now, however, it is starting to protrude - a fact that was made painfully obvious to me the other evening.
The Major and I were attending a Christmas extravaganza, and decided to fortify ourselves with caffeine beforehand. We bought our coffees, and were making polite conversation with the lady at the till, when she said, "so, you're expecting a baby."
We exchanged surprised glances and agreed that this was so.
It was most odd. I have grown so used to telling people I am pregnant and them expressing surprise and disbelief that this new evidence of my impending motherhood, despite being a natural process (pregnancy=bump after all) has come as a bit of a shock.
Now I am gearing myself up for yet more conversations centred around my stomach. I have been warned to expect random touching by strangers, comments as to the sex (we have decided not to find out) and unsolicited advice. Fine. But be warned, if anyone tries to stroke my belly without asking first, there will be hell to pay.