Q&A with Wilfred van Dellen

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Any activity that induces flow or bliss as long as possible.

On what occasion do you lie?

When positive exaggeration makes someone feel better or in case a lie of omission helps to get what I want.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?

Glasses. I wish I could stand lenses.

When and where were you happiest?

I assume in my mother’s womb. But I can’t remember.

How would you like to die?

“The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it. White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.”

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

Having learned just to love and be loved in return.

What is your greatest fear?

Forgetting my lines before going on stage. I have reoccurring dreams about that.

What historical figure do you most identify with?

None. Unless you consider TV characters Gregory House and James Wilson historical figures. I think like the former, but act like the latter.

Which living person do you most admire?

Patrick Stewart (actor)

Who are your heroes in real life?

The people that make our lives run smoothly every single day. They tend to do that without us really noticing and despite the fact that their jobs are looked down on by many.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

At times, indecisiveness leading to analysis paralysis.

If you died and would come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?

As a self-conscious software program because that increases the changes of eternal life. Yet one could erase oneself at any time if necessary.

What is your greatest regret?

At the moment, probably not having finished my PhD.

If you could change one thing about yourself , what would it be?

Eyesight.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Being happy all the time.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?

Make them see and wonder about the big mystery of our very existence and through the amaze and wonder realize that trivial problems are really a waste of time arguing about.

What is your most treasured possession?

Parts of my book and DVD collection. As an atheist, I believe that this comes closest to the equivalent of a holy book: A collection of inspiring stories and story-telling that shaped my thinking.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

“Falling in space. Faster and faster. For a long time you don’t feel anything. And then you burst into fire. Forever. And the angel’s won’t help you. Because they’ve all gone away.”

Where would you like to live?

Sweden.

What is your motto?

“Get rid of the stress, do your thing, and boogie!”

DumDum Doodle on Crises

Recipe: Veggy Fajitas

Women, Love and Justice

Ferdinand Maximilian was not yet a middle-aged man, he was still in his early twenties at that time. He was not yet a Steppenwolf, but he was on the path towards becoming one with every step forward. He knew that every step directed him inevitably into his destiny, and that path would never be changed. If it were possible to describe his psyche in one word, it would be a paradox. He could be extremely charming, with an easy smile and full of charisma. Nonetheless, some people would get to know the ruthless part of him, which appeared to be an impenetrable armor built to protect him against all vulnerability. Some people that had never met him thought he was arrogant and had an attitude of not caring. It was true that he cared for some people, but certainly there were not that many. He often found despair for humanity, and often tried to put an end to his life by committing suicide. As an intellectual and part of academia he tried to control this impulse of ending his life with extreme amounts of alcohol and other substances. His life was an antithesis, since he was living the life of a bourgeois man, when the only thing he wished for was a small wooden house deep in the middle of the German Black Forest. The few things he desired were simple, a dog, philosophical books, a typing machine, and good quality wine. However, trapped in the life of the rich, he decided to attend one last dinner before finally committing suicide. That same night, he met an enchanting young girl, who immediately delighted him with her thoughts and stories. Apparently, they had a friend in common, which was part of a small talk before he introduced the philosophical theme. Impressed by a utilitarian example, which she brought up, in his mind a friendship had started. It wasn’t long before he and Adiba Goosens let the powers of seduction rule above their rationality. She was elegantly dressed with a long curly hair; she had an intelligent look, and emerald beauty.

The same night Fernand went to bed with a warm and profound emotion in his chest, for he had a new friend. Days after, late in a dark and chilled night at the college, his thoughts started to rush in a storm of controversies and stories. There was always a deadline, so he felt he was running out of time, a deadline of an essay, a deadline of a reading, and a deadline of not living life. He sat down in one of the classes to finish his last readings of the night, an essay by Elizabeth Anderson. As soon as the reading started his thoughts came back, the paranoia started and he was already fantasizing, recalling the last memories he had of Adiba.

The images started floating through his mind like ephemeral pictures charged with emotions. He was walking towards the college that day, it was before twilight and while stepping on the dry yellow flowers on the ground a voice started to talk. The voice of the deeds and the voice of the deadlines, the voice of human corruption, the voice of unhappiness. “What are you waiting for? Who are your friends? Are you loved? Do you love? Life has no meaning?” I began glancing with despair for the presence of the mysterious unknown voice; without any luck my eyes could not identify a soul or body from which the phrases could have originated. He kept walking. “Why are you walking faster? You are going to fail anyways, there is nothing for you out there,” the voice continued. Now my body felt the shivers and emotions flowing through my blood. He didn’t know whether to feel anger or fear. “What are you afraid of? Nobody is going to remember you anyway.” The thoughts kept coming and going while he sped up his pace. He kept looking around, but there was nothing or no one around, it was a ghost city. He was alone, how could he? These questions seemed impossible to answer and at least he knew he felt love. Yes of course! He loved her. The voice disappeared and he sprinted into the college to write a note.

Dear Adiba,

Women and justice cannot go together. I have managed to love simultaneously and the ghost of a past haunts the love of the present. I realize that I cannot monopolize or demand you to love me back or to love me and no one else. I cannot demand you to love me if you love someone else. When I see your eyes, I see the mixture of reason and beauty, of passion and law. How can we ever be friends after you receive this letter? How can we ever be friends, if I would give my life for you? How can we ever be friends, if I would surrender completely for you? You are without doubt the most beautiful of all the stars in the firmament.

Sincerely yours,

Ferdinand.
Moments later, he took the letter and in the precise moment when he was looking at the outside of the doorbell of her house. He woke up, and he realized that he wasn’t in front of her doorbell, but he has still in the empty college classroom finishing his deeds. Confused as expected, he looked for his cigarettes in the pocket of his jacket. When he pulled his hand out he didn’t have the cigarette box, but strangely he was holding the love note to Adiba. Impossible.

Francisco Morejón

Gypsy Universe

Let’s take the Black out of Black Pete

The weeks leading up to December 5^th are a joyous time in our country. All Dutch people unite and celebrate a long-standing traditional holiday: Sinterklaas. The shoes are filled with sweets, poems carefully composed; it doesn’t get any better than that. Born and raised in Amsterdam myself, people expect me to be part of these family customs and to fit in flawlessly. I know everyone wants to get through this holiday without all my whining, nagging, and the fun-ruining anger. But for too long I have swallowed my thoughts for the sake of harmony. Fellow Dutch people, there is something inherently wrong, and I will not stop disrupting your precious holiday until it’s fixed. A short explanation: Sinterklaas comes to our country and brings presents and candy for kids. Great! Right? He also brings with him his helpers, Black Pete – or as we like to call them: Zwarte Pieten. They are hard to miss, as they are painted black, with red lips, hoop earrings, a large afro and silly colorful costumes. For many Dutch kids, Zwarte Piet is the highlight of the holiday. For others, he is the opposite.

While Sinterklaas is presented as a wise old man who can distinguish good from evil, Zwarte Piet is usually depicted as the clumsy helper. He is incapable of doing any important work, but he’s good to keep around to wrap some presents and slide through chimneys. This wouldn’t be too problematic, if it weren’t for the ‘traditional’ physical appearance of the Pieten. It is painfully similar to the pictures of slaves during colonial times. Recent studies show that 83% of Dutch people do not think any changes should be made to the appearance of Zwarte Piet. This means to me that 83% of Dutch people are in denial about our role in the history of slavery. They don’t care that the happiness they get from Zwarte Piet reminds others of oppression that dates back to the 16^th century (talk about outdated!).

‘But I don’t even notice that Piet is black! So that means it’s not racist!’

Yes. Yes it is racist. I hear a lot of people claiming that they don’t even see skin color, that they never made the link between all the Piet-behaviors and black skin. The funny thing is, all the people saying this happen to be white. A lot of white people simply don’t notice how problematic Zwarte Piet is because it doesn’t affect them personally. Never will an unconscious link be made between them and a Zwarte Piet. It is a classic example of white privilege. Not only does Zwarte Piet harm the self-confidence of young black children every year, it harms adults in their daily life. Apart from the struggle of being called Zwarte Piet half of the year, they face disadvantages in their personal and professional life. There are a great number of negative stereotypes that get linked to black skin. These include higher crime rates, incapability to do complicated jobs and to speak proper Dutch, general laziness and dumbness. Zwarte Piet enforces all these stereotypes.

‘But Zwarte Piet is tradition! And what would we be if it wasn’t for our traditions?’

Sometimes, society outgrows traditions. Most societies outgrew the tradition of blackface years ago, yet we insist on keeping it alive. I recognize that tradition is an important part of any community, but I am not arguing we should get rid of Zwarte Piet altogether. All I ask for is that he just be called Piet. And since we don’t notice the color of his skin anyway, it wouldn’t be such a big issue to change it, right? Make him purple, make him gold (like de Bijenkorf announced recently), make him rainbow colored! Just make sure he doesn’t have a resemblance of any kind to a racial minority. The amount of people who feel that Zwarte Piet is a source of oppression is growing, and if we really are one big liberal family, we have an obligation to eliminate any source of oppression we find. So I call to all of you, UCM’ers, Dutch or otherwise, do not simply take this outdated tradition as it is, but stand up to it. We are all human, and when the marginalized and the oppressed call the oppressors out on an issue like this, they should be heard, and a change must follow.

Eva de Haan

In Spite of Himself – LBJ under History’s Glare

Review of The Passage of Power, The Years of Lyndon Johnson Vol. IV

By Robert A. Caro, Illustrated. 712 pp. Alfred A. Knopf.

Proud fathers carve notches onto the furniture to measure their children’s growth; the office of the presidency has carved its notches on the edifice of American history. Three men in particular have left their imprint on the nation’s memory: Washington, who founded the country; Lincoln who preserved its unity; Roosevelt who saved it from economic ruin and lead it victoriously into the greatest war of all time.

Since reconstruction, no notable progress had been made with regards to civil rights: the black population of the supposed land of the free was still languishing in ghettos, segregated in all areas of life, largely condemned to life in poverty and racism, frequently in the form of lynching. Poverty and lack of social mobility were equally disturbing: despite the stupendous efforts of Roosevelt’s New Deal, the conditions in which the American poor lived were sufficiently bad even to shock British plutocrats. In 1955 the minimum wage was still a pathetically inadequate seventy-five cents an hour.

The social stasis was due to a legislative impasse. In the Senate a virtually invulnerable coalition had arisen in opposition to the New Deal, resolutely determined to prevent progress from being written into the books of law. It was this southern coalition of conservative democrats and republicans that held firm. Health insurance, affordable housing, aid for education, social security, civil rights, even anti-lynching legislation: all bills that passed the House dashed themselves against the Senate dam—and died. When during the 1950s the dam’s gates swung briefly open at last, it wasn’t the President, Eisenhower, who forced them open; the bolts were pulled back from within, by Lyndon Johnson, who not only won an increase in the minimum wage but extended its coverage to millions of workers who hadn’t been earning even that minimum. No sooner had Johnson left the Majority Leader’s desk than the gates swung shut again—more firmly than ever.

While the stalemate hadn’t begun under Kennedy, it had grown worse under Kennedy. The ideals he so movingly enunciated could not be integrated into American life by way of domestic reform. It took Johnson’s skill to pass the Civil Rights Acts of 1964. And yet many still associate the peak of American liberalism with the charismatic and eloquent JFK and the political stratagems of his brother Robert. The large, overbearing Texan Johnson lacked the polish and attainment of the Kennedys, and is chiefly remembered for his disastrous exploits in Vietnam. But Johnson might well be the greatest legislator in American history. Born in the poor Texas hill country, Johnson bullied, cheated and blackmailed himself to power. His ambition was an uncommon one, unencumbered by even the slightest excess weight of principle; his ruthlessness shocked even those who believed themselves to be inured against the ruthlessness of politics. House of Card’s fictitious Frank Underwood pales in comparison to this real life incarnation of the scheming power broker. But despite his towering ego and his devastating instinct for the weaknesses of others, he was at the same time a man of brilliant intelligence and authentic social passion, who led millions of blacks out of poverty and segregation and into the voting booth. His domestic achievements have left an imprint on American society equal in greatness to that of his predecessors.
Robert Caro, the author of what is frequently referred to as the greatest political biography of modern times, has depicted Johnson’s life in vivid and breathtaking detail, prizing every inch of drama from the archives and oral histories, barely masking both his respect for Johnson’s accomplishments and contempt for his sordid and disreputable career. Caro’s Ahab-like literary ambitions rival Johnson’s political ones; his scholarship is incontestable. The scope and meticulousness of his work, decades in the making, should serve as a testament against the decline of contemporary writing and as an example for the incumbent president alike.

Dominik Leusder

Bouquet of Flowers

aloft your legs twine round each other

embedded in this boundless meadow

lilies orchids daffodils duck

the blows your thorny elbow deals

violets and saplings too

whose tears you use to re-erect

with haughtiness your hanging head

until your nectar clearly mirrors

that sun-drenched incandescent bud

in heady heights above your roots

your petals shivering in the winds

shivering from the fall on the warm and woolly bed of our earth

Niklas Elsenbruch

Poetry will kill you

Poetry will kill you,

I swear.

Devour you,

slowly.

Bring you to your knees,

make you feel the

cold

ground.

At night while you sleep,

It will crawl under your bed.

Awaken all the demons,

assault all the peace.

Poetry will murder you,

in silence,

in disguise.

Break your heart,

tear your dignity apart.

And just when you’re close to surrender,

And just when you’re close to leaning out the door,

You realize;

Art

is the only Thing

worth

bleeding

for.
Sergio Calderón-Harker

Contradiction

We wonder

where the time has gone

‘cause nothing left

but air

The moment is

a precious stone

but nothing

can remain

We lift

the spirit with the future

‘cause hope is

what we have

Our past

flickers vague – but pure

connection is

a theft

Let’s give up

the concept

of a contemporary past

Let’s live

where we belong

where our future memory will last

Tanoe Gnanzou