Belgian Domestic Relations, a Fairy Tale
Once upon a time, in a land called Yerp, there two little boys named Frankie and Willy (actually, for this particular story, I guess I should call them Wouter and Jean-Pierre, but I’m the author and I’m American, so just go along with me, okay?).
Frankie and Willy were twin brothers, but they couldn’t be more different. Frankie was hard working and industrious. He worked long hours in the fields, took care of the crops and studied hard during lesson time. Willy was laid back and preferred traipsing about the wilderness, fishing and trapping muskrats to bring home for supper. He didn’t care too much for lessons, finding it much easier to laze about until the truancy officer eventually insisted he study a bit.
Frankie’s favorite color was gray, Willy’s was green.
Frankie’s favorite snack was pastry, Willy’s was sausage.
Frankie spoke a language spoken by few, Willy spoke a language spoken by many.
Frankie earned money by doing the daily chores, Willy nicked the money from Frankie’s piggy bank.
And the two were always fighting.
Frankie insisted that Willy should work harder around the homestead. He stomped his feet and told Willy that his language was important too, and that each brother should speak each other’s language.
Willy smirked and refused. Why should he work harder when he knew Frankie would just continue to do all the hard work himself? Why should he bother earning his own money when he knew Frankie would just continue to fill the piggy bank. And who wanted to speak Frankie’s language anyway? It was silly and little and hardly anyone else used it anyway.
The twins fought and fought, nearly coming to blows until their father, Russel (or Ruxelles, if this fairy tale isn’t already transparent enough), stepped in and negotiated a truce.
See, Russel was the head of a large pottery company called West Urn Yerp and ever since he had been given his position, he had been under a lot of pressure from his boss to show that he could hold his company together. And how can a man be trusted to hold an entire company together if he can’t even control things in his own back yard?
So Russel, who was in the middle of his own identity crisis and was struggling with drinking problems and sinking ever deeper into a life of crime, decided to patch up the relationship between his sons in the easiest way possible.
He raised each of their allowances and promised them that, no matter what, they’d be treated equally, as long as they held hands and pretended to get along.
Willy, who was never one to ignore the insistent knocking of opportunity, grabbed hold of Frankie’s hand as tight as he could and promised he’d try harder. He even learned a bit of Frankie’s language (Frankie had already mastered Willy’s language long before, since that was the only way Willy would bother speaking to him) although he rarely bothered to speak it, since he knew Frankie already understood him well enough.
Frankie grudgingly held onto Willy’s hand as well, knowing that without Russel, he’d have a much harder time finding enough chores to do to earn money for his piggy bank.
And so it went. Frankie continued to work hard to earn money and learn new things while Willy continued to wander around and pluck the coins from his brother’s piggy bank. If Frankie complained, Russel threatened to stop giving him chores to earn his allowance. If Willy demanded too much, Russel scolded him a bit before patting him roughly on the head and heading down to the bar to join some of his sleazier friends for a round of drinks.
And so it continues to this very day, far far away in the land of Yerp. Frankie and Willy are still forced to hold hands, despite their constant squabbling while Russel grins falsely and continues to hold onto the day to day management of West Urn Yerp, ignoring the troubles in his own back yard.
The tale doesn’t end here, of course, for there is always the matter of trying to clear the wild Turkeys out of Frankie’s garden, or the inexplicable flow of Morro Cans into Willy’s forrest.
But the hour grows late and those are tales for another time.
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Hey, I just came upon your blog. I’m a Texan who just moved here with my Belgian husband and two little tots three months ago.
I really enjoyed your post, and I am proud to say that while my hubby’s family is primarily French speaking, everyone knows Flemish fluently. That is except me since as an American I have been cursed with the not learning another language in school, though I am trying to learn French at least since that’s my husband’s first language.
Anyways, just wanted to say hi to another American in Belgium
Heh, I can tell what region you’re from
It’s interesting that until the industrial revolution, it was Wallonia that generated the most income, and Flanders was considered the freeloader.
Pittsburgh is looking mighty fine to me! Yeah, I know, brazen American!
I find it scary to see how much you’ve already adopted all Belgian stereotypes & rhetorics
Korie,
I have been reading your blog for a while now.I like reading your posts, as they are usually both witty and smart.
But please stop writing about the Belgian linguistic and community issues!
Most Belgians, after a lifetime of living in the midst of these issues, have a hard time forming an opinion or explaining the issue correclty. Therefore your short experience of Belgium is certainly far from sufficient to chip in.
Living in Gent (wealthy Flanders, far from the linguistic border) it is not surprising you would form such an opinion. But as an expat you’d expect that you wouldn’t blindly fall for a stereotype.
I can only hope you will inform yourself thouroughly before commenting on this issue again. Being from Flanders myself, but much closer to the linguistic border, I would advise you to go and visit the Antwerp suburbs (Borgerhout, Mortsel,…), Genk, Oostende, etc… to form a better opinion. West and East Flanders is not all that there is in Flanders. And Wallonia is not what you describe it to be.
It is ironic how time changes perception. Compare the situation to the Deep South (US): Once mighty, prosperous states, producers of cotton, tobacco,… now considered deprived. Or what about Detroit? Wallonia is basically the same.
What is prosperous one day might not be the next. Please keep that in mind.
I think you might be interested in this poem of Russel as a child?
http://cecinestpasunecuisine.blogspot.com/2010/02/no-ones-favourite.html
*Yawn*
I’m writing this as you commented over on Xbox4NappyRashes site congratulating him on the birth of his daughter.
I am writing it here because this post is down the page a bit and i don’t want him to see it
A while ago, before Martin’s (xbox4nappyrash) wife got pregnant I promised I would post a youtube video of me singing “Yes” by Mcalomont & Butler whilst accompanying myself on the ukulele to celebrate the birth of their child.
This will not be a pretty sight as I can neither sing, nor really play the ukulele (this isn’t false modesty – I really can’t).
However what I thought might make it really cool would be instead of just a straight video I put together a montage of videos shot by readers of his blog all celebrating – i.e. dancing, sticking thumbs up, cheering, holding up signs, that sort of thing. It would have to be something that would work without sound as I would put my (awful) soundtrack over the top of it.
It would be great if you could participate. If you send me a short 5-15 second video clip (or at a push a photo, but a video would be much better) along with your name and blog then I’ll put it together with other submissions and get something ready for the end of the week. I think it would be a really nice thing to do for martin to show him and E how pleased we are for him. and Martin has been incredibly supportive of me and my various projects in the past.
Thanks for taking the time to read this. My email address is dghughes28@yahoo.co.uk
Thanks again.
Dan.