Clubhouse Rulez

"Clear your place at the table." 
"Get a good night's sleep if you want to drive to school." 
Growing up, I wasn't just a fervent rule-abider, I was a rule internalizer.

I like rules. They make sense to me. They make me feel secure. In that sense, I may even be too German for the Germans. 

On the one hand, Germany has a lot of rules. Many are direct: recycle glass bottles before 8 pm;  bikes left, pedestrians right. Others are just strong incentives: if you don't visit the dentist once a year, you'll pay a lot for dental care in the future. Still others are hallowed tradition: a towel at pool-side indicates a radius of undisputed ownership.

For all the rules there are here, however, there is also a lot of resistance to rules, and that can be frustrating for people like me who crave structure, efficiency and agreements that hold. 

In my first shared housing experience, we had a dinner system. Each person cooked one night per week. For me, the convenience of a warm dinner six nights a week vastly outweighed the inconvenience of being tied into cooking for 7 people once per week. When I suggested a similar system in my current shared flat, my flatmate said, "My life already feels too much like one long series of obligations to fulfill." 

At work I try in vain to keep my colleagues from using exclamation marks AND CAPITAL LETTERS for emphasis on our website! Not to mention the fight I lost long ago on the usefulness of text styles. I have also been ridiculed for asking people standing under no smoking or no cell phone signs to oblige.

So, where does one go if Germany doesn't offer enough rules? Isn't that like bemoaning the dearth of water in the Caribbean or luxury hotels in Dubai? 

Three paragraphs to explain a ban on climbing up to the roof.

It's not like I am completely out of touch with my inner rebel. I was proud to once be chastised for jaywalking: "Young lady," growled an angry driver, "You are not above the law!" ("Rot gilt auch für Sie, junge Dame!") If I experienced enough outbursts like that, I might muster the courage to do something really radical like ... mow the lawn on Sundays.

The Circus' New Fans

Since my blog is named in honor of the three ring big top, I think it's about time to take the circus as a focal point here.

The direct inspiration for this post came from an event at my former school near Bonn, a circus perfor- mance that transformed kids who usually sit like zombies in a classroom into flying, twirling, juggling masters. They were the prodigies of a professional, traveling children's circus trainer who led them through a week of workshops culminating in a show.

A week sounds like a long time - and it is if you consider that no ordinary school lessons took place in those five days. But when you look at the fact that most kids don't have any experience with acrobatics, disappearing like Houdini, or playing a clown, a week is a preciously small amount of time to get anything polished enough for a stage - even a stage with only loving audience members.

Given those constraints, I was blown away by the level of professionalism and the overwhelming success of the acts during the performance, not to mention the energy that the kids brought onto the stage. Only once or twice did anyone fall from a unicycle or miss a ball flying in her direction. Furthermore, students from every clique and age group were enthusiastic participants. Cool, sullen 10th graders dazzled the audience with diablos, while 8th grade girls hung from trapeezes and their smaller schoolmates hung from them.

What is the price of this success, you might ask. Cut the population of the school down by two-thirds (the remaining students get busy work) and bring in loads of volunteer parents to cultivate a 1:2 teacher-student ratio. Then ask the school principal to leave so that lots of funding and more labor is donated in honor of his retirement.

But wouldn't it be great if P.E. were always so full of suspense and so cooperative? Wouldn't it be worth putting a bit more money into our school systems? Those kids came alive. Maybe they'll spend more time over the next couple of weeks dancing with streamers than sending text messages or collecting inappropriate videos on their cell phones. Because what do you need hardcore porno for if you've seen someone eating fire - live - and it was your buddy from algebra?

Bewerbungsfoto

Applying for jobs in Germany has given me a chance to better understand Recht and Ordnung.

For example, the obligatory Bewerbungsfoto that accompanies every job application. The shot on the left was my first attempt to create such a thing, before I learned that job portraits are subject to hard and fast rules:

- If the photographer charges you less than 50 €, fuggetaboutit. 
- The picture is under no circumstances to have been taken at home.
- The applicant must look into the camera.
- Not too much neck. 

Most of this I learned from a website called "JOB oder FLOP?", which gives inexperienced applicants a chance to get feedback on their professional portraits from strangers. There are hoards of people who give candid, contemplative criticism, and not all of them are trying to promote their photography studios.

Here is a sampling of the comments on "JOB oder FLOP?": "Your lipstick doesn't match the color palette." "Looks artificial." "Did you just roll out of bed?" "Ever heard of body language?" "Can't you do something about that droopy eyelid?"

In the (embarrassingly) large sample that I evaluated, I never saw a rating higher than 7 out of 10. That could be because only novices or insecure (looking) people post their pictures on "JOB oder FLOP?". But I think it also says something about German mentality: there is no such thing as a perfect 10, because that wouldn't leave any room for doubt or the fabrication of new requirements.

Divination Class

I've spent most of my year as a foreign language teaching assistant feeling like I don't have much authority. The students may dutifully employ the German formal address of "Sie" with me, but they have no scruples about tuning out my requests and challenging my directions and competence. I recently experienced, however, that it is possible to convince them that I have access to mysterious, hidden sources of wisdom.

It started as a small joke; I wanted to open a lesson on career choices with a satirical spin on a job assessment test. With the help of Google, I had found a survey supposedly administered in the circus, a litmus test for the Ringling Brothers to determine how to corral newbie members into the professions of clown, animal trainer, ringmaster, and acrobat. I gave this test to my students. I told them to answer it accurately and I would score their tests at home.

Of course I had no scoring sheets. And it was too much work to sniff out which answers belonged to which professions. Could you say which member of the circus is most or least likely to be afraid of thunderstorms? So I decided, based on intuition and random association, which professions I thought fit my students. Or absolutely didn't. And in doing so I didn't limit myself to the circus. I wrote my scientifically confirmed results in an official-looking ballpoint pen in the corner of each paper.

With the same air of self-mockery and exaggerated irony I returned their "aptitude tests" to them. Their knowing chuckles assured me I had played a reasonably funny joke and that no one was too depressed at being assigned the fate of "real estate agent" or "teacher." Until I came to Lisa "the wonder child," who has a reputation among the teachers for spoiling a lesson by hitting the figurative nail on the head in the first five minutes of class.

Linda said, "Computer scientist?! But - mein Gott - how did I get to that result? All computer scientists who I have met just sit all day and stare straight ahead" - (she demonstrated with her hands on an invisible keyboard) - "and never go out."

When I said, "Well, it's based on the answers you gave," trying desperately not to break a smile, she looked so down-trodden that I felt a small twinge of guilt.

I continued on with the lesson nevertheless and figured that when Lisa's shock wore off she would be able to convince herself that whether or not she liked skipping better than jumping rope has nothing to do with being destined to end up working in software development. But then I began to wonder how many members of the class actually had seen through the aptitude test. Almost all of them were excited to see their "results," and they called across the classroom, "I'm a make-up artist, what about you?"

But at the end of class, the students indeed started to use their powers of reason to work out my playful deceit. Two pupils put their two quizzes together and determined that they had answered four of the - five - questions on the test identically. Confused at first and then relieved, confident of my trickery, they said, "We have everything the same, but she is a fashion designer and I an architect. Hmm."

I puzzled for a long time over the unintended outcome of my lesson on career paths. I wanted them to know that you can take an aptitude test to learn more about yourself, but critically evaluate the theory that certain personalities are suited for specific professions. Instead they wanted to believe that their course in life is written in the stars. I am baffled that I can tell them a million times in vain, "the United States is singular" and that they have to do their part (i.e. homework) if they expect the lessons to be interesting. But they plod forward, insisting that even in English a coffee cup is female, unable to motivate themselves to prepare a short article at home. Yet I can look into my teacherly crystal ball, report what I see in their futures, and the branding goes so deep that I scare myself realizing how much power I have.