Doe normaal
A modern fairy tale on Dutch rites of passage.
It was not the scene she expected – of canal houses with facades like tin cookie boxes. Neither were there the cows and windmills of a charming Dutch countryside.
There were, however, hints of endlessly repeating rows of well-managed suburban households. They would go to watch Rembrandtpark from their balcony on the 12th floor, seeing the ebb and flow of human activity. Luckily their apartment did not face the highway, and they did not hear it this high up. Very few tourists would be interested in snapping photos of their tall, blocky building, as it just wasn't pretty nor ugly enough.
It only stuck out like a tall beige flower, alongside its two siblings in this green allotment of a mostly low-rise city of stone and brick, carved up by its ancient canals.
Such was the outside of their lockdown palace, and a palace it was, especially when compared to the boxes of people they knew. Mark was able to continue work as a contractor for his San Diego employer whose paychecks cushioned their landing in Holland. He claimed the spare room at many an odd hour of the day, and even night.
Jessica had to contend with video calls from the kitchen counter, dining table, and couch, even the balcony when weather permitted – it rarely did, and when it did, the balcony was a preferred place for more joyful activities. She had no desire to become a tradwife and felt out of touch meeting other expat mothers. She couldn't imagine how they spent their time in lockdown, without endless brunches or humblebragging about their yoga classes.
So she traded sleep for self-fulfilment, and harmonised with Mark over household duties. They dovetailed their slices of time between work, chores, Zoom calls, Netflix and their young sonling, for whom they made the move here. Mark had entranced her with stories of his Dutch upbringing and Jessica longed for bike rides in tulip fields, with little Jake laughing in the carriage of the bakfiets, on their way to pick up flour from a nearby windmill.
This evening, they were eating at the dining table and Jake had let out a loud scream. It pierced the noises of the cartoon that was playing to mask the sounds of mastication. He pointed with his ketchup finger at the floor-to-ceiling mirror that covered the wall behind them, eyes wide open. Jessica and Mark swung their heads in unison, back and forth between the two Jakes who were pointing at each other in accusation, except that one of them was safely behind the mirror. She had lost her appetite.
"Muhmah, pappah, the dirty man is there again!" he cried out, his whole body taut, peas and spit oozing onto his Nijntje shirt. This wasn't the first time it happened.
Last week, he had let out a yelp in the hallway, and Jessica dropped her laptop on the linoleum floor, mid-call. Thankfully, nothing broke, but she was staggered and didn't know how to react except rush and embrace him, caress his hair, tell him that it's alright, that momma's gonna fix everything.
She had looked in the mirror and saw nothing but a reflection of herself hugging little Jake, and her long blond hair, overdue for a cut, flowing onto his shoulders, his body intact. His expression was that of childhood wonder rather than terror, though she could feel his heart pounding through the clothes. Of course, she had heard of kids dreaming up imaginary friends. It made sense that he would do that when left alone with millennial parents who were busy building a better future.
Now his father's hand reached out and held his shoulder, almost conspiratorially. Mark, of course, knew what it all meant. It was just something that every Dutch kid had to deal with growing up – a vision of the other you, if you don't learn to doe normaal. He sighed and simply got out of his chair, shushed his son with a kiss on his forehead and walked past the bewildered Jessica to his room. She heard him mumble something about being already late for the US-morning meeting.
"We have to talk about this!" she cried out, as the door was shut.
Nick Rankovic is a software engineer in the streets, amateur writer in the sheets. He writes personal essays, reflections on technology, as well as horror stories and speculative fiction (and TTRPGs). You can track his online existence on his links page.
Follow us on Instagram @amsterdive ✴︎ And let us know your thoughts - the comment section down below is all yours.
 | A guest post by
|