Men and Women are not that different

Dear Bloggers,

It took me a little while to write a story again as there have been a lot of things going lately in my life and this can make it pretty hard to sit down for a while and relax and get the brain going on and find a suitable subject to spread my thoughts on the net. This time I made the choice about the friendships between the guys and girls, well according to me there are not that many differences although I think that most women are a bit more tactful in their answers and men have more often a stronger opinion about difficult issues.

Women surprise themselves regularly about the fact that men can settle a big fight with a beer, a men's night which consists watching football, poker, a game night or going out to the pub, important events are superficially informed towards the other guys, and so we can still go on.

Men are amazed about the women; why every single event needs to be told in detail as it can be done in two minutes? Why are women being so difficult in this and remain stuck in that one remark made by that one friend? Why must everything be so over analyzed?

Are there real differences between the friendships between men and women, or is it most based on prejudices and stereotypes? To me one thing is clearly. Men do more physically and talk less. Women find talking just more important than sharing their hobbies. The emphasis is on friendship between women therefore more based on intimacy and openness, while men believe more in things as status and physical fitness being more important.

This would be a confirmation of the stereotypes: by itself being men and talkative women.

But is this so, is there really so much duality? There are hundreds of studies on gender differences put together in a meta-analysis, and there were still be some other results coming forward! They looked at the differences in language and feelings and guess what? Men and women were not as different as we previously were thinking. The conclusion is that men and women normally are psychologically seen the same. This rule has some exceptions, but these exceptions are not important in terms of friendships. What is particularly relevant for friendships is how easy intimate and frank a person with another person speaks. And about this fact, there were precisely these supposed men and women differences. But there appears to intimacy and frankness there is only a very small gender difference. Women were found "showing a little something more" of themselves than men.

How is it possible that friendships between the two sexes still are as different as the needs for intimacy and frankness on both sides is present? The answer is simply that we focus too much on the differences between them, and they will be made much bigger in mind. With the result that the idea that we have on men friendships and women friendships would be different from the reality. Conclusion: We are brought up to think in stereotypes. Silly isn’t it?

Mostly studies that are done about these subjects are build up with questions in which people are asked how they would describe their friendships. And because this is such a general question, we can not but give a general description, or fall back on the idea that we have about it. And that idea is influenced by stereotypes.

The idea that there is a totally different between those friendships is a myth. It is often culturally rooted and we get to hear things now and learned at once from childhood. It is in fact a story that we tell each other about how it works and how it should be. And because we tell it, it occasionally will be true. Conclusion again: Yes we are brought up to think in stereotypes.

"If people define situations as real, these situations have real consequences." The only differences in male and female friendships because we believe that they exist. Furthermore, we are all like friends alike. This is what the American sociologist William Thomas said already in 1928.

In the end we are physically different but mentally quite the same.

The Old Sailor,

Writing is art or did it become something else?

Dear Bloggers,

The last couple of days rain has been pooring down and due to the bad weather I once again sat musing about the past and I write on a piece of "nostalgia of the long gone years" I sit behind the computer and think back to my childhood that I was laying on the floor playing with a couple of miniature cars and my mother meanwhile handled the vacuum cleaner, I still remember the typical smell of soft soap and feel the warm air blow from the vacuumcleaner onto my face. For me a reason to write my earliest memories down.

I therefore look forward to your earliest memories. And maybe you would love to share that with all of us.

How far can you go back with your memories? I cannot tell that as these imprints are absolutly different per person. I know that there were quite a few events in my childhood that I can pick up as they are forever printed in my mind. Just everyday things, nothing special.

For example, I remember that I once stood in the dining room in front of the table and I was determined to sse something on the table. Just standing on my toes and holding onto it I was able to look at some items on the table. That was the first moment to me of being proud as I felt very big because I could look across the table for the first time instead of looking against it. No idea how old I was, but it os strange that you remember that moment and that feeling.

I have two sisters and one brother, I was the youngest. My father worked in a factory and my mother was a housewife so we were an ordinary family. I was dropped of every schoolday by my mother at the kindergarten, who continued with groceryshopping and housework. My mother made the most delicious coffee and my father was reading the newspaper in the cozy living room in a lovely big armchair. Then the TV came on to watch the evening news. Life was not that complicated at those years. If you wanted to comment on something you had to do that in person or write a letter to newspaper and send it by mail to them. It would make you think first. 

 

These are sort of my earliest memories. So they go back to my fourth year of life. I wonder how far you go back memories. In our present time everything is much more hectic. We have become terrified of missing something, the so-called FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out)

In the opinionstorm of print and broadcast the storm continues to print paper and the role of reflection. And the people who really read, can often write better as a matter of fact.

Besides seeing writing as unique art or craft that can teach many, there is a third form: thumb typing. That is everywhere. We live in a time when everyone writes and no one reads. And gives opinions. Published in a second. What is the function of editorial pages as the slow process of printing and paper making way for fast printing and sending?

In the summer of 2008, I first came into contact with the iPhone which at that time was for the first time in the Netherlands for sale exclusively for the phone company T-Mobile. This device accelerated ease the mind revolution that was going on in evening talk shows, blogs and reader comments in the Internet published pieces.

In those days you rather read a book as many other passengers on the bus or train or they were hiding behind a small free or paid large newspaper, suddenly everyone was putting himself or herself to writing. At first only textmessages, but soon via mobile internet we could write on almost anything. With the iPhone and its imitators were also Facebook and other platforms accessible. On train platforms and in waiting rooms and train chairs in rows for cash, bike and even in the car you see people sitting fixated tapping their small personal screen. Even Her Majesty Queen Beatrix had noticed this: "People communicate through rapid brief messages," she noted in her Christmas speech 2009.

The newspaper editors were to be exempted to remove a sludge of invective between the reader comments. For direct response digital was something different from the classic letter to the newspaper. Every drunk could, once ended up at home, his twaddle hurtle directly to a site without a stamp and without any reflection. He did not even had to count to ten.

The late ramblings in the pub became public. Anti-Semites, racists, violent characters, many anonymous.

The question is: Is there someone out there who reads three hundred reactions on an article about asylum seekers still? We thought we let everyone have their say. But the people under our articles appeared to consist of a dozen people who responded to each other, including a bitchfight between an artist from Rotterdam and a lady from Spain.

A number of sites managed to perfect the art of swearing to a profession, and sometimes it's funny too. All authors. More and more people made their own little newspaper on Facebook, some with thousands of "friends". It could even shorter, with 140 characters on Twitter, launched in 2006 and 2009 really established in the Netherlands.

Everywhere you had to respond and scold became an art how can insult someone as hard as possible and then preferably also anonymous. Yes those are the real heroes in our society. However, it takes all this attention only briefly. Because they are greedy for sensation and as many people should be destroyed. And after a day or two it has been all forgotten again. Because you have to be on time with the new little storm.

In this digital bath full of hissing fury remains a printed and online opinion page in the newspapers regularly a stunning slow journalism island. Submitted papers to read and talk about and corresponding. Checked information. Topics devise and get there in the best possible author. That can come from the Netherlands, but as well from the US, Germany or Peru. Preferably not someone from the editors, because they are having enough text elsewhere in the paper. Many experts, writers and essayists that protrude above the mass opinion. That show what the reflection of paper for printing and has the nervousness of Twitter and a blog. A good opinion piece is simple: it contains a clear opinion contained in an argument with examples.

If that is in theory.

If authors are skilled with the pen, they quickly in the newspaper. Knowledge and expertise is a recommendation, but it can also turn against the author. Too much knowledge is assumed to be known, you get lost in details. Others are afraid to upset colleagues so alone desirability as "sustainability" or "future-proofing". Which often mean the opposite of what is intended. With opinion pieces is no diplomacy businesses.

Ask for a clear piece is sometimes like you are strapped with your hands on to a bicycle and get on it. Politicians rarely want to give a non-predictable opinion. Timing is also part of their profession. There is the distinct ideology of a party, but everyone knows already. Not surprisingly, the ANWB who wants to build more roads. And every article on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict raises many reactions against but the arguments are the same age and known as the battle itself.

I've got respect for the men and women who send every day ten to fifty pieces and letters in the electronic mailbox of the newspaper to ensure their voices. Especially men like me, middle age or older, who want to share their experiences. In good spirits, while only two pieces of post, internet with it some more. Brave they fall for the papers firing squad, and the rejection they take on in a sporty way.

Why women dare to come less often with their opinion? Besides being less confident it should also be efficient: why do all that work to do with a very uncertain outcome? At least that is my opinion,

Fortunately, there are people who can still be thankful sitting down with a real newspaper who are still being made for real readers. They can often also write well. They know a lot, point out mistakes, put in a letter of two hundred words telling you the difference between a piano and a keyboard or the possibilities of a vacant building.

That kind of spontaneous reactions, surprising authors, new topics, deliciously absurd entries and commentaries I will miss, because more and more newspapers are getting in trouble for the simple fact that people no longer buy one to quietly sit down and read. Now I have myself thrown in the army of millions of enthusiastic writers. And I secretly hope that someone actually will read my stories.

The Old Sailor.

The scars on my soul are telling a story

Dear Bloggers,

I'm having trouble working out where I am and who I am. Somehow, this isn't disturbing, it's simply puzzling to me. I'm in a puzzle and need to put together the clues to work out what this is all about.

Images are popping up in my mind and somehow the pictures are mixed up and there are people who have never been there before and that makes it complicated. I'm sitting in the centre of a row of beige plastic chairs. When I turn my head, I realise that my wife,is sitting next to me. A ring of beige chairs also lines the walls. Other people, scattered around the room, are sitting here with worried faces some of them are crying or looking down and shuffling their feet. I get the feeling that they don't want to be here.

A beeping sound is coming from somewhere. To my right, people are moving through an automatic door. I look up and see a young woman behind a glass window. She seems to be mentally losing it, as they just confirmed that her boyfriend has died in the chaos that is out there, and her dark hair hasn't been brushed recently. She's on the phone and taking notes. All of a sudden a few people show up to me and I realize that I can not see there faces and I frown when they approach me, as I don't really want to speak to them. I am not the one that should give them answers, I send them over to the other side of the room and I see them sitting down with the policeman who has a copy of the passenger list and they are being desperate for good news.

We seem to be in some sort of waiting room, but I don't know why. I am wearing my military camouflage uniform sitting with my helmet in my hands. We are sitting in a sports hall which has been decorated as a waiting area with here and there a few tables where policemen are trying to give as good and as bad information . For most of the survivors the waiting is hell.

The sunlight is slanting through the windows on the far wall is soft; it must be the morning light, then. My dear God we have been here for hours and still they are bringing people in. Local cops, people from the Red Cross and other persons like psychotherapists, priests,ministers. The major is running the operation. And our duty has been taken over by the own countries army and we are waiting to get the clearance that we can go back to our base

In one corner of the room, on a low table, there are piles of magazines. I walk over to pick up a crying girl and then sit down with her again. This is a young woman I guess in her late teens or early twenties approximately my own age but she has lost everyone that she was with. My heart breaks when I see her and send my buddy to find someone to comfort her. As for us it's about time to leave.

Off to my left, a child is whining. I turn to see a man and a woman, both big, with a girl aged four or five. They look tired, as parents do when they've been up during the night with a grumpy and worn out child. Soon I am absorbed by their interactions; it's like watching a show. The father lifts the girl on to his lap, looking strained. The mother holds up a children's book, reading to her. The child listens for a while, fidgets, and cries again. The mother tries to interest her in one of the toys from a box in the corner, but it doesn't work. Now I know what this is like; I'm a parent, too. They're doing their best in this bad situation.

How did I get to this room? A fragment comes into my mind, a dreamlike image of driving us to the chaotic scene and me being impressed by the sea hawk helicopters that are flying on and off. It is what I can see from our military vehicle window. Did this really happen, or am I imagining it?

I turn to my wife and see that she's crying quietly: her cheeks are pink; the rims of her eyes are red. She's sad about something, but I don't know what. I put my arm around her shoulder and pat her gently. "It'll be all right," I say. She quiets a little. All the other things are in some kind of blurred image. And I wander what her problem is, somehow I cannot reach her. It is a disturbing feeling and I feel powerless. How in the hell can I help her when I am in this state of mind.

As we sit there, I feel as if I'm in a sound bubble, into which the surrounding noises don't intrude. The crying girl doesn't irritate me as I think she might have at another time. Instead, I feel a well of stillness inside. I keep turning the pages of this story of my life. Get up soldier it is time to stand up to your troubled mind and help the one you love with all your heart. The road will be long and tough sometimes inhospitable sometimes, but she is not afraid as she has a well-trained soldier at her side. But there is no way back and it looks like our horizon on fire as the sun goes down slowly.

As far as I can tell, it's not long before we are taken through a door. It opens, like magic, into a wide, yellow corridor with a side table, a high metal chair, and shelves along the walls. Have we really been here? Did we do anything good for those people? And why am I mixed up with all those emotions. And why am I dressed in full combat gear with a loaded machine gun? I left the army in the autumn of 1987 that is more then 25 years ago.

A young military man who says he is a doctor asks us to sit in the chairs while he stands before us. He's wearing ordinary clothes and looks tired, speaking slowly and softly. He probably wants to go home. The doctor would like to thank us for the quick responding to the scene. And gives our sergeant a phone number for the ones who might need help. At the moment we do not need anything but want to go home. We are all trained to kill people but in this case this were civilians who just had a good time and were killed in a weird kind of disaster. In this case we could not save them. Man this has impacted our team the guys have gone quiet as we have seen all to much.The guys are all silent and some are staring with bowed head to the floor. the situation we ended up in was totally insane. And no one had the strength to say anything. It was quiet and lonely it felt like a slap in the face.

Memories lost: I don't know how long I'm with the doctor perhaps one or two minutes and when I look up he's gone. There's that puzzling feeling again: was he real, or am I in a dream?

Back in the corridor, a man and a woman tell me I am to have a EMDR session. The thought excites me. I don't think I've ever had one before, but I know what they are: I've read reports from EMDR patients as psychology fascinates me because the brain is something very special, detailing the effects of a brain that is able to send people in the right or wrong directions. They have a lounge chair and mentally they push me into another corridor of my mind. In and out of the disaster we go. It is sad and reliving it is absolute no fun.

They say the session is over, but I don't remember having it. How odd! I'm walking with a woman, also dressed in blue; she's told me that I'm having the next session next Thursday. I'm not sure if I've been in state like this before, but I'm so tired that I think it would be great to get my life back and being able to sleep without nightmares again.

The next morning is different from the day before. It feels as if I've woken from a dream. I'm sure now that I've been there and that woman next to me in my memory is not my wife but my late buddy who died of cancer a few years later in hospital, and that something really has happened to me. I remember more clearly the whole situation was so crazy before we came in. I'd woken with a headache, walked to the kitchen, taken a Panadol, and gone back to bed. That's the last memory I have on this weird mixed up dream.

The phone beside my bed rings, interrupting my reverie. It's traffic control if I could work today. “And I respond yes of course what time should I start?”

"I'm woolly in the head, as if I'm not sure I'm really here," I reply to my wife. "I've got a mild headache, too." and still you are going to work she says. I call it therapy as my brain has to work in a different way. I jump out of bed and head for the bathroom. Brushing my teeth, shave and hop into the shower.

It's three months after my initial psychologists admission, and two months after I was formally discharged from therapy again, where I spent eight unsettling and confining sessions. It's mid-afternoon and I'm reading a book. It's easy to follow, and it doesn't matter if I've forgotten some of the earlier details. I like the way of writing, and I am fascinated by the story: I'm not the only one on a path of survival. Initially I tried reading a story of a deeply harmed woman that has survived a war, but it was like struggling through thick, deep mud.

I would read a page, and by the time I reached the next, I'd forgotten what the previous one had said. I go back to reading, settling comfortably into my chair; the idea of seeing the doctor slips into my back pocket. But my brain continues processing this information in its own way.

Then, a thought comes suddenly to my mind: if I've had a set back, and that's not physical… I haven't had a mental breakdown. It all came up again due to a very different situation. They harmed my wife and the killing machine was woken up from the dead end corner of my brain. I was going to take this bad ass out of his magic life. And everyone that would be in the way. The bastard has been lucky that he wasn't home as I had figured out were he was living. I couldn't stop the blindness and the deep angered soldier that was taken over. Lucky part of the situation was that he was not home as I still see him as the enemy. Thank God I did not harm anyone. Relief floods through me. Fucking fantastic.

Recovery: All of this happened on the evening hours of the 6^th of March 1987 But cue seven months of visits to doctors psychotherapists and a series of tests. I've been told that I should exercise, walk on flat ground if I go for a walk, read nothing harder than the newspaper. I try to follow doctor's orders to take it easy and avoid stress. The stress thing is a process of discovery. The invisible hole in my head is a trickster; I don't know when or how it's going to trip me up next. My body's not behaving properly either. And that came up years later due to a stressed life.

I'm anxious to get on with my recovery, and the more I read, the more it seems like a computer-based cognitive training program is what I need. The program should concentrate on building the basic auditory skills first, and then the components of speech and finally comprehension.

Now the situation has stabilized and I am calm again, yet I must give closure to the old situation and learn to live with what happened then. Furthermore, I will have to build on a completely new start for my wife because she never will be the same again and will have to learn to live with her post-traumatic stress disorder. Will I ever find the peace and able to deal with the false world that simply seeks to amass money and is not looking for happiness.

It is the time that heals all wounds, but there is always a scar on my soul and that scar will fade with aging. Sometimes it will itch and sometimes it will be hurting and feel like stabbing but it will never disappear. It's something you learn to live with and gradually no one is sensing that you have a scar. "In peacetime you are much more affected by the war." said an old veteran a couple of weeks ago.

 

The Old Sailor,

An old fairy tale in a modern jacket

Dear Bloggers,

During the my wanderings through my funny mind.

I wanted to put an old fairy tale into a modern form. 

Everyone knows the sad story of the girl with the matches. 

As a young bloke this story made me cry and I realized that not everyone is 

that lucky in this life, some have to live under harsh conditions

This is my version of it. I wish everyone a warm and loving Christmas time.

It was a frigid cold night outside on the streets of downtown Groningen City, the coldest night of the year in fact. It was Christmas Eve and all along the littered and paved road were buildings with warm glows coming from the windows of the apartment buildings. Everyone was happily celebrating the Christmas spirit with glasses of brandy or a beer and a typical Christmas movie on their televisions. The snow fell down fast and thick, blanketing the sidewalks in a soft but chill powder. The snow ploughs would have quite a job clearing all the walkways and roads in the morning.

A public service bus emblazoned with Groningens famous grey and red dotted pattern managed to find a vacant spot along the side of the busy street and parallel parked, coming to a stop. The back passenger door opened and a man in a dark trench coat and dark hat shoved a young girl onto the unploughed sidewalk. The bloke threw a box at her, revealing quite a large stock of packaged cigarettes. “Now, I don’t wanna see you back on my doorstep until every last pack of smokes has been sold, you got that kid?” the owner of the hat yelled harshly. The girl sighed and shivered as the wind tore through her thin jacket and ragged jeans.

“Yeah, alright! I’ll sell ‘em!” she snapped back, thoroughly irritated with her big brother doing this to her again. He had sent her out in the frigid cold every night this week to sell those disgusting cigarettes his buddies smuggled in from other countries. She had gotten quite ill from her late-night job and even now, her eyes were streaming and her nose was dripping terribly. Her lungs felt about three sizes too small for her body and every now and then, she would be plagued with a wracking cough that left her gasping for air.

Of course, her brother would not take her to the hospital. He didn’t want to waste his precious money that she earned for him on something as trivial and unimportant as medical care. The bus slowly took off again and got out of sight again, leaving the sick young girl of about twelve years by herself on the streets of Groningen City.

She wore no gloves and her sneakers had holes in them that allowed the snow to soak through and freeze her toes. Her jacket was too ragged and thin to wear in March, let alone late December. Pulling the thin fabric tighter around her scarf-less neck, she put her head down and trudged her way through the bitter cold snow, being jostled back and forth by busy Groningers who were in too much of a hurry to notice her.

Finding a rather busy intersection, with bustling traffic all around her, the girl decided to advertise the cigarettes there. Placing the box in front of her on the ground and pulling out a brightly coloured, freshly wrapped package, she cleared her aching throat and shouted out. “Get your cigarettes here! Fresh, smooth cigarettes with a new mint flavour! Only three fifty a pack! A great low price!” she yelled out, displaying the carton as high up as she could to grab people’s attention. A few passing folks bought a package or two, but most just turned their heads and kept walking without a word. She had only sold four packages of cigarettes and needed to sell the entire box full before returning to her brother.

A bout of severe coughing caught the young girl by surprise. Doubled over, she hacked and spluttered until she thought she may vomit right there on the pavement. Luckily, the feeling passed although she was left gasping for breath, hands on her knees at the intersection. Of course, the bustling Groningers walking past paid no attention to her. The suffering of a little girl was no concern of theirs.

Wiping her runny eyes that were now mixed with hot, salty tears, the girl shook her head to shake the snow out of her hair. “Forget this! This is dumb!” she muttered to herself angrily, giving the box of cigarettes a good kick, leaving a sizable dent in the soggy cardboard. Picking up the box and continuing to walk down the street, she had to bite her lip to stop from crying out in pain. She was so cold she couldn’t feel her toes or her fingers and she was aching all over from the beating her brother had given her the day before for coming home with no profit.

“Psst! Hey, kid! You got some smokes there?” the voice of a homeless man wafted out from an alley. The young girl was not afraid of street people. Most of them were usually kind enough to spare an encouraging word or a few extra scraps of food when she made her rounds. She nodded and stepped forward. “Yeah, but I can’t give ‘em to you for free or else my brother will beat me,” she told him apologetically. The homeless man waved a hand as if to brush off her words.

“Ah, that’s okay kid. I got some matches though. Care to trade a pack of smokes for some matches?” he asked, pulling out a small handful. The girl was about to apologize once more and say that her brother would hit her for trading any of the cigarettes when a thought struck her. The matches would provide some kind of warmth for her numb fingers. Unable to resist, the girl eagerly nodded and traded the homeless man for the matches. “Thanks, kid. You’re alright,” the man complimented her, walking away with his new treasure.

Taking the man’s place in the dark alley, the girl struck one of the matches against the rough brick of the building beside her. Thankfully, the match wasn’t wet and a small fire glowed brightly in front of her eyes. Looking up, the young girl witnessed the most amazing sight. Before her lay her old living room from when her mother had been alive, decorated lavishly for the holidays. A gleaming pine tree covered in twinkling lights and tinsel shone magnificently and presents were laid underneath, covered in festive wrapping paper as a roaring fire spread its warmth throughout the room. As the girl reached out to touch her surroundings, the flame of the match flickered and died out; leaving her once again in one of Groningen City’s many dark and frighteningly cold alleys.

With a cry of fear she desperately struck another match. This time, she was in her old dining room, also decorated for Christmas and the table groaning under the weight of all the delicious food upon it. Roasted turkey with cranberry sauce and gravy, mashed potatoes, wine and eggnog all freshly made by her mother. The scent made the girl’s mouth water, but again the vision did not last and with the death of the match’s flame, came reality once more.

Just one more… the girl thought to herself hopefully, again striking a third match. Rather than seeing visions of her old home with food and decorations made by her deceased mother, she saw her mother before her. She was alive and well, looking healthy and jubilant. She smiled warmly at her daughter, holding her arms out to embrace her. Sobbing with joy, the girl frantically lit the rest of the matches she had, not wanting the image of her mother to fade away like the others had. “Mom! Mom, take me with you! Don’t leave me again, mom!” she wept.

“Come. I’m taking you with me, where you will never be sad or cold or hungry again. We will be together forever,” her mother’s sweet, gentle voice called out calmly to her. Smiling through her tears, the girl ran into her mother’s arms and they were floating higher and higher. As they ascended, the young girl could feel all her sadness, loneliness, hunger, and cold fade away, leaving her in a state of bliss as she embraced her mother. She would never feel these things again.

The morning rush hour traffic on the first day after Christmas was brought to a standstill as police tape surrounded a snowy alley. A female officer leaned over the body of a little girl, surrounded by lit matches and a box of cigarettes nearby. She cleared her throat and spoke into the walkie-talkie attached to her breast pocket. “We seem to have a Jane Doe here, approximately ten to thirteen years old; seems like she froze to death last night. We’ll have her at the coroner’s by midday. Over,” she told another officer. The officer sighed and shook her head. “Poor kid. Probably she was just trying to keep herself warm.”

Light a candle in these dark days for those who are no longer with us,

but somewhere up there waiting for us. And when our time has come 

to exchange the earthly to the afterlife. 

Whatever you believe and no matter who you are. 

Just remember Love conquers all. 

The Old Sailor,