New Opportunities to Fail

As always, the new year provides us with fresh opportunities to fail at undertakings that, if we really wanted to, we would've done long ago.

Nonetheless, in this moment of global insanity, it’s wonderful to see the human capacity for hope—in the form of New Year resolutions—is undeterred by the rock-hard evidence of all previous experience

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Resolutions, resolutions…

With the far-right politician Geert Wilders coming to power last month in my adopted home of the Netherlands, it seemed important to see the impulse behind popularism and why kind people can sometimes make unkind choices. So, I set out on the daunting task of reading the 1200-page Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by Jewish historian William Shirer. I am by no means finished, but an initial takeaway could be: if a narcissistic provincial high school dropout with no trade, money or connections can come to power and wreak havoc on the world for 12 long years, surely we can be more accepting of our brother-in-law and lose those three extra kilos?

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Flash Fiction: Baptism

	‘No, I don't wanna,’ I said, and I meant it, Gosh darn it. What right did she have to tell me what to do? ‘And don't treat me like a baby,’ I yelled after her.
	‘Well, stop acting like one.’
	Dang it, she always had great comebacks; I knew most of them by now, but I still walked right into them. It sucks being little, but I can’t say that cause if she hears me say ‘suck’, then all heck will break loose. 
        She used to let me skip church sometimes, but not after she caught me looking at a Victoria's Secret Catalogue in the hairdressers. I thought it was safe; she was getting a perm, and her eyes were closed, but Mrs Riley, the hairdresser, saw me squinting at the bra section and ratted me out. I hate Mrs. Riley. After that, Mum said I needed Jesus more than ever, and we haven’t skipped a Sunday since. I guess she was right cause I really did like that bra section!
       But this Sunday was different; it was a baptismal Sunday, and I hated baptismal Sundays almost as much as Mrs. Riley. A baptismal Sunday meant that after the super long regular service, there would be another ‘celebration’, which would take even longer. And what was so celebratory about it anyway? Was that even a word, celebratory? Celebrity? No, that was Arnold Schwarzenegger. Celebrationing? Anyway, they meant a party, but it wasn't. There wasn't any cake, only church music and people getting into the spa pool someone had built under the stage, which you could get to by removing some floor panels. It was super cool, but we kids never got to use it—only grown-ups— and only when they were being baptised.
	Baptism just meant getting into the spa pool with all your clothes on and the whole church looking at ya. The pastor got in there, too, but only up to his waist. He didn't have to go all the way; I mean, he is the pastor! It still looked weird, though, him standing there, half-soaked, in his dry button-down shirt and wet jeans, dunking people in the pool. When the grown-ups come out of the water, the worship band (that’s like a regular band, except they’re in love with Jesus instead of girls) will strike up a song. Then, everyone lifts their hands in the air and starts singing. Sometimes, if the spa pool isn’t warm enough, and it’s a lady getting baptised, you can see little bumps poking through her wet shirt. Aside from that, baptism isn't much fun. 
	I asked the Pastor once, ‘Can we kids use the spa pool?’
	‘Not until you're ready to be born again?’ he replied.
	‘What if we swim in our clothes?’ I suggested.
	He just gave me that grown-up smile, which means, ‘You're an idiot.’ Well, how do you figure? I thought. I'm not the one swimming in my jeans.
	‘Hurry up, Tom,’ Mum called. ‘We're leaving.’
	I huffed, picked up two of my favourite Hot Wheels cars, stuffed them into my pockets and started running for the door. ‘Are there any ladies getting baptised?’ I yelled.