"Going Dutch"

A tale of ghosts, a rope, and a ship named the Spotted Cow

Last night, I joined some of my expat buddies on stage to deliver a monologue around the theme of “Going Dutch” in honor of King’s Day here in the Netherlands. The amazing improv comedy team of HSV de Honingbij (Gijs Stuurman, Moos Hueting , Koen Lanen, Stacey Smith, and Jens van Kamp) then used our stories as a launchpad for a series of scenes that hilariously riffed on themes and events and situations in each tale. You literally had to be there to appreciate just what a mad zany performance it was, weaving elements from the stories of Vanessa, an Australian, Tim, a South African, and me, an American, and our experiences of Dutch culture. It was a three-act, high-wire performance that lived on the stage for a moment in time, deliciously funny and smart and touching, but uncapturable, indescribable, and forever to be witnessed only by those who were there. But the story I told? That I can share.

When I moved to the Netherlands 30 years ago, I didn’t realize I was undoing four centuries of my ancestors’ efforts to get away from here. Let me explain.

In 1995, my wife Martha and I had an opportunity to move to Amsterdam, and we were thinking about having kids. Our friends Steve and Kelly were already raising one here in Amsterdam and invited us over to look around and to convince us this was a good idea. Kelly put a genius plan into action: she put me on a pair of rollerblades behind her daughter’s stroller, on a beautiful sunny day in the Vondelpark, and as we skated around she told me about the Dutch healthcare system, how kids could get a Montessori education as part of the state school system, how the income inequality was among the lowest in the world, and the country was routinely in the top 5 of the happiest countries to live in. I was sold. It was such a compelling case, people, that we moved here FROM ITALY.

What she didn’t tell me was that I was lucky to be visiting during a rare solid week of actual summer.

At the time, I knew nothing about my ancestral history. All that changed when a fellow showed up in 2014 claiming to me and my siblings that he was our long lost older half brother. These days we call him Dan, our BONUS brother. He was a secret my mom kept until the day she died, and that’s a whole other story, but suffice it to say he’s one of the best things to happen to our family. And it was because of him that I took a DNA test and started climbing around in my mom’s family tree.

Which is when I discovered I had ancestors from all over the Netherlands, including some that had lived in Amsterdam, minutes away from where I lived. I hadn’t known it, but I’d been walking the same streets as the ghosts of distant great aunts and uncles, had heard the same bells of the Westerkerk as they had, and may have even had a drink in the same bars that they did. You know that little genever bar behind the Dam, Wynand Fockink? It’s been there since 1639, so chances are when I was there I was having a borrel with one of those ancestral ghosts.

Some of those ghosts had names like Oosterhout, Koortryk, Hogencamp, and Kool and Dekker, and they sailed to the New World on proud ships with proud names like... De Arend (The Eagle), De Hoop (The Hope), and De Eendracht (The Unity). But a handful also set sail to New Amsterdam on April 15th, 1660 from Texel aboard … De Bonte Koe — the what????? Dutch friends, seriously, why would you name a ship that was supposed to brave the Atlantic The Spotted Cow????? Cows can’t swim. Cows don’t really inspire a sense of seaworthiness. But the Spotted Cow made the crossing successfully, and those ancestors landed in America and made many many babies.

I also discovered a whole bunch of Brits in my tree who came to the Netherlands fleeing religious persecution in England - a kind of reverse Brexit that was going on in the 1600s. There was Resolvert Waldron, baptized with the name “Resolved” as a kind of middle finger to King James I of England, who was banishing and burning people for being the wrong kind of Protestant. Resolvert married Janneke Nagels in the Nieuwe Kerk, and they too went to America and made a lot of babies.

And let’s not forget that the entire congregation of pilgrims that sailed to America on the Mayflower lived in Leiden for years beforehand. In America we’re raised with a story of “British” pilgrims, but they were all living in the Netherlands long enough to qualify today for a Dutch passport. In fact, they were here so long they were worried that the Netherlands was TOO tolerant, TOO liberal, and TOO open to anyone, and feared their kids would grow up Dutch, or some REALLY wrong kind of protestant, so they sailed for America.

Among those pilgrims was John Howland, my 10th great-granduncle. John is one of the more famous pilgrims, flex, but for an unfortunate reason. Because John is the one who famously fell off the ship.

Seriously. He was around 21 at the time, and he literally went overboard in a mid-Atlantic storm. Now, if you’ve ever been to sea, you will remember clearly the safety briefing: whatever you do, don’t fall overboard, because your chances of survival are really really close to zero. But whether it was sheer luck or divine intervention or a 17th-century safety feature, there was a rope trailing behind the Mayflower, and John managed to grab hold of it. The crew hauled him back aboard. He went on to marry Elizabeth Tilley, and they made a lot of babies who made a lot of babies who made a lot of babies, and it’s estimated that some 5 million people owe their existence to that rope.

So what do I say to the ghosts of these ancestors when they sidle up to me at the bar and say “jonge, jonge, jonge, do you have ANY IDEA how much we sacrificed and risked to leave here, why the heck would you come back?”

And my answer is this: The apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree. I did exactly what you would have done. I picked up my life and moved to a place that promised more opportunity. I picked up my life and moved to a place that offered more freedom. I picked up my life and moved to a place that offered more tolerance. I picked up my life and moved to a country where I could be proud to say I raised my children Dutch. I didn’t know it when I moved here, but I never needed to “Go Dutch.” I’ve always been Dutch. Coming here was coming home.