Lost in Translation

Growing up with a Dutch father and a Scottish mother was like living in an international sitcom where the punchlines just kept coming. My dad, with his no-nonsense Dutch directness, believed honesty was the best policy - even if that honesty was delivered with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. My mum, on the other hand, saw politeness as a near-sacred art form. She could deliver a subtle criticism through layers of Scottish charm that might take a while to fully understand. 

 

Take, for instance, my dad's approach to family dinners. A Dutch dinner for him was straightforward: eat, finish, leave. Lingering was for indecisive people! So after a meal, he'd push his plate away with a satisfied, "Well, that's done!". My mother would look at him as if he'd just announced we were skipping Christmas. For her, the meal wasn’t over until we'd sat around with tea, telling stories and maybe squeezing in a cheeky dessert or an orange. She saw his rush as an affront to the 'sacred bonding' of mealtime, while he looked at her endless tea refills as a low-key hostage situation. 

Family BBQ

Dutch humour can be dry and sometimes painfully honest, while Scottish humour thrives on self-deprecation and storytelling. My dad once cracked a joke to my Scottish uncle about his balding head - sorry, Charles - delivered with all the grace of a rugby tackle. In his Dutch mind, this was just good-natured teasing. My uncle took it in his stride but made sure to counter with a joke about Dutch clogs later. 

 

Over time, I learned to appreciate both sides; my fathers unvarnished honesty and my mothers softer, more diplomatic approach. These differences became the backdrop of my upbringing, offering me a unique lens on how culture shapes communication, values, and even something as simple as how to end a meal. While these small misunderstandings could be confusing at times, they ultimately made life richer - and definitely never boring.