Me vs Universiteit van Amsterdam

On how I feel when I take exams at the UVA.

The perfect situation to describe how I feel whenever I take an exam at the UVA is being beat up and don’t being able to stop it. Which I may say has happened to me more than once.

I came to Amsterdam feeling like a Champ, like I was meant to be here, studying this program, considering myself smart, tiger blood included, living it all, every part, including exams and I thought I was going to win this fight. Now, I just wish to finish it in one peace.

I can relate this sensation to when a big tournament or fight was coming over. “Discipline is the key to success”, or so Angel says. It felt alike in Tae Kwon Do, before a big event, you follow the procedure, wake up in the morning (at 7 like Rebecca Black) and you start training, whatever you might need, speed, punches, kicks, you do it all. After that you start getting endurance, strength and there comes a day when you think you’re unstoppable, and in a way you are.

But then you get to the combat, “She jok” the referee says and the fight starts, the excitement and the rush of adrenaline are blurring, you have waited for this moment for a long time and here it is, all of the knowledge is in there, you master every counterattack in the book, even the little tricks, the ones you may only resort to in extreme circumstances. Then BOOM! A big kick wakes you up, it hit you right on the spot, now you’re down by one point and you try to stay focused to get back on the game, yet your legs aren’t going where they’re supposed to, you know what you should to do, but it doesn’t translate to what your body is doing, and the points against you start to come one after the other, non stop.

That overwhelming numbness, exactly like when you’re dreaming and you want to run really fast but you can’t, still aware that it’s a dream and you could do whatever but your body won’t move. I have that exact feeling in the UVA, but the punches do not come precisely on the exam, they come latter, when the grades are posted, and they come in the form of “This answer is not related to the case” BAM! A punch, “I don’t understand the point” at this point my nose starts to bleed, even worse a simple “?” the broken rib right there, but the biggest one is the 5.2 I get for the exam that means I will have to go to the retake.

To win a tournament in Tae Kwon Do, you will probably have to go into 3 or 4 combats, each combat is divided into 3 rounds of 3 minutes each with a little break of 1 minute in between rounds. In the UVA the rounds are called blocks and they come in sets of 2 to 3 exams each time. But you’re ready.

Now you follow the procedure, you wake up in the morning (not at 7), you study, read and read, dissect those pages, ingest all of the knowledge, even get the time to revise the “further recommended reading” which always adds at least 200 pages to the 1000 you already have to learn for a course. You get to the exam, they give you 3 hours to pour in all of the knowledge, and you know it, everything (except in LPIO, because Mr. Kuijper has a great imagination), write and write essays for each answer, even leave the room relieved that it went that well and that you’re getting there, but approximately 4 weeks later the results come. The frustration is devastating.

I have never been knocked out on a fight, on the other hand, I never made it into the national team, and here, by now I am sure the gold medal is not for me, not even the silver, but at least, have the satisfaction of finishing would be the best. I have never thrown the towel in a combat either, and I won’t do so here, I will stay until the last second taking all of those kicks, and now I can’t even remember for what reason.

Here I go again, third round of this block is the State Responsibility exam tomorrow, have barely had time to catch my breath after the other two I had this week or get some water, but I can’t hide it I’m exhausted and even though the UVA has suffocated me non stop since September and my nose is bleeding, I will go there tomorrow, answer everything the best I can and hope that for once I can win the match.

O-hee-tah parrow-key-all (Hojita parroquial)

Primero encontré una iglesia cerca de Diemen (mi antiguo cuchitril), para ir a misa en inglés, fue lo que busqué porque aquí casi todo hay en english y me pareció que sería una buena idea, pero solo trajo confusión. 80 % de los que van son de África y el padre es de la India, entonces entre que el padre predica en inglés Bollywoodense y los otros también con acentos que no domino, sin contar que no me sé los rezos en inglés, mi mamá nunca me los enseñó pero creo que ella medio los “washu washea” también tipo el Padre Nuestro según mi madre:

Our Father, who art in heaven,
Halobidah name,
Taikindom come…

Y así se sigue, pero yo ni a eso llego, entonces entre que intentaba decirlos en español pero terminaba revolviéndome con lo que estaba escuchando, no daba una. Al principio pensé que habría una onda muy Góspel, pero la verdad es que las viejitas que cantan “100 ovejas” en el pueblo tienen mejor estilo. Por cierto, descubrí que hay algunas canciones que son iguales:

Toma mis manos, te pido
Toma mis labios, te amo
Toma mi vida, Oh Padre tuyo soy.

Ahora en inglés pollito-chicken “from the top”!

Take our bread, we ask you
Take our hearts, we love you
Take our lives, Oh Father we are yours.

Ah verdad? de todos modos me tomó un rato pensando “esa canción me suena” para encontrar la correspondiente.

Fui muchas veces a esa misa, pero entre que los feligreses acostumbran también ir vestidos como de gala, todos con saco y corbata y las mujeres muy guapas, pero eso si el almohadazo no falla, obvio a las diez y media de la mañana ellos, Dios y yo sabemos que no se bañaron. Por allá el padre con la ceremonia medio cambiada, ya ven que hay estilos, queriendo hablar en hindi yo me quedaba con cara de:

Juayyy de Rito?!?!?!

Entonces opté por dejar de asistir, igual me perdía de todo. Pero después cuando vino mi mamá en enero me llevó a misa en español en la mismísima Iglesia de San Nicolás que es la mera mera de Ámsterdam, no se cómo no se me ocurrió antes, pero bueno, ya cambié de iglesia y ahora voy ahí.

No puedo determinar todavía de dónde es el padre porque tiene acento de Univisión (como dice mi amigo Pedro), pero aparte es chistosón lo que creó confusión en la misa mixta (revuelta en holandés y español) que hicieron hoy por el miércoles de ceniza, había dos padres y se turnaban, pero en el sermón en español todos se reían y en las canciones aplaudimos, y los holandeses estaban un poco asustados, pero yo, me siento normal.