Dora the Explorer and I have never been good friends. Oh, I admire her for raising awareness for minority groups and for her willingness to educate our young'ns on being courteous, assertive, and bilingual.
But Dora's voice! I can't stand it. I don't know, maybe she'll grow out of it. Maybe all she needs is a good speech therapist and a singing coach. But in the mean time she has to be quiet in our home. In fact, at our house Dora spends most of her time standing with her nose in the corner. Not because I'm prejudice when it comes to her voice. (I would never send a child to the corner for that. That’s what they make earplugs for.)
It’s because she has a really bad staring problem. She stands on the edge of the bath with her pink flippers on and just bores wholes into your naked body. I must give her credit for our decreasing water bill, though. Our showers have become short and to the point under those huge all seeing eyes. Because even with her nose in the corner, I swear I've seen her looking over her shoulder.
Just like I know that when I was little I saw one of my dolls jump back into bed one morning while I was waking. I quickly closed my eyes again so not to embarrass her and gave her plenty of time to settle back under the covers before opening them again. Ok, so I was probably unconscious of the fact that I was dreaming (we‘ll never know for sure), but at the time, it was a comfort to know that my dolls came alive at night and were watching out for me. This comfort; however, would transform into a nightmare.
For some reason, a friend's mother saw it fit to install fear in us and told us that not all dolls were good. In fact she knew a child whose dolls had to be thrown away because of their repeated attempts to murder the family. From then on, I would pile ALL of my dolls into bed, so not to offend them, and apologize out loud to the ones I could not find. I no longer played with my plush and plastic companions because I wanted to, but rather out of fear of angering them and provoking them to harmful actions.
In much the same way, the joy of the things I have come to love in Europe has been stolen. Special things like going to a European championship soccer match, going to Sail Amsterdam or visiting the Eiffel tower. But also simple things like taking the train to work. Subconsciously, I breathe a sigh of relief every time I return home safely. Nine years ago a fear was installed that is kept alive by a seemingly unbeatable force. The paper says that the security status in the major European cities has been red for months and that another attack is just a matter of time.
Another attack. The draw back to having such a vivid imagination is that I spend way too much time inventing worst case scenarios. To filter the fear, I’m a selective reader and watcher. I can tell you more about the 98 year old woman in our town that still goes bowling every week than anything that appears on the front page of a paper. Does it make me a bad journalist because I will never win prizes, especially not a news quiz?
I guess it’s a survival strategy. It’s too bad I need one. Wouldn't it be great to go back to those few years that you believe that bad guys always ware black or stand crooked and the good guys always win? That no one ever dies, they just pass out. That dolls party in the middle of the night and that Dora is oblivious of your nakedness and just wants to have a swim in the tub?
