Survival of the Thickest by Michelle Buteau

Author:Michelle Buteau
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery Books
Published: 2020-12-08T00:00:00+00:00

SURVIVING HOLLAND

When we started dating and he’d visit America it was always a thaaaang when he introduced himself. The Dutch pronunciation of the G doesn’t exist in the American alphabet, so every time he meets a friend here goes this mini Rosetta Stone Dutch lesson. Sort of like your Indian friend growing up who had a traditional name that everyone botched until she changed her name to Lisa. I don’t think Americans are used to white people having exotic names they can’t pronounce. The Dutch G is like the sound of a TV that has static on. Or if you don’t remember that, the lowest setting on a white noise machine. So… Gijs = Hhhhhh + ice. And when Gijs introduces himself to people it always goes like this:

“Hi, I’m Gijs.”

“Sorry?”

“Gijs.”

“Kite?”

“It’s Dutch…”

“Spell it?”

“G. I. J. S.”

“Oh, shit, how do you say that?”

“Gijs.”

“Do you have a nickname?”

My mother is from Jamaica and sounds like a singsongy leprechaun. When I told her his name I tried to keep it simple and pronounce it like Hice, but in hindsight, telling her his name began with an H was a mistake. In Jamaica, when you have a word that begins with the letter H, you don’t pronounce the H. Instead of hello, you say ’ello. So my mother and the rest of my Jamaican family calls him Ice. Like the white rapper from the nineties who’s down with the Insane Clown Posse but can’t make good decisions. My Haitian father says Gijs like he’s got French Tourette’s. As if saying his name wrong a few times in a row will somehow make it sound right? He’ll say rice three times in a row like it’s a tick. It’s so embarrassing. It’s mortifying, really. I’d be happier if he just called him Son or Dutchie or even My Man (in his seventies-disco-Afro voice).

When Gijs would visit me in New York, he realized that he needed to have a restaurant reservation under an alias because I could have cooked us a nine-course dinner by the time he finished his Gijs-tory. One time he called to make a rezzy under the name Bob. I actually heard him say “Yeah, that’s spelled B-O-B.” Kind of not necessary considering that’s the name of every one of my friend’s dads. Also, I wouldn’t ever have sex with someone named Bob for that very reason. His restaurant name is James now. James Jameson to be exact; I live and I die.

We dated long-distance for almost two years, and he always made an effort to let me know he was thinking of a bitch. Every day I would wake up to an email with the subject “Song of the Day.” There was a lot of Roy Ayers “Love Will Bring Us Back Together” and “Everybody Loves the Sunshine”—real panty-dropping-type shit. He also came up with this other really cute idea for when I was on a plane and he was home. I’d get Wi-Fi on the plane to text him, and we’d pick a movie and watch it at the same time.

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