There is six degrees of separation from you to a Dutch person. I guarantee you. Just ask me and I will link you to somebody who has lived in Bellflower, Chino, Ontario, Tulare, Visalia, Lynden, Pella, or Orange City. If your Dutch, you know exactly where all of these towns are located and understand this statement to be true. In ten days I will no longer be a Van Woudenberg. There will be no more short signature lines that don't fit my whole name, no more roll sheets where an employer or teacher has to guess my name since there is only one letter of my first name, no more back of sports jerseys that are shortened to "V.W" but then again, I won't be called "V.W." Nobody will be able to try to say my last name and miserably fail. People will not be able to glance at my last name and immediately identify my heritage. I have always been recognizably Dutch because of my last name. The 13 long, nasty letter combination will now diminish to five. So this is farewell to being recognizably Dutch and hello to a sweet short last name that will give me less of a headache. Allen. Looks like it sounds. Van Woudenberg. Not so much.
As you can see I am very proud of my Dutch heritage. I am a member of the 2nd generation Dutch mafia. All Dutchmen and women are all somewhat related to one another and more importantly, connected. Even though we might not still talk on a regular basis-we all know what is going on in eachothers' lives. We all know what Wilhelmina Peppermints are and it universally reminds us of Sunday church services. A room can smell of deep fried dough and raisins and we immediately know it is oliebollen...and we actually know what oliebollen is. Some of us grew up in a town where there is an actual Windmill Hotel. Sinterklaas, wooden shoes, and orange slices are all synonymous with Christmas. I may he not be leaving my heritage, but my last name is. And so I say goodbye Van Woudenberg and open my arms and give a loving embrace to Allen.
