An introduction would be in its place — why, hello! I am Doris (try Dorrrrris, and help me end all the ‘Doooris’s). Eighteen. Dutch. Owner of a brand new, weekly column for The Linfield Review, starting right now, and I am excited to show many my world — yes, correct, which is your world, too. But try to see it through my European glasses this time. This week, in my first column, I want to take you back to one of my first memories of campus life.
When I decided to come to the United States, I knew that I would enter a completely different culture. Even though I felt prepared because of all the American movies I have seen in my life, everyone had told me that I would have a culture shock anyway, and I believed them.
But still, I didn’t expect to be confronted with this reality so soon, in my first weeks of college.
I like my life living in a residence hall so far. I enjoy every single thing related to my new student existence, and to be honest with you, I thought things were going pretty well. So by the end of the first week when every girl from my floor knew my name, I proudly Skyped with my friends back home in the Netherlands to brag about my increasing popularity.
It turned out the girls had a different reason to remember my exact name, and me, than I had hoped. Every morning, I woke up, smiling, and would turn around to my window, my back facing the room’s door, to look at the beautiful view. My roommate would already be off to the bathroom, leaving the door wide open.
Before I continue this story, I will teach you something about my culture. During the summer, we do not wear pajamas in the Netherlands, at least I don’t. You can see it coming. I was wearing my slip, and everyone passing the room could catch a glimpse of my behind.
How could I know I was dressed indecently when back home running around in the pouring rain in nothing but your underwear is called having fun?
With a merry expression on my face, I would walk every morning in my underwear to the bathroom, sing my favorite songs in the shower and feel content because all these girls whose names I had forgotten did not forget mine. I worshiped the U.S. because I thought morning moods did not exist here.
Then this happened, week three into school: I had to write an essay for my Survey of Psychology class, about what I thought being romantically attracted to someone meant. After hours of work, I was happy with the result. Just to be sure, I asked someone from my hall to correct me if I had made any spelling mistakes. While she was reading my paper, she suddenly started to laugh and did not stop for what felt like a long time.
“Now I get it,” she said, when she could finally breathe again. “OK, Doris, I am going to teach you something about the American culture. Listen very carefully. First of all, you cannot, I repeat, you cannot use dirty talk in an essay. And then another thing, you don’t walk around here in your underwear, you just don’t. Or sing loud in the shower. I will correct your homework for you. ‘She bends forward to give him a taste of her breasts.’ Please, you might want to change that to, ‘She bends forward in order for the boy to be able to see a glimpse of her attributes.’ Oh, Doris. You have to be more prudish here.”

Doris Ter Horst, columnist
Doris Ter Horst can be reached at [email protected]