In our region, which is thoroughly proletarianized due to a great number of upheavals, it’s like this: almost all office chicks are extremely tetchy. Any request, especially a polite one, is seen as additional work, an affront or insult. Further down the semi-official hierarchy, however, things run superbly. Workmen et al.: super.

Today I’m driving our Volkswagen Transporter to dump old cardboard, all the accumulated packaging material. This used to happen once a quarter, but more recently it’s been bi-weekly. By this time I know the orange clad guys at the recycling company.

They’re in good spirits and outdo me in irony: “Next time that’ll cost something, with that lot!” Me, embarrassed: “How much, then?” – “Ha ha, only kidding!”

My little daughter’s allowed to press the buttons of the cardboard crunching machine. The professional cruncher asks a question. He’d be interested to know why we produce so much garbage? Me, tilting downwards, as it were: We produce books, that’s to say we’re publishers. The garbage, ha ha, is only collateral damage.

Immediately I feel ashamed of my word garbage. But the professional garbage man is fully on board: “Well, I’d really like to know the name of that publisher.” I tell him. Garbage man: “Oh! Antaios! Greek! Fought against ... Heracles, right? Lost, right?”

I’m impressed. “Wow! You’re really highly educated!” He: “My friends call me bookworm. Never see me without a book.” I really love my people.

FAQ: “Really? Your kids are growing up without TV, without smart phones and so on? How does that work? They’ll surely be bullied, won’t they?

Frequently answered: “It’s difficult. You have to ask yourself what kind of upbringing you want to achieve. People kidnapped by technology, or free, self-determined human beings.”

Sure, our kids tended and tend to be outsiders. If any of them is ever in a position to write memoires, the words ‘leather satchel’ will play a role ...

Today, the day after the airing of the report ‘Die rechte Wende’ (‘The right-wing turn’) on TV channel 3sat, two of our juniors were approached (a number of times). It always went something like this: “You were on TV yesterday, my parents said.” – “Yeah, so?” – “Cool. Well, that’s what my parents said.”

The children are puzzled. ‘Cool’ is a word they are rarely attributed with.

Now to a very, very different song. My own little daughter had been given the task of working with a group of friends to choreograph a dance in a physical education class.

Memories from my youth resurface! We had to do that too, back then. We had chosen ‘Fade to Grey.’ The (mostly French) text didn’t bother us then. Today I say it was a pretty good choice. We were in a somewhat existentialist mood.

As far as current music’s concerned, my daughter’s not all that up-to-date. Her class mates Faith, Taylor and Lisa made the choice. It was to be little song called ‘Swalla.’

The teacher’s guideline had been: The choreography was to involve scenes from ‘everyday household life.’ The daughter demonstrated it. Great. Half splits, short headstand, accompanied by movements supposed to represent ‘phoning,’ ‘ironing’ and ‘sleeping.’ Very agreeable, very nice. I praise her.

Before she started, the daughter had said, anticipating my reaction: ‘Yes, I know. But, Mama, you can relax. There’s no bottom-shaking or anything like that.’

OK, but : Try before you trust! So I searched for this ‘Swalla’ video of the dark-skinned ‘artist’ Jason Derulo.

I was the almost billionth client wanting to watch this – art form? Soft porn? Diversion? Somehow I had had a hunch: Swalla = swallow = swallow certain bodily fluids.

“All you girls in here, if you're feeling thirsty / Come on take a sip 'cause you know what I'm servin', ooh”

No, thank you, I say on behalf of ‘my girl.’ I told her that I found the song, the lyrics and the video completely crazy and degrading. (She was embarrassed. I, for my part, could not imagine such a video, with skin colors reversed, rising to popularity without criticism.)

I called the PE teacher on the phone and told him he had to put an immediate stop to this. (He consented right away: “Of course. Absolutely no sexism.”)

Now the young ladies are dancing to another tune: ‘I’m an Albatraoz.’ On the idiocy scale, and regarding clicks, it’s almost level with ‘Swalla.’ But at least there’s no talk of bodily fluids.

Strange times. I’m just watching ‘Swalla’ once more. The ladies there, they’re saying – no, not covertly, but very overtly: “Me too, oh please”, aren’t they? Evidently no one is forcing them to.

Extracts from the originals (here (27/Nov/2017) and here (21/Dec/2017) at sezession.de) translated and republished with permission from Ellen Kositza.