Mir Woelle Bliewe Wat Mir Sin

For flag-waving Americans, it's not particularly easy to get a grip on the size of Luxembourg--or rather "the Duchy of Luxembourg," a tiny land-locked country that borders France, Belgium, and Germany, and thus couldn't miss World War II. Its piddly 1000 square miles means it's less than half the size of Delaware (1995) and just a bit smaller than tiny Rhode Island (1034). But that doesn't really help. Let's just say, if you're from Luxembourg, you're probably missed.

I grew up in the neighborhood of Luxembourgian-Americans, who lived in and around Belgium, Wisconsin, a place with a name that may well have made its immigrant generation actually feel at home. My dad worked for Luxembourgian-Americans for years, not an exact fit, he being strong-willed Dutch Calvinist, his bosses all cradle Catholics. They partied and he didn't. Made life difficult. 

This year the Luxembourgians in northwest Iowa will be celebrating 150 years out here on the emerald edge of the plains. Because I've always lived so close by, I thought it only right that I find out what I can of their story and stories, and was directed, graciously, to number of places, as well as a small display case in the Plymouth County Museum celebrating their heritage, where I couldn't miss this odd sign, sort of hand-carved or printed on a chunk of barn wood: "Mir woelle bliewe wat mir sin" required a translation, at least for me. What it offers is: "We want to remain what we are."

There are a thousand ways to reference such a platitude in a place like northwest Iowa. It's not a particularly foreign ethic. Reminds me of the Jim Heynen story of a Siouxland farmer who flat refused indoor plumbing when everyone else was dumping the outhouse. Wouldn't have a toilet in the house, he said, because it seemed shameless to think of human beings doing their duties just a room away. No, no, no--"we want to remain what we are," he could just as well have said.

Look, to tell the truth, I loved the sign; but it had to have a story, so I went back to the woman who had sent me to the display. I had to know. "What on earth is that sign all about?" I asked her.

When her answer appeared in my in-box, I couldn't believe it. "It's our national motto," she said, a bit shame-facedly, "which may explain why we can be so conservative."

National motto, you say? Priceless.

It is--she wasn't pulling my leg. It appears all over the little country, like this:

Somehow it looks better on an old dormer than it does etched on barn wood, not because the meaning is any different, but because when it's inscribed on a fancy bit of old style architecture it seems more storied, more authentic, and less plain old die-hard.

And it makes sense. Takes two days and then some to drive through Texas. You can pass through Luxembourg in an hour, visit in a day. The whole time, you're surrounded by pushy neighbors--the French, the Germans, even Belgians. They'd all have you for lunch if you didn't stand your ground--know what I mean? We don't want to be annexed anytime soon, see? "Mir wolle bleiwe wat mir sin"--which is our language, too, so put an umlaut on that o before you leave because that's the way we do it. "We want to remain what we are."

Tough to do in melting pot. It'll be fun to see how they celebrate this summer's big birthday. 

Then again, it wouldn't be strange or singular for them to throw up signs like that all over the neighborhood. Lots of wooden shoes, who don't know a thing about Luxembourgers, would be happy to put up the same sign or flash it on their bumpers for their very own hard-core reasons.  

"We want to stay what we are"--an internationally understood national motto. 
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