Earlier this week, my Peace Corps training cluster experienced a first. Abe, my fellow patriot from Spokane, Washington, had his cell phone stolen from him before his very eyes.
Not to worry, fair reader. This story is not such a tragedy. Abe was returned late Sunday night from an excursion playing music in the woods with his Ukranian host brothers and some other young adults from their church. Abe was particularly interested in consorting with a young, 20 something Ukranian darling named Anya. Abe handed Anya his phone and asked, in what surely must have been incredibly suave Ukranian, “Daite nomer telefon, budlaska,” loosesly translated as “can I get your digits?”
Just as Anya was beginning to punch in the numbers, out of no where, a vagabond swooped in from behind, grabbed the phone, and ran off. Abe’s confusion soon morphed into anger, and he became momentarily determined to chase this thief down. Luckily, Abe is both clumsy and uncoordinated, and he tripped over his own feet and fell to the concrete, the stranger gaining a phone and Abe gaining his fair share of cuts and bruises.
The next morning at language class, as Abe was regaling us with his tale of woe, our Language teacher, Volodia, was incredibly concerned. Peace Corps regulation stipulate that if we are ever a victim of a crime, we are supposed to call our Security coordinator, “Papa Sergei,” immediately. He is a former Ukranian military man and incredibly scary looking but pretty sweet and friendly once you talk to him. Anyway, Abe, of course, had no phone, so calling became difficult. Volodia immediately made two calls, first to the local police, and then to Sergei.
A few hours later, a sedan that seemed to pop right out of the 1980s pulled in front of Volodia’s house. Two men in plain clothes walked out, both dressed in typical Ukranian fashion. We assumed these were the police, and as they walked in Volodia’s rapport with them confirmed our suspicions. Then things became a bit more muddled; it soon became clear that only one of these men was a police officer. The other was a local drunk who was severely high on some sort of drug (I’ve never seen what someone on Heroine is like, but I think it might be like this) whom the police suspected may have perpetrated the crime. Apparently, he has a habit for this sort of thing. Abe, however, was sure this was not the criminal, so the cop told the man he could leave. Although I don’t speak the language that well, from his stilted body language I could tell he was saying something along the lines of “See, I told you it wasn’t me this time” to which the cop curtly responded, “get the fuck out of here, you stupid drug addict.” Again, I should note that I don’t speak Ukranian.
Abe and Volodia spent the rest of the afternoon riding around with the police officer, interviewing different eyewitnesses to the event. The police seemed determined to find the culprit, and even felt they had a reasonable chance of doing so.
I relate this story for two primary reasons. The first is to show that in a small Ukranian town, everybody pretty much knows everybody. Theres probably a few dozen men who commit 95% of the crimes, and the cops know all of them by name and reputation. The second is to show that while it may be possible to catch the thief, the cops truly WANTED to catch the thief. If you showed up in any town in America, big or small, and said someone had stolen your phone, the cops would likely be angry you were making them fill out the paperwork. Here, however, the police were the ones egging on the investigation, especially for a foreigner. Most of the Ukranians I’ve met here so far seem to share this officers mindset: They truly want to give the extra effort to show us what amazing things Ukraine has to offer.
Of course, there are some locals who feel as if the Americans are intruding upon their home town and treat us with some contempt. But the vast majority are friendly and incredibly helpful. The other day, a neighbor came over to help out my host Mom Natalia cutting some metal bins in half (separate story.) Afterwards, unprompted, he brought over a large bottle of some very nice Ukranian beer, and encouraging me to join. While shopping in a local convenience store the other day, a young girl let me cut her in line and then said “I love Britney Spears.” Whenever we are sent out on assignments to learn about different organizations in our community, and we ask a local, they will often walk us to our desired destination, chatting us up (as best they can) along the way.
This desire to impress, of course, goes both ways. My fellow Americans and I are often on our best behavior around our host families. In fact, not so long ago, I did something that will shock those closest to me. I ate a whole, raw, tomato. Natalia placed one on my plate, and I tried to tell her I didn’t like tomatoes. But she insisted. “Dushe Svidze! Dushe Smachnoh!” Very Fresh, Very delicious! I gave in, dreading this moment I had put off for nearly 22 years. The truth is it wasn’t that bad. Not that I’m gonna start popping them on the regular, but I think it highlights how far I am willing to go.
Just this past weekend, when my host mom went to work, I mopped the floors of her house. Now, Ive mopped floors only in two situations in my life. The first was the bathrooms at camp. The second was after playing beer pong in my parent’s kitchen. This was the first time it was neither mandated nor meant to prevent parental rage. It was simply me wanting to show her how helpful I could be, how helpful Americans can be.
Every night after the meal, I insist to Natalia on washing he dishes. I force her to let me sweep and to dump out the dirty water from under the sink and to feed the dogs and bring in clothes from the line. Even when she puts up a fight, I fight back, and harder. “Mozhna Dopomoheetee.” I am able to help.
I’ve been here about a month, and I certainly haven’t changed any lives. The best thing I;ve done so far is teach a few classes on not smoking and stress management and helped my eleven year old next door neighbor with her English homework. But there is one thing thats already begun to happen, one thing that makes the hard days easier and the easy days entirely worthwhile.
Once in a while, I feel as if the Ukranians around me are acting just a little bitter nice, a little bit friendlier, just to show the Americans what a beautiful country Ukraine can be. But the thing I can state most unequivocally is that so far in Ukraine, all the difficulties and all the differences and all the dilemmas I face and have yet to face and will certainly face, all of these are, most definitely, bringing out the best in me.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Dancing in Ukraine
Hey everybody,
So below I have posted a new video. There are four main things going on in this video. The first is my classmates and I shopping at the local market and then cooking a meal for ourselves while speaking in Ukranian. The beautiful apron belongs to Rachel, but she thought it looked better on me.
The second batch of clips is from a regular day of language class. We have four hours of language every day, so that is probably the best image of my day to day life.
The third batch is from my first day of class. I taught on stress management, which is ironic because teaching a class in a language i dont understand is pretty fucking stressful.
The fourth batch is from a rather interesting day of dancing at Volodia's hosue after we got distracted when Volodia told us he used to be a member of the Ukranian Youth National Folk dancing team.
Anyway, enjoy the video, and the authentic Ukranian (well, actually its a Ukranian musician but sung in Russian) music.
Also, I am please to say that Dora is doing a lot better. She has begun eating normally and her and I played in the yard earlier today.
Oh, and I took my first bucket shower this morning. Kind of enjoyed it, but i cut myself on the rope bringing water up from the well.
So below I have posted a new video. There are four main things going on in this video. The first is my classmates and I shopping at the local market and then cooking a meal for ourselves while speaking in Ukranian. The beautiful apron belongs to Rachel, but she thought it looked better on me.
The second batch of clips is from a regular day of language class. We have four hours of language every day, so that is probably the best image of my day to day life.
The third batch is from my first day of class. I taught on stress management, which is ironic because teaching a class in a language i dont understand is pretty fucking stressful.
The fourth batch is from a rather interesting day of dancing at Volodia's hosue after we got distracted when Volodia told us he used to be a member of the Ukranian Youth National Folk dancing team.
Anyway, enjoy the video, and the authentic Ukranian (well, actually its a Ukranian musician but sung in Russian) music.
Also, I am please to say that Dora is doing a lot better. She has begun eating normally and her and I played in the yard earlier today.
Oh, and I took my first bucket shower this morning. Kind of enjoyed it, but i cut myself on the rope bringing water up from the well.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Dora
My original plan for this entry was to give all of you a sort of daily log of my life (so far) in Ukraine. I was going to run down the basics, the hours I have spent learning the language, the people I had met, the makeup of my town. I was even planning on sharing an anecdote or two about my first day teaching (in Ukranian!) at the local school. But then I came home last night, and Dora had just given birth to puppies.
Dora, by the way, is Natalia’s dog. About a year old, 2 and a half feet long and probably forty or fifty pounds, she is no menace to be messed with. She is a cross breed of probably five different types of dogs, a mudblood of the highest order, and as enthusiastic and energetic as any living being I’ve ever met.
I never had any pets growing up. My family and I often discussed from time to time the plausibility of various animals. A Dog? Well, my mother would say, who exactly is going to walk it? A cat? My father hates cats. Fish? Why the hell would we buy fish? The end result was no result, a life spent relying on my friend Andrew, whose house often resembled a small Zoo, to fulfill my thirst for Pets.
Of course, this is just one of my many complaints about my childhood, the rest of which will one day be heard by a therapist whom I will direct to send my parents the bill. The truth is, I never really cared that much. But I was incredibly excited when I arrived in Ukraine, at Natalia’s, and found two dogs and a Cat waiting for me.
The Cat and I, whose name is Dana (pronounced Dah-Nah), have yet to see eye to eye. She is constantly eyeing me with suspicion, and I always feel as if she is aware of all my life’s transgressions. Beyond that, her toilet is my shower, and suffice it to say we have butted heads on that battleground on more than one occasion. Natalia often jokes that it is not really her place but rather “Doma V’Dana,” or Dana’s house.
The other dog is named Jack, whom I recently found out belongs to the hosue next door. Natalia, however, has taken on the task of feeding him, because his family often forgets. Jack has also clearly been abused in the past, a fact that is highlighted by his sincere fear of all men. Only recently has he started warming up to me. Until now, just hearing my presence would send him running for the hills.
Dora, however, is an entirely different story. From day one we began falling in love, albeit one of those really complicated and sometimes tumultuous love stories. The first 48 hours I was at the house, Dora barked and barked and barked. When I left to go to the bathroom, Dora barked. When I went to school, Dora barked. And when I came home, she bared her teeth and barked some more. After the first few days, however, her barking took on a different tone, and soon she was barking with her tongue wagging and licking and spitting all over me.
I really wanted her to like me, so I took to the habit of bringing out her food to her twice a day, in the mornings and in the evenings. Natalia works a lot of long days and nights, so often times I and I alone would be there for Dora, and she and she alone would be there for me. I would rub her belly and her her head and this special place behind her ears that really made her go wild. We were growing on each other. She felt like my very first pet.
Every day when I left and every day when I returned home Dora would be there waiting, at the door or at the fence, ready to jump me and, often times, impede my way. She would refuse to let me pass without a moment of playful banter, without latching on to my leg and knocking out a hump or two. Her favorite, however, seemed to be standing on her hind legs while I would grab her front legs with my own hands. We would stare at each other, and I would crouch to meet eye to eye. I would nuzzle her nose with my own and she would slobber all over my face.
Sometimes, of course, such antics could become a nuisance. Since the bathroom is outdoors, and most trips I took there I wasn’t exactly trying to conduct at a leisurely pace, playing with an overactive dog isn’t exactly top on my priority list. And after a long day of work and class, having a Dog stop you from getting out of your suit and kicking back with a nice cup of tea can start to get on your nerves. I remember one particularly bad day when Dora leaped on me while I was wearing my suit, forcing me to spend an hour cleaning out the spots by hand (no washing machine, remember?) To throw the icing on the sundae while impeding my way that day she led me to one of her “special spots” in the yard where she “did her business.” My shoes will be forever grateful.
Then there was the night she was barking just outside my window. Natalia wasn’t home, and I could not sleep with that dog yapping her chap. I emerge outside to find Dora with a small hedgehog in her teeth, attempting to tear through its hard, pointy exterior to get to that juicy meat inside. The hedgehog, of course, was alive, and I was more than a bit disturbed by Dora’s (eventually failed) attempts to have a just dessert. All the same, I fell in love with her. She began to feel partially mine.
Dora had been acting funny the last few days. Natalia was trying to tell me something, constantly pointing at her belly. I assumed it was a stomach ache. In retrospect, she was trying to tell me she was pregnant.
When I came home last night, there was no jumping dog to greet me. I meandered my way to her dog house, to find four or five jet black puppies suckling inside. I was beyond excitement! I called my friend Katelyn and she rushed over. Natalia was working until late, so I took it upon myself to camp outside the doghouse and watch newborns in action. I even started thinking about the names they would all receive, about which one I could take to truly be my own.
Natalia arrived home a little bit after ten that night. “Dora had puppies!” I exclaimed, showing off the newfound words I had looked up in the dictionary. She smiled.
“Ya Znayoo.” I know.
We went outside and she flashed a light inside the dog house. In there was Dora with her pups. We watched for a minute or so, and then went back inside.
“What will you do with them,” I asked. I was hoping she would suggest I take one. It would save me having to learn the Ukranian to ask.
She answered with a word I didnt know. “Ya ne Rozumiyoo.” I dont understand, I told her.
Natalia slowly raised her hands to her throat and make a choking motion. It suddenly dawned on me. Shes going to kill them.
For some reason the thought hadn’t even occurred to me, but as soon as she made the motion by American and childhood naivety was swept from my conscience. The town in which I am stationed is overrun with Dogs. Every day I pass at least ten strays on my walk to school, and most of them are replete with broken legs or bad eyes or some other disease that in America would have gotten them that final sleep long ago. But in Ukraine these dogs squeak by, relying on whatever scraps they can find.
I used to laugh at Bob Barker on The Price is Right, when he used to end every show by encouraging viewers to neuter their animals. Thats his cause, I thought? Thats to what he devotes this huge platform, this chance to change the world? But in Ukraine no one neuters their animal, a cost not worth bearing. There is a cheaper way to prevent the spread of dogs. The way Natalia was going to implement.
I think she could see the shock in my eyes. I ran to my dictionary for a few minutes and then came hustling back.
“Ya lyooblyoo Odin.” I want one.
“Ne, Jeremy.” I am sorry, but you cannot have one.
“Ya Mozna.” I am able. I can keep it and raise it and make it my own. I can save one of them. I can.
“Ni, Jeremy. Ne Mozna.” No, Jeremy. You can’t.
She was right, of course. I was in the middle of an already tumultuous period of my life. In two months I am moving to God knows where. I don’t know what my living conditions are going to be like and Im barely given enough money to buy my own food, let alone support a Dog. Beyond all that, I’ve never owned a pet. And I truthfully don’t have the slightest clue as to what goes into raising a Dog.
I went to my room for a bit, to think, to read, to stare at the ceiling throwing a blue racquetball up in the air. I came out.
“Kudee.” When. When are you going to do it?
“Zaftra. Urano Ranok.” Tomorrow. Very early.
“Ya lyoobloo eetee.” I want to come. I want to be there. I want to see it. I want to stop it. I want to do everything and i feel like I cant do anything.
“Ni.” No, Jeremy. You won’t come. She reached out and touched my shoulder, and then went to the kitchen to make me a cup of tea.
I woke up this morning at around 5 to Dora’s barking. I sat up in bed but didn’t leave. I didnt want to see it. I didn’t want to see any of it. I just sat up in bed for the next two hours, until Natalia had returned and gone back to sleep. I didn’t want to face her. I didn’t want to talk about it. I just listened to Dora barking, and then I listened to her silence.
I was afraid to leave the house this morning until I had to, but Mother Nature forced a trip to the outhouse. Dora was sitting in her doghouse, head hanging out the door, the look in her eyes enough to write a thousand ballads about loss and pain and love. I avoided her glance on the way thought, and I avoided it on the way back.
When I went to school a bit later, I again saw Dora in the same position. As I walked by a moan creeped out of her throat. I looked at her, I stared at her for a very long minute. I am sorry, I told her. I am sorry.
I’m not sure if there was a different ending to this story, if I should have insisted on keeping a puppy or if I should have gone with Natalia or if I should forget the whole event and throw it out with the rest of life’s painful memories. People often talk about their welcome to the Peace Corps moment. This may have been mine. There are so many things I take for granted beyond indoor bathrooms and microwaves. There is a safety and security involved in our lives that we can’t even begin to imagine until it is taken away, a million luxuries that we forget to count.
I will go home soon, back to Natalia’s, back to Doras, and I am sad. Because I know there will be no happy, excited, energetic dog blocking my way, a pack of pups in tow.
Dora, by the way, is Natalia’s dog. About a year old, 2 and a half feet long and probably forty or fifty pounds, she is no menace to be messed with. She is a cross breed of probably five different types of dogs, a mudblood of the highest order, and as enthusiastic and energetic as any living being I’ve ever met.
I never had any pets growing up. My family and I often discussed from time to time the plausibility of various animals. A Dog? Well, my mother would say, who exactly is going to walk it? A cat? My father hates cats. Fish? Why the hell would we buy fish? The end result was no result, a life spent relying on my friend Andrew, whose house often resembled a small Zoo, to fulfill my thirst for Pets.
Of course, this is just one of my many complaints about my childhood, the rest of which will one day be heard by a therapist whom I will direct to send my parents the bill. The truth is, I never really cared that much. But I was incredibly excited when I arrived in Ukraine, at Natalia’s, and found two dogs and a Cat waiting for me.
The Cat and I, whose name is Dana (pronounced Dah-Nah), have yet to see eye to eye. She is constantly eyeing me with suspicion, and I always feel as if she is aware of all my life’s transgressions. Beyond that, her toilet is my shower, and suffice it to say we have butted heads on that battleground on more than one occasion. Natalia often jokes that it is not really her place but rather “Doma V’Dana,” or Dana’s house.
The other dog is named Jack, whom I recently found out belongs to the hosue next door. Natalia, however, has taken on the task of feeding him, because his family often forgets. Jack has also clearly been abused in the past, a fact that is highlighted by his sincere fear of all men. Only recently has he started warming up to me. Until now, just hearing my presence would send him running for the hills.
Dora, however, is an entirely different story. From day one we began falling in love, albeit one of those really complicated and sometimes tumultuous love stories. The first 48 hours I was at the house, Dora barked and barked and barked. When I left to go to the bathroom, Dora barked. When I went to school, Dora barked. And when I came home, she bared her teeth and barked some more. After the first few days, however, her barking took on a different tone, and soon she was barking with her tongue wagging and licking and spitting all over me.
I really wanted her to like me, so I took to the habit of bringing out her food to her twice a day, in the mornings and in the evenings. Natalia works a lot of long days and nights, so often times I and I alone would be there for Dora, and she and she alone would be there for me. I would rub her belly and her her head and this special place behind her ears that really made her go wild. We were growing on each other. She felt like my very first pet.
Every day when I left and every day when I returned home Dora would be there waiting, at the door or at the fence, ready to jump me and, often times, impede my way. She would refuse to let me pass without a moment of playful banter, without latching on to my leg and knocking out a hump or two. Her favorite, however, seemed to be standing on her hind legs while I would grab her front legs with my own hands. We would stare at each other, and I would crouch to meet eye to eye. I would nuzzle her nose with my own and she would slobber all over my face.
Sometimes, of course, such antics could become a nuisance. Since the bathroom is outdoors, and most trips I took there I wasn’t exactly trying to conduct at a leisurely pace, playing with an overactive dog isn’t exactly top on my priority list. And after a long day of work and class, having a Dog stop you from getting out of your suit and kicking back with a nice cup of tea can start to get on your nerves. I remember one particularly bad day when Dora leaped on me while I was wearing my suit, forcing me to spend an hour cleaning out the spots by hand (no washing machine, remember?) To throw the icing on the sundae while impeding my way that day she led me to one of her “special spots” in the yard where she “did her business.” My shoes will be forever grateful.
Then there was the night she was barking just outside my window. Natalia wasn’t home, and I could not sleep with that dog yapping her chap. I emerge outside to find Dora with a small hedgehog in her teeth, attempting to tear through its hard, pointy exterior to get to that juicy meat inside. The hedgehog, of course, was alive, and I was more than a bit disturbed by Dora’s (eventually failed) attempts to have a just dessert. All the same, I fell in love with her. She began to feel partially mine.
Dora had been acting funny the last few days. Natalia was trying to tell me something, constantly pointing at her belly. I assumed it was a stomach ache. In retrospect, she was trying to tell me she was pregnant.
When I came home last night, there was no jumping dog to greet me. I meandered my way to her dog house, to find four or five jet black puppies suckling inside. I was beyond excitement! I called my friend Katelyn and she rushed over. Natalia was working until late, so I took it upon myself to camp outside the doghouse and watch newborns in action. I even started thinking about the names they would all receive, about which one I could take to truly be my own.
Natalia arrived home a little bit after ten that night. “Dora had puppies!” I exclaimed, showing off the newfound words I had looked up in the dictionary. She smiled.
“Ya Znayoo.” I know.
We went outside and she flashed a light inside the dog house. In there was Dora with her pups. We watched for a minute or so, and then went back inside.
“What will you do with them,” I asked. I was hoping she would suggest I take one. It would save me having to learn the Ukranian to ask.
She answered with a word I didnt know. “Ya ne Rozumiyoo.” I dont understand, I told her.
Natalia slowly raised her hands to her throat and make a choking motion. It suddenly dawned on me. Shes going to kill them.
For some reason the thought hadn’t even occurred to me, but as soon as she made the motion by American and childhood naivety was swept from my conscience. The town in which I am stationed is overrun with Dogs. Every day I pass at least ten strays on my walk to school, and most of them are replete with broken legs or bad eyes or some other disease that in America would have gotten them that final sleep long ago. But in Ukraine these dogs squeak by, relying on whatever scraps they can find.
I used to laugh at Bob Barker on The Price is Right, when he used to end every show by encouraging viewers to neuter their animals. Thats his cause, I thought? Thats to what he devotes this huge platform, this chance to change the world? But in Ukraine no one neuters their animal, a cost not worth bearing. There is a cheaper way to prevent the spread of dogs. The way Natalia was going to implement.
I think she could see the shock in my eyes. I ran to my dictionary for a few minutes and then came hustling back.
“Ya lyooblyoo Odin.” I want one.
“Ne, Jeremy.” I am sorry, but you cannot have one.
“Ya Mozna.” I am able. I can keep it and raise it and make it my own. I can save one of them. I can.
“Ni, Jeremy. Ne Mozna.” No, Jeremy. You can’t.
She was right, of course. I was in the middle of an already tumultuous period of my life. In two months I am moving to God knows where. I don’t know what my living conditions are going to be like and Im barely given enough money to buy my own food, let alone support a Dog. Beyond all that, I’ve never owned a pet. And I truthfully don’t have the slightest clue as to what goes into raising a Dog.
I went to my room for a bit, to think, to read, to stare at the ceiling throwing a blue racquetball up in the air. I came out.
“Kudee.” When. When are you going to do it?
“Zaftra. Urano Ranok.” Tomorrow. Very early.
“Ya lyoobloo eetee.” I want to come. I want to be there. I want to see it. I want to stop it. I want to do everything and i feel like I cant do anything.
“Ni.” No, Jeremy. You won’t come. She reached out and touched my shoulder, and then went to the kitchen to make me a cup of tea.
I woke up this morning at around 5 to Dora’s barking. I sat up in bed but didn’t leave. I didnt want to see it. I didn’t want to see any of it. I just sat up in bed for the next two hours, until Natalia had returned and gone back to sleep. I didn’t want to face her. I didn’t want to talk about it. I just listened to Dora barking, and then I listened to her silence.
I was afraid to leave the house this morning until I had to, but Mother Nature forced a trip to the outhouse. Dora was sitting in her doghouse, head hanging out the door, the look in her eyes enough to write a thousand ballads about loss and pain and love. I avoided her glance on the way thought, and I avoided it on the way back.
When I went to school a bit later, I again saw Dora in the same position. As I walked by a moan creeped out of her throat. I looked at her, I stared at her for a very long minute. I am sorry, I told her. I am sorry.
I’m not sure if there was a different ending to this story, if I should have insisted on keeping a puppy or if I should have gone with Natalia or if I should forget the whole event and throw it out with the rest of life’s painful memories. People often talk about their welcome to the Peace Corps moment. This may have been mine. There are so many things I take for granted beyond indoor bathrooms and microwaves. There is a safety and security involved in our lives that we can’t even begin to imagine until it is taken away, a million luxuries that we forget to count.
I will go home soon, back to Natalia’s, back to Doras, and I am sad. Because I know there will be no happy, excited, energetic dog blocking my way, a pack of pups in tow.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Home at Natalia's
Hey everyone!
Attached I have a new video, set to the good tunes of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (shout out to Sean Clark). Please, don't sue me.
Natalia makes her inaugural blog appearance here. She is the middle aged woman in the video. Shes the only one. Shouldnt be hard to figure it out.
Natalia and I had some breakthroughs this weekend. On Friday night we read Psalms together, me in Hebrew and her in Ukranian. Then this morning I woke up early to help her in the garden, and then a neighbor came over and for some reason sliced an old metal gas container in half. We then sat at outside and drank 2 Liters of Ukranian Beer. This was all before 11am.
Later, I finally figured out what she did (she works in the keiv subway system as a dispatcher and travel engineer) and also that she has no family other than a second cousin, whom i confused for her brother but I have met twice.
Otherwise, life is good. i will be posting a longer entry mid week. Enjoy the video! Also making appearances, in addition to Natalia, is my language tutor Volodia, my Technical trainer Yulia, and my fellow PCVs Dan, Abe, Kate, Katelyn, and Rachel.
And Happy Birthday tomorrow to Rabbi Borovitz, turning a ripe old age 0f 62.
Attached I have a new video, set to the good tunes of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (shout out to Sean Clark). Please, don't sue me.
Natalia makes her inaugural blog appearance here. She is the middle aged woman in the video. Shes the only one. Shouldnt be hard to figure it out.
Natalia and I had some breakthroughs this weekend. On Friday night we read Psalms together, me in Hebrew and her in Ukranian. Then this morning I woke up early to help her in the garden, and then a neighbor came over and for some reason sliced an old metal gas container in half. We then sat at outside and drank 2 Liters of Ukranian Beer. This was all before 11am.
Later, I finally figured out what she did (she works in the keiv subway system as a dispatcher and travel engineer) and also that she has no family other than a second cousin, whom i confused for her brother but I have met twice.
Otherwise, life is good. i will be posting a longer entry mid week. Enjoy the video! Also making appearances, in addition to Natalia, is my language tutor Volodia, my Technical trainer Yulia, and my fellow PCVs Dan, Abe, Kate, Katelyn, and Rachel.
And Happy Birthday tomorrow to Rabbi Borovitz, turning a ripe old age 0f 62.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Fences
Robert Frost, the poet laureate of a generation, once wrote a very famous poem entitled The Mending Wall, within which were contained the immortal words, “Good Fences make Good neighbors.” This line has been analyzed and over-analyzed by experts, pseudo experts, and slightly overweight High School students (read: me) galore. While interpretations vary based on IQ level and how much one is trying to impress the girl who sits in front of him in English class, it is generally agreed that Frost was, of course, being ironic. He was questioning why in a such a modern era, where walls are no longer as necessary to repel invading barbarian hordes and ensure our survival, we continue to separate and seclude ourselves from our community. This past week, however, this poem has taken on new significance. In Ukraine, Good Fences really do make Good neighbors, American notions of community are thrown upside down, and hospitality takes on a whole new meaning.
I arrived last Friday at my training site, where I will be spending the next three months learning Ukranian, studying Ukranian culture, and working with the local middle and high school. Peace Corps regulations stipulate that I am not allowed to divulge the name of my town on my blog for security purposes, so if anyone really cares, just send me an email.
When we arrived in our town, which I will refer to as Micto, (pronounced Misto, the word for town in Ukranian) I was immediately met by my Host Mom, Natalia. Natalia is somewhere between the ages of 40-50 (I can’t tell, and I’m not sure if its rude to ask in Ukraine), lives alone, and has no children. She also speaks no english, which made our first interaction, and pretty much every subsequent one, pretty humorous and extremely arduous. I’ve developed a 10 to 1 rule when it comes to conversations with Natalia. If it normally would take 10 seconds to communicate something, with Natalia it takes about 100 seconds.
All the same, in my brief time with Natalia I’ve learned that there are many ways of speaking to someone without words, and we have slowly begun to master many forms of non-verbal communication. This has not been an easy week for me---I have been exposed to many things I’d never seen or experienced before, and she has been helping, even if I can’t understand a thing she says.
Probably my first shock occurred walking through the town (or perhaps village is a better word) that first night. Few roads in the town are paved. Most roads are more what we would refer to as dirt paths, and resemble something you would find in a run down local park more than the living embodiment of your address.
The houses are different, too. Most are brick, although a significant proportion are made with wood; here and there one can find some siding that looks like it popped out of a suburban catalogue. Also unlike my planned New Jersey community, the lots are not evenly divided up. Rather, the fences that delineate property resemble a strange maze, sharply cutting corners and creating odd inlets that are either completely arbitrary or the result of some bet gone awry from decades past.
At first I was surprised at the plethora of fences. During our first few days at the retreat they had constantly drilled in our head the the country’s congenial nature. Neighbor is friend and friend is often neighbor, a close circle of communal responsibility, a lingering remnant from its days as just another Soviet Socialist Republic.
It soon became clear that the fences were meant more for animals than for people. Owning the dirt paths in lieu of cars is scores of wild dogs and stray cats and sometimes a hare or two, most of them infirmed and unkept but hanging on for dear life via a loose connection of community members who throw them scraps from time to time. Most people grow their own vegetables; others have chickens or goats or donkeys. The fences are meant to keep the animals and gardens safe. Neighbors, on the other hand, seem to ignore the barriers entirely.
Natalia’s house is no exception. As she showed me around that first night, I noticed the odd shape of her property. It seemed as if some five year old had drawn her property lines, and possibly a drunk five year old at that. Explaining the various intricacies of her house was no picnic, given that we couldn’t communicate very well. I was able to gather, however, that when she pointed at the toilet paper and then pointed to a small shed in her yard, that an outhouse was the desired location for my excrements.
The next morning, as I walked outside to brave my first extended foray into that small, smelly, secluded space, I was surprised to find that the family in the lot next door was having a barbecue. At 8 am. While drinking. They all stared intensely as I weasled my way into the outhouse. Taking one’s first poop in a foreign place is always a bit stressful on my weak Jewish stomach. Having to do some while squatting outdoors compounds the problem. Knowing that a large Ukranian family was staring at me, waiting for me to emerge? I was seriously contemplating resolving myself to two straight years of massive constipation.
Not all bathroom trips were so bad, however. On Easter morning, I awoke at 4am with a strong urge to use the bathroom. But it was cold outside, and I was confronted with that same feeling that millions of people camping in the woods had felt before me. To pee or not to pee?
I decided to pee, and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. 4 am is apparently the heart of the Ukranian Easter Service, and as I was peeing I heard an angelic chant coming from seemingly every direction. It was as if the clear night sky of Ukraine was sending me a message, composing a hymn just for this moment, lighting up the moment in a way that only beautiful music can. It was, without a doubt, on of the most memorable experiences of my life. Which taught me a valuable lesson: always bring a video camera on night time bathroom trips.
As the days went on, Natalia and I overcame some of our initial awkwardness. My Ukranian started improving, as well. Day by day she would show me the ropes to the house, the house that would be our shared home for the next few months. Again, the language barriers were high, but room by room, lesson by lesson, we started to figure it out.
Here is the shower. Dont use too much water. Also, the cat, named Dana, sometimes uses it as a bathroom.
The sink in the kitchen has no drain to outside, just a bucket sitting under it collecting water. Be sure to make sure it isnt full before washing dishes.
Hand wash your dishes.
When your clothes get dirty, go to the well and fill up a bucket with water. Put the bucket on the stove to heat up the water. Then go back to the well and get another bucket of water. Put soap in the hot bucket. Soak clothes. Scrub clothes. Drain out water. Dunk in cold. Hang to dry. Lather, rinse, repeat.
The dogs (there are two, Jack and Dora,) are fed at 8am and 8pm. Porridge is in the fridge. Meat in the freezer. Be careful not to be late, or they will bite.
Natalia works in Kiev as either an electrician or an engineer, or some sort of combination that I’m sure I could comprehend in English in she could learn some or Ukranian if I could learn some. She only works 3 or 4 days a week, but it is often overnight, so many of these household tasks, especially feeding the dogs, were left up to me. It seemed a little quick that after being there for three days she was trusting me to care for her house, but then again, I thought, this is the Peace Corps. Throw me in and see me swim.
I think Natalia, however, must have told the whole neighborhood it was my first night alone. Three different neighbors came by that night, just to check on me, to see if I was hungry, if there was anything I needed, if there was any way they could help. The town is a small town. Everybody knows everybody’s business. And everybody was racing to lend a hand.
One night when Natalia didn’t have work, she had a few friends over for a Bible session. Natalia is a 7th day adventist, which is particularly beneficial since it means she doesn’t eat meat. (On a side note, I have maintained my vegetarianism, although I have had fish a few times because it is not so easy to otherwise get protein). She invited me to come sit with them while they read together, and my expanding Ukranian vocabulary combined with my brief Wikipedia check of 7th Day Adventist ideology and practices allowed me to (almost) follow along. I didn’t pick up a Ukranian Bible, however. Nor did I break out my own.
I hadn’t yet told Natalia I was Jewish, and I was waiting for an opportune time that was likely not to come. Its been hard to be Jewish so far here; none of the other PCVs are, and there isn’t exactly a synagogue in town. Or another Jew, for that matter. After Natalia’s friends left, however, and we were sitting at the Kitchen table, Natalia said to me, in very simple, succinct, matter of fact Ukranian, “You have a Bible in your room, Jeremy. In Hebrew.”
“Yes, I am Jewish.”
“Yes, I know.”
We talked for a bit about my father being a Rabbi, about growing up Kosher, about the Bible. It wasn’t until I went to bed later that night that I realized my Bible had been in my closet. It wouldn’t be hard to spot, but you’d have to be looking around.
After momentary discomfort, I actually realized that I didn’t mind she had been sifting through my things. The door to my room, language difficulties, my Judaism, my difficulties using the bathroom outdoors---these were all Ukranian fences, borders that existed but were permeable, things that could be overcome, barriers that we could ignore. This was her home, and I was a part of it, and that was an all-or-nothign statement. You are in or you are out.
A few days later, Natalia bought me a Hebrew-Ukranian bible. Look, she told me with her eyes and hands and gestures. Now, we can read the Bible together.
I have no doubt Frost would have loved the irony of my small story in this small Ukranian town. The fences might be there, but none of the neighbors, nor the people, seem to notice.
I arrived last Friday at my training site, where I will be spending the next three months learning Ukranian, studying Ukranian culture, and working with the local middle and high school. Peace Corps regulations stipulate that I am not allowed to divulge the name of my town on my blog for security purposes, so if anyone really cares, just send me an email.
When we arrived in our town, which I will refer to as Micto, (pronounced Misto, the word for town in Ukranian) I was immediately met by my Host Mom, Natalia. Natalia is somewhere between the ages of 40-50 (I can’t tell, and I’m not sure if its rude to ask in Ukraine), lives alone, and has no children. She also speaks no english, which made our first interaction, and pretty much every subsequent one, pretty humorous and extremely arduous. I’ve developed a 10 to 1 rule when it comes to conversations with Natalia. If it normally would take 10 seconds to communicate something, with Natalia it takes about 100 seconds.
All the same, in my brief time with Natalia I’ve learned that there are many ways of speaking to someone without words, and we have slowly begun to master many forms of non-verbal communication. This has not been an easy week for me---I have been exposed to many things I’d never seen or experienced before, and she has been helping, even if I can’t understand a thing she says.
Probably my first shock occurred walking through the town (or perhaps village is a better word) that first night. Few roads in the town are paved. Most roads are more what we would refer to as dirt paths, and resemble something you would find in a run down local park more than the living embodiment of your address.
The houses are different, too. Most are brick, although a significant proportion are made with wood; here and there one can find some siding that looks like it popped out of a suburban catalogue. Also unlike my planned New Jersey community, the lots are not evenly divided up. Rather, the fences that delineate property resemble a strange maze, sharply cutting corners and creating odd inlets that are either completely arbitrary or the result of some bet gone awry from decades past.
At first I was surprised at the plethora of fences. During our first few days at the retreat they had constantly drilled in our head the the country’s congenial nature. Neighbor is friend and friend is often neighbor, a close circle of communal responsibility, a lingering remnant from its days as just another Soviet Socialist Republic.
It soon became clear that the fences were meant more for animals than for people. Owning the dirt paths in lieu of cars is scores of wild dogs and stray cats and sometimes a hare or two, most of them infirmed and unkept but hanging on for dear life via a loose connection of community members who throw them scraps from time to time. Most people grow their own vegetables; others have chickens or goats or donkeys. The fences are meant to keep the animals and gardens safe. Neighbors, on the other hand, seem to ignore the barriers entirely.
Natalia’s house is no exception. As she showed me around that first night, I noticed the odd shape of her property. It seemed as if some five year old had drawn her property lines, and possibly a drunk five year old at that. Explaining the various intricacies of her house was no picnic, given that we couldn’t communicate very well. I was able to gather, however, that when she pointed at the toilet paper and then pointed to a small shed in her yard, that an outhouse was the desired location for my excrements.
The next morning, as I walked outside to brave my first extended foray into that small, smelly, secluded space, I was surprised to find that the family in the lot next door was having a barbecue. At 8 am. While drinking. They all stared intensely as I weasled my way into the outhouse. Taking one’s first poop in a foreign place is always a bit stressful on my weak Jewish stomach. Having to do some while squatting outdoors compounds the problem. Knowing that a large Ukranian family was staring at me, waiting for me to emerge? I was seriously contemplating resolving myself to two straight years of massive constipation.
Not all bathroom trips were so bad, however. On Easter morning, I awoke at 4am with a strong urge to use the bathroom. But it was cold outside, and I was confronted with that same feeling that millions of people camping in the woods had felt before me. To pee or not to pee?
I decided to pee, and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. 4 am is apparently the heart of the Ukranian Easter Service, and as I was peeing I heard an angelic chant coming from seemingly every direction. It was as if the clear night sky of Ukraine was sending me a message, composing a hymn just for this moment, lighting up the moment in a way that only beautiful music can. It was, without a doubt, on of the most memorable experiences of my life. Which taught me a valuable lesson: always bring a video camera on night time bathroom trips.
As the days went on, Natalia and I overcame some of our initial awkwardness. My Ukranian started improving, as well. Day by day she would show me the ropes to the house, the house that would be our shared home for the next few months. Again, the language barriers were high, but room by room, lesson by lesson, we started to figure it out.
Here is the shower. Dont use too much water. Also, the cat, named Dana, sometimes uses it as a bathroom.
The sink in the kitchen has no drain to outside, just a bucket sitting under it collecting water. Be sure to make sure it isnt full before washing dishes.
Hand wash your dishes.
When your clothes get dirty, go to the well and fill up a bucket with water. Put the bucket on the stove to heat up the water. Then go back to the well and get another bucket of water. Put soap in the hot bucket. Soak clothes. Scrub clothes. Drain out water. Dunk in cold. Hang to dry. Lather, rinse, repeat.
The dogs (there are two, Jack and Dora,) are fed at 8am and 8pm. Porridge is in the fridge. Meat in the freezer. Be careful not to be late, or they will bite.
Natalia works in Kiev as either an electrician or an engineer, or some sort of combination that I’m sure I could comprehend in English in she could learn some or Ukranian if I could learn some. She only works 3 or 4 days a week, but it is often overnight, so many of these household tasks, especially feeding the dogs, were left up to me. It seemed a little quick that after being there for three days she was trusting me to care for her house, but then again, I thought, this is the Peace Corps. Throw me in and see me swim.
I think Natalia, however, must have told the whole neighborhood it was my first night alone. Three different neighbors came by that night, just to check on me, to see if I was hungry, if there was anything I needed, if there was any way they could help. The town is a small town. Everybody knows everybody’s business. And everybody was racing to lend a hand.
One night when Natalia didn’t have work, she had a few friends over for a Bible session. Natalia is a 7th day adventist, which is particularly beneficial since it means she doesn’t eat meat. (On a side note, I have maintained my vegetarianism, although I have had fish a few times because it is not so easy to otherwise get protein). She invited me to come sit with them while they read together, and my expanding Ukranian vocabulary combined with my brief Wikipedia check of 7th Day Adventist ideology and practices allowed me to (almost) follow along. I didn’t pick up a Ukranian Bible, however. Nor did I break out my own.
I hadn’t yet told Natalia I was Jewish, and I was waiting for an opportune time that was likely not to come. Its been hard to be Jewish so far here; none of the other PCVs are, and there isn’t exactly a synagogue in town. Or another Jew, for that matter. After Natalia’s friends left, however, and we were sitting at the Kitchen table, Natalia said to me, in very simple, succinct, matter of fact Ukranian, “You have a Bible in your room, Jeremy. In Hebrew.”
“Yes, I am Jewish.”
“Yes, I know.”
We talked for a bit about my father being a Rabbi, about growing up Kosher, about the Bible. It wasn’t until I went to bed later that night that I realized my Bible had been in my closet. It wouldn’t be hard to spot, but you’d have to be looking around.
After momentary discomfort, I actually realized that I didn’t mind she had been sifting through my things. The door to my room, language difficulties, my Judaism, my difficulties using the bathroom outdoors---these were all Ukranian fences, borders that existed but were permeable, things that could be overcome, barriers that we could ignore. This was her home, and I was a part of it, and that was an all-or-nothign statement. You are in or you are out.
A few days later, Natalia bought me a Hebrew-Ukranian bible. Look, she told me with her eyes and hands and gestures. Now, we can read the Bible together.
I have no doubt Frost would have loved the irony of my small story in this small Ukranian town. The fences might be there, but none of the neighbors, nor the people, seem to notice.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
First Week in Ukraine
This video is dedicated to the boys of Underwater Peoples and the men at Real Estate, in the hopes that they wont sue me for copyright infringement. This video is also dedicated to the other members of PC Ukraine Group 38, whose faces grace the video.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Challenges
The last few days have been a whirlwind. Its really hard to know where to begin and where to end, but I’ll do my best to give you a taste of my first few days of this Peace Corps experience.
I arrived in D.C. just before 11 am on Monday morning. As I was getting off the train, I noticed one other gentleman lugging an obscene amount of luggage, and I decided to take a stab in the dark that he was along for the same ride. Turns out Jay was a 34 year old from Philadelphia who decided to take a chance before it was too late. He shared a lot in common with Kim, the 31 year old Lawyer who realized she hated her job. The three of us shared a cab to the Holiday Inn in Georgetown.
The D.C. shenanigans is part of a Peace Corps process known as staging, which is conspicuously similar to college orientation save for A) there is a much wider age range and B) we are all crazy enough to want to leave the country for two years. I realized pretty quickly off the bat that I was one of the younger persons, if not the youngest, in PC group 38-Ukraine.
The first-day of school feel permeates the whole event. Everyone feels pressured to introduce themselves to everybody else, and since there are 77 of us, this process gets laborious, and confusing. But even though we are meeting all these new people, none of us seem to overwhelmed. We all sort of realize that this is nothing compared to the challenges we are about to face, that the fear of meeting new people better not be on a radar because then, my friend, you are about to engage in a losing battle.
Although I tried to keep a low profile at first (really, I swear,) a few pithy comments here and there and suddenly I’m the funny guy. Of course its entirely possible that such characterization only existed in my delusional mind, and without a doubt I fueled any fire. At the very least my humor made me an interesting conversation partner, and allowed me to really start to get to to know those around me.
Sitting to my right was an older man named Bernie, 79 years old from New York City. Bernie was certainly not the archetype of the Peace Corps volunteer. He grew up a poor Jewish boy and worked his way through Syracuse University, first as an undergraduate and then eventually receiving his J.D. He had a distinguished career, and managed to pop out four kids and six grand kids on the side. A few years back, Bernie’s wife died. And so, rather than sit around waiting for his own demise, he decided to take the few healthy years he might have left and do something with it. His kids think he's crazy. His wife, he says, would have thought he was REALLY crazy. Pretty much everybody thinks he's crazy. I think hes sort of amazing.
At one point in the staging process, the facilitator asks us to discuss our hopes and fears as we started out on this process. Bernie and I begin talking about being Jewish in Ukraine, as to what that means and how we will be accepted both in our home communities and in our soon-to-be newfound homes. Two other young men at the table, Sam, who is Korean, and Kevin, who is half-Japanese, begin discussing their own racial fears. Sam brings up a story of another Asian-American Peace Corps volunteer who was constantly referred to as “Jackie Chan” in his home community. It was an incredibly frank and honest conversation, one that I’m not quite sure always happens during the staging process. Once the ball got rolling we really began opening up, talking about notions of identity, beginning to really dig in to the deeper question of why we were all here.
I was given special permission to leave staging for a couple of hours so I could attend a Passover seder. It was certainly interesting that they scheduled staging the day before one of the most important nights in the Jewish year; as many of my friends and family said to me beforehand, “I bet they wouldn't have scheduled it on easter.” They are probably right, but considering that Bernie and I were 2 of 3 or 4 Jews in our group, I’m not clear it made much of a difference. I was fortunate enough, however, to find a Seder in D.C. at the home of the Duvalls, a family I had known for some time through their cousin, Mike Fentin, who had two of the biggest buck teeth I had ever seen when we first met at age 9. The seder was quite wonderful, the family incredibly hospitable, and I was grateful for their hospitality. At the same time this was my first Seder that my father did not lead, and thats something Ill probably never get used to.
The next morning I went to breakfast with Tommy, my staging roommate. Tommy attended a small school in Virginia called Appalachian State, also known as the school that was present the day Michigan football died. Suffice it to say that we have very different recollections of the mood that fateful day in September 2007. Tommy, however, is an incredibly nice and caring guy, with a solid sense of humor to boot. Tommy was very inquisitive about my seder, and about the Passover laws in general. He was shocked when I told him I couldn’t eat bread. He was even more shocked when I told him I was a vegetarian to boot.
“You seem really intent on making life difficult for yourself, don’t you?” Tommy asked, more out of curiosity than anything. “At the same time,” I retorted, “you’ve decided to go live in Ukraine for two years.” We both shared a hearty laugh, but the significance of what he said certainly lingered.
On the plane ride over to Ukraine, I was one of the few volunteers who couldn’t sleep. I struck up a conversation with Kevin in the plane’s aisle, much to the chagrin of the flight attendants. We discussed a myriad of topics---family, Kevin’s girlfriend, interests, life goals, idiosyncrasies galore---but what was most interesting was that we both had a real flair for challenges. Kevin had recently finished a three month trek along the Pacific Crest Trail clad only in his back pack, using his guile and shiningly bright shaven head as his guide. We had very little in common in terms of life experiences (he grew up in Scottsdale, AZ to a Japanese father and a Texan mother) but we share a zest for living, a real love of what is new and a thrill for what is arduous.
Upon arriving in Kyiv, all 77 volunteers were sent to a retreat center. The bus ride wove us through the Ukrainian countryside, as we passed scrap metal huts and chickens and old Ukrainian Babusias on the side of the road. From the moment we stepped off the plane throughout our whole time at the retreat, we developed an immediate camaraderie through the shared ‘newness’ of our experience. The best part was the collective embrace of the newfound friendships, how everyone wanted to know everyone, everyone wanted to talk to everyone, everyone wanted to be open and friendly and nice to everyone. We developed a rag tag community built with brick, strong bonds formed in minutes, and rapports bloomed overnight.
After two days at the retreat center, we were separated into links, 8 in all. My link was separated into two clusters. Kevin was sent to a nearby village, so I was excited to have a good friend nearby.
Kevin and I were tasked with loading the bags for the link onto our bus. Time was of the essence, so we really pushed ourselves to throw about 40 or so various suitcases into the luggage compartment. By the end I was pretty tired, as a small bead of sweat began dripping down my face. For some reason, this minor workout made me feel great; it was the first time I had gotten my blood flowing in almost a week. Kevin felt the same way, and we discussed on the bus ride how a good work out can do wonders for the body and the mind.
Thats when it really started to come together. Passover, the Peace Corps, working out, all of it. People go running to stay in shape, to make it easier to walk up the stairs. People swim to keep their lungs vibrant. I follow Jewish traditions because it emboldens my soul, I keep Passover because it strengthens my willpower and resolve. And I joined the Peace Corps because after two years of hardship, of living in scrap metal huts and playing with chickens and getting fed by Babusias, everything else life throws at me will seem a little more manageable, a little less daunting.
When I get back two years from now, I hope you will be privy to a newer, stronger, better me. Because thats the point of challenges, so that next time a whirlwind hits, we are ready and we are strong and I, hopefully, will feel much more able.
I arrived in D.C. just before 11 am on Monday morning. As I was getting off the train, I noticed one other gentleman lugging an obscene amount of luggage, and I decided to take a stab in the dark that he was along for the same ride. Turns out Jay was a 34 year old from Philadelphia who decided to take a chance before it was too late. He shared a lot in common with Kim, the 31 year old Lawyer who realized she hated her job. The three of us shared a cab to the Holiday Inn in Georgetown.
The D.C. shenanigans is part of a Peace Corps process known as staging, which is conspicuously similar to college orientation save for A) there is a much wider age range and B) we are all crazy enough to want to leave the country for two years. I realized pretty quickly off the bat that I was one of the younger persons, if not the youngest, in PC group 38-Ukraine.
The first-day of school feel permeates the whole event. Everyone feels pressured to introduce themselves to everybody else, and since there are 77 of us, this process gets laborious, and confusing. But even though we are meeting all these new people, none of us seem to overwhelmed. We all sort of realize that this is nothing compared to the challenges we are about to face, that the fear of meeting new people better not be on a radar because then, my friend, you are about to engage in a losing battle.
Although I tried to keep a low profile at first (really, I swear,) a few pithy comments here and there and suddenly I’m the funny guy. Of course its entirely possible that such characterization only existed in my delusional mind, and without a doubt I fueled any fire. At the very least my humor made me an interesting conversation partner, and allowed me to really start to get to to know those around me.
Sitting to my right was an older man named Bernie, 79 years old from New York City. Bernie was certainly not the archetype of the Peace Corps volunteer. He grew up a poor Jewish boy and worked his way through Syracuse University, first as an undergraduate and then eventually receiving his J.D. He had a distinguished career, and managed to pop out four kids and six grand kids on the side. A few years back, Bernie’s wife died. And so, rather than sit around waiting for his own demise, he decided to take the few healthy years he might have left and do something with it. His kids think he's crazy. His wife, he says, would have thought he was REALLY crazy. Pretty much everybody thinks he's crazy. I think hes sort of amazing.
At one point in the staging process, the facilitator asks us to discuss our hopes and fears as we started out on this process. Bernie and I begin talking about being Jewish in Ukraine, as to what that means and how we will be accepted both in our home communities and in our soon-to-be newfound homes. Two other young men at the table, Sam, who is Korean, and Kevin, who is half-Japanese, begin discussing their own racial fears. Sam brings up a story of another Asian-American Peace Corps volunteer who was constantly referred to as “Jackie Chan” in his home community. It was an incredibly frank and honest conversation, one that I’m not quite sure always happens during the staging process. Once the ball got rolling we really began opening up, talking about notions of identity, beginning to really dig in to the deeper question of why we were all here.
I was given special permission to leave staging for a couple of hours so I could attend a Passover seder. It was certainly interesting that they scheduled staging the day before one of the most important nights in the Jewish year; as many of my friends and family said to me beforehand, “I bet they wouldn't have scheduled it on easter.” They are probably right, but considering that Bernie and I were 2 of 3 or 4 Jews in our group, I’m not clear it made much of a difference. I was fortunate enough, however, to find a Seder in D.C. at the home of the Duvalls, a family I had known for some time through their cousin, Mike Fentin, who had two of the biggest buck teeth I had ever seen when we first met at age 9. The seder was quite wonderful, the family incredibly hospitable, and I was grateful for their hospitality. At the same time this was my first Seder that my father did not lead, and thats something Ill probably never get used to.
The next morning I went to breakfast with Tommy, my staging roommate. Tommy attended a small school in Virginia called Appalachian State, also known as the school that was present the day Michigan football died. Suffice it to say that we have very different recollections of the mood that fateful day in September 2007. Tommy, however, is an incredibly nice and caring guy, with a solid sense of humor to boot. Tommy was very inquisitive about my seder, and about the Passover laws in general. He was shocked when I told him I couldn’t eat bread. He was even more shocked when I told him I was a vegetarian to boot.
“You seem really intent on making life difficult for yourself, don’t you?” Tommy asked, more out of curiosity than anything. “At the same time,” I retorted, “you’ve decided to go live in Ukraine for two years.” We both shared a hearty laugh, but the significance of what he said certainly lingered.
On the plane ride over to Ukraine, I was one of the few volunteers who couldn’t sleep. I struck up a conversation with Kevin in the plane’s aisle, much to the chagrin of the flight attendants. We discussed a myriad of topics---family, Kevin’s girlfriend, interests, life goals, idiosyncrasies galore---but what was most interesting was that we both had a real flair for challenges. Kevin had recently finished a three month trek along the Pacific Crest Trail clad only in his back pack, using his guile and shiningly bright shaven head as his guide. We had very little in common in terms of life experiences (he grew up in Scottsdale, AZ to a Japanese father and a Texan mother) but we share a zest for living, a real love of what is new and a thrill for what is arduous.
Upon arriving in Kyiv, all 77 volunteers were sent to a retreat center. The bus ride wove us through the Ukrainian countryside, as we passed scrap metal huts and chickens and old Ukrainian Babusias on the side of the road. From the moment we stepped off the plane throughout our whole time at the retreat, we developed an immediate camaraderie through the shared ‘newness’ of our experience. The best part was the collective embrace of the newfound friendships, how everyone wanted to know everyone, everyone wanted to talk to everyone, everyone wanted to be open and friendly and nice to everyone. We developed a rag tag community built with brick, strong bonds formed in minutes, and rapports bloomed overnight.
After two days at the retreat center, we were separated into links, 8 in all. My link was separated into two clusters. Kevin was sent to a nearby village, so I was excited to have a good friend nearby.
Kevin and I were tasked with loading the bags for the link onto our bus. Time was of the essence, so we really pushed ourselves to throw about 40 or so various suitcases into the luggage compartment. By the end I was pretty tired, as a small bead of sweat began dripping down my face. For some reason, this minor workout made me feel great; it was the first time I had gotten my blood flowing in almost a week. Kevin felt the same way, and we discussed on the bus ride how a good work out can do wonders for the body and the mind.
Thats when it really started to come together. Passover, the Peace Corps, working out, all of it. People go running to stay in shape, to make it easier to walk up the stairs. People swim to keep their lungs vibrant. I follow Jewish traditions because it emboldens my soul, I keep Passover because it strengthens my willpower and resolve. And I joined the Peace Corps because after two years of hardship, of living in scrap metal huts and playing with chickens and getting fed by Babusias, everything else life throws at me will seem a little more manageable, a little less daunting.
When I get back two years from now, I hope you will be privy to a newer, stronger, better me. Because thats the point of challenges, so that next time a whirlwind hits, we are ready and we are strong and I, hopefully, will feel much more able.
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