Wow.
I wish I could throw out a better opener, a real hook to draw you in, bring you into my world, help you see this crazy world through my eyes. But Wow really does is, encompassing all of my shock and wonder and amazement and acclimation and even then further Wowing, a certain unwillingness to truly believe that this is my live. This is where I now live.
A little over a week ago, I left the gentle confines of Natalia and my training village for Kiev to attend the Peace Corps swearing-in ceremony. The whole social structure of the event was sort of strange. The past 3 months, I have gotten to know very (very) well a small group of 10 people. Meanwhile, there we 60 plus other volunteers also getting to know another small subset of the Peace Corps Volunteer population. So here we were, running into to each other again after 3 months apart, having in common this shared experience but barely remembering each other’s names. It was sort of like the first day of camp your second summer, except everyone has lost 10 pounds and now speaks a foreign language.
The first event of the three day ceremony was, in many ways, the most important. Site Placement. They first announced, in a large group, to what region everyone was headed. Lo and behold, Region number one, Jeremy Borovitz was the first name to pop out on the list.
Soon afterwards my new best friend, life coach, and regional manager, Iryna, handed me an envelope. Boryaka. Cherkaska Oblast.
Inside the envelope was a few basic facts that were going to define my life for the next two years. Boryaka. 600 people. Boryaka. I will be working in a school. Boryaka. Three plus hours from Kiev, pretty close in Peace Corps time. Boryaka. A small village, a new adventure, a future home.
The next day, I met my counterpart, my partner in crime (or the prevention thereof, to be more accurate) for the forseeable future. I knew she was sitting somewhere in the lobby, wearing a name tag, Tamila Demchuk. I was awkwardly peering at the right chests of excessive quantities of middle aged Ukranian women. If they hadn’t understood my purpose, I was borderline committing a crime.
I din’t find her in the lobby, but we soon met up in the auditorium. Tamila was a short woman with a simple stature and a nice smile. She seemed quiet, but very nice. Then again, I reminded myself, she lives in a small village and is right now in the big city. To be honest, I didn’t know what to think. My mixture of wonder and excitement left me even more confused.
Nearly all of my friends were placed much farther away from Kiev than I was. Rachel in particular was vocal about her upcoming 18 hour train ride. I, on the other hand, had a smooth 2 and a half hour bus ride. Only later did I find out that the bus didn’t quite take us all the way there. But then again, not many buses do make it all the way to Boryaka.
Tamila’s husband, Michailivna, which is somehow shortened to Kolya, met us at the bus stop. Although it wasn’t so much a bus stop as just where they decided to stop the car on the road, upon which seeing it Tamila yelled at the bus driver to stop the bus. Maybe she isn’t so quiet after all.
Kolya is a broad shouldered and barrel chested beast of a man, a man who exudes brute strength from waking up every morning at 6 to work his land. He reminded me of an ancient Cossack, a brave man, a strong man, an honorable man. Of course I hoped he did not also contain the Cossack gene that slaughtered Jews, but I tried to sidetrack those thoughts for the sake of making a better impression.
Kolya came to pick me up with Vassil, his good friend and another teacher at the school. Vassil is a strange sort of fellow with an even stranger sense of humor. At the same time, his warmth is classic for this small town. The day after I arrived, the U.S. was paying Slovenia in a World Cup Soccer Match. He had the channel showing the game, so he invited me to his house to watch it. His whole family sat down next to me in the cramped room, spending time with the new American. I taught his son some english, his daughter showed me her pet rabbit, and his wife informed me she was a Ukranian teacher at the school. 24 hours in and I had already found a language tutor.
Tamila and Kolya have two children, Petya and Tanya. Petya is 22 years old and lives at home, having finished university about a year ago. His is quiet like his mother but harbors some of the same brute confidence as his father. Like his parents, he is a teacher at the local school, primarily of woodworking, shop class, and whatever they can drum up for him. In the coincidence of the century, his favorite computer game is “Heroes of Might and Magic,” aka the reason that I would stay up until 3 am on a school night as a child. He has the complete set, and claims that the 4th edition is the best. I, personally, am a purist, always holding a special place for number 2 in my heart. We most often play together Heroes 3, as a sort of compromise.
Their daughter, Tonya, is the english speaker in the family, having just completed her third year at University. Of course, she is in Houston, Texas for the summer, so I am left without an english chat mate. Since she studies English and Spanish in school, she is certainly in the right place. By the way, her mother hasn’t heard from her in a week. If anyone runs into her please ask her to call, or to send an email at the least.
This week we celebrated Petya’s 22nd birthday. I bought him a box of chocolates. The whole family came over----Tamila’s parents, Ivan and Babushka (i can’t remember her real name, and she told me to just call her Babushka), both of whom have constant smiles on their faces. I guess thats what happens when you live through the forced starvation, World War II, communism, and the orange revolution. I’m tired just thinking about it. Tamila’s brother, Anatolya, was there, with his son, Kolya, Kolya’s wife Olena and daughter Ira, and Olha, Anatolya’s precocious 14 year old daughter.
Tamila cooked enough food to feed an army. I was seated next to her mother, whom I guess considered me a soldier on the front lines. She hopped food on my plate, and I had to warn her that I did not eat meat or crab. So instead she hopped on extra servings of everything in site, fish, beets, cucumbers, bread, fish, potatoes, borscht, bread, potatoes, salads with lots of mayonnaise, cheese, potatoes, bread, fish. We were still eating the leftovers for every meal a full three days afterwards.
One of the running jokes in town is that everyone has a daughter or a sister or a cousin of the marrying age (anywhere from 17-25) who they want to set me up with. I average about 3 on a normal day, and there were at least that many made about me and Tanya at the birthday dinner. I have learned not to take these overtures too seriously, however, even when mothers drop food at my house with their daughter’s numbers tucked inside a jar of strawberries.
Jokes are a part of Ukranian culture, and are especially prevalent in village life. Kolya himself loves to douse me with an anecdote at the rate of one for every hour we spend together, sometimes about Ukranians and Americans and French and Jews but other times about mentality, about life, about love. They all end with a laugh and a lesson, an element of joviality and an element of truth.
Part of my assignment in my first few weeks as a Peace Corps volunteer is entitled “community mapping.” While, of course, part of this assignment involves the drawing of an actual map, the more important aspect is the development of relationships in your community and beyond. The luckiest part about my assignment is that Kolya and Tamila are incredibly eager to “show me off.” I told them I wanted to meet everybody, and I am meeting everybody: the local mayor, the local cop, the local priest, the local businessmen, the local everybody, all locals, all friendly, all friends.
This week we went to the center of my region, a small town about 20 km away of about 6 or 7 thousand called Lisianka (you may even be able to find it on a map). We met here with all the movers and shakers of the region, a hodge podge of lifelong bureaucrats and political appointees all of whom love their country, their region, their people, their homes.
The best meeting we had that day was with the President of the local city council. He is a young, handsome Ukranian in his late 30’s, eloquent, smart, honest. We went in to talk for five minutes and stayed for 35, covering a range of topics from Ukranian mentality to Ukranian history to World War II to Jews. He was remarkably forthright, especially based on my expectations. There used to be Jews here. There used to be alot of Jews here. Now? You can count them on one finger.
After this meeting, Kolya and I talked a lot about Jews in the region. Boryaka itself used to be 30% to 40% Jewish. The synagogues used to be in the center, one where a store now stands and the other in an empty block of concrete that has gone unused for half a century. I am living in a country dripping with Jewish History, the stories of Sholom Aleichem (a prolific Yiddish writer) dripping from every corner. Living in my village has made me even more nostalgic for the shtetl life I never knew. I have so far milked a cow, cut grass with a long scythe known as a Kossak, collected grain, and said the Sabbath morning prayers. I have drawn water from the well, pooped while squatting, talked about the meaning of tolerance in a foreign tongue, and said the prayer for the dead on the concrete blocks where a synagogue once stood. In short, I am building a Ukranian life, an American life, a Jewish life, a new life.
Peace Corps’ favorite word for new volunteers in their first few months is “community integration.” another vague term in an organization that feeds off of vagueness. It means getting to know your new home, getting to know the people, getting to know yourself in a new place and figuring out how to live right, how to give right, how to make everything all right.
My life is becoming an anecdote, a mixture of wisdom and humor, a place to learn and a place to love. I may have no running water and I may have to squat to poop. But I am making new friends and creating new boundaries and kicking challenges that come my way smack in the tuchus.
Wow. This is where I live. Wow. This is the life I am building for myself. Wow. These are my next two years, flashing before my eyes.
Wow. And now the work begins.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Last Day of Training
Hi everyone,
So Tomorrow, I leave my training site and go to kiev, where I will find out where I will be placed for the next two years. Of course this is incredibly exciting. On Thursday I will be officially sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer, and then immediately afterward I will head to my site.
This is a very strange transition point in my life. On the one hand, I have just had this amazing three month experience. I have done some amazing work, learned alot about myself, made some lifelong friendships. And yet I sit on the cusp of an even greater adventure, one that will challenge me in all new ways, and whose challenges I cannot begin to grasp.
I will miss my training site. I will miss my friends, and I will miss Natalia, my wonderful host mother. Below is a video with some of my new found friends who have really helped me survive this intense Peace Corps boot camp. It ends just as it should, with Natalia.
As a side note, last night I watched the U.S.- England World Cup match at the local internet cafe, where I am now. Most of the locals were rooting fervently against the U.S.
Ill try and get in a quick post early this week once I find out my location
So Tomorrow, I leave my training site and go to kiev, where I will find out where I will be placed for the next two years. Of course this is incredibly exciting. On Thursday I will be officially sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer, and then immediately afterward I will head to my site.
This is a very strange transition point in my life. On the one hand, I have just had this amazing three month experience. I have done some amazing work, learned alot about myself, made some lifelong friendships. And yet I sit on the cusp of an even greater adventure, one that will challenge me in all new ways, and whose challenges I cannot begin to grasp.
I will miss my training site. I will miss my friends, and I will miss Natalia, my wonderful host mother. Below is a video with some of my new found friends who have really helped me survive this intense Peace Corps boot camp. It ends just as it should, with Natalia.
As a side note, last night I watched the U.S.- England World Cup match at the local internet cafe, where I am now. Most of the locals were rooting fervently against the U.S.
Ill try and get in a quick post early this week once I find out my location
Sunday, June 6, 2010
What I can be
I’ve never been much of a fan of the inclusion of a guitar in Jewish religious services. One can probably chalk it up to youthful experiences, often feeling like an ugly religious duckling amongst my traditionally more pious friends. In fact, I remember being taunted for my own synagogue’s use of an organ. What kind of church do you think you are, a form of childhood bullying completely foreign to those of you who grew up outside mainstream Jewish America.
And yet this past Friday night, for the first time, I was absolutely moved by a guitar in a Jewish religious service.
I had already attended synagogue twice in Kiev, both times at the city’s largest Orthodox synagogue. My father, however, had found out information abut the city’s Liberal congregation. There has always been within me an element of Orthodox inclination. To be honest, I love the traditionalist element, the men shuckling back and forth, the same words my grandfather and his grandfather before him emitting from my mouth, a brief transportation to the shtetl of my imagination.
This flirtation with Orthodoxy has been a roller coaster ride. When I was 14 years old, I almost decided to attend Ramaz, an Orthodox High School in New York City. My father was openly opposed to the idea. As he confided in my mother yet refused to confide in me at the time, he was afraid I wouldn’t be willing to pray in his synagogue anymore.
At his urging, I sent an email to Rabbi Alex Duchovny about a month ago, a note relegated to the back drawers of my mind until, ten days ago, I received a call from him in the middle of my language class. After profusely apologizing for not getting back to me earlier, he promptly invited me to stay at his house that Friday night. Or the next Friday night. Or, truly, any night whatsoever that I felt the urge to spend the night in Kiev. I was already struck by his welcoming nature and kindness. I was not to be disappointed.
The Liberal Congregation in Kiev has no Synagogue. Rather, it rents a few small rooms in a rather touristy area of the city, tucked into a courtyard that can only be accessed by a confusing set of twists and turns. Luckily I was about a half hour early to services, which afforded me plenty of time to get lost trying to interpret the chicken scratch I had scrawled in a notebook that were purportedly to serve as my directions for the evening.
As soon as I arrived, the Rabbi introduced me to everyone who walked in, explained my story, who I was, why I was here. There were a few students there, ranging in age from 16-19, all of whom spoke some english. They’ll sit next to you, he said. They’ll make sure you understand. I felt like a bit of a celebrity. I also felt important, and cared for, and in a strange way, loved.
At the beginning of the service, the Rabbi announced that he would be conducting the service in Ukranian. Usually he conducts it in Russian, he says, but for my sake he will change it, for my sake, to help me feel welcome, to help me pray, to help me connect.
His cantor begins the service with an original tune of Mah Tovu, a traditional opening hymn. Strumming his guitar, I expect to be put off, but I am not. Rather I am enthralled, I am engaged. Often times, cantors or Rabbis with guitars in tow try to turn the service into a rock concert, try to make it just a little too hip and cool and fun. But this cantor, whose name I alter found out was Michael, had beautifully woven the strings of the guitar to suit the millenia-old utterance of praise. This was not an anomaly but the beginning of a trend. The man understood Judaism, and he understood music. He took his bilingual capabilities and transformed it into something awesome, and meaningful.
Rabbi Duchovny also had his own leadership style, interspersing his week’s Torah commentary during brief intermissions in the night’s prayers. Every week, the Jews read a portion of the Torah, the five books of Moses. This week’s Parasha, as it is called in Hebrew, comes from Numbers 13-15, and is called “Shlach Lecha.” Here we read the story of the twelve spies who are sent by Moses into Israel, to scout out the terrain on this so-called promised land. When they return, all the spies report this to be a land that truly is flowing with Milk and Honey. And yet ten of the twelve deem the land unattainable, cities to large to overcome and nations to powerful to destroy. Only two of the twelve refuse to call the promise a pipe dream; only two of the twelve, Caleb and Joshua, say, “the road before us is arduous, but with some faith, we can overcome all obstacles.”
The Rabbi then began alluding to Dr. Martin Luther King and his “I have a Dream” speech. The Rabbi remarked that in this biblical story, as well as in Dr Kings life, a dream of a better tomorrow lurked over the horizon. And no matter how far off the goal seemed and no matter how long it may take for tomorrow to come, Dr. King and Caleb and Joshua all believed they could do it. Dr. King and Caleb and Joshua all felt the very same stubborness and will and faith: Just tell me what I can’t do.
The truth is, in many ways I empathize with the ten spies in the story, the ones who came back and said, “the task before us is to great.” Living here in Ukraine, I have seen firsthand the obstacles I must overcome to really accomplish something, to really try and make this country even just a little bit better. Alcoholism is a way of life, litter fills the streets, and kids start smoking by 14 only if they are late bloomers. Add to that the country’s growing narcotics problem and its rising number of HIV/AIDS victims, and the picture is grim. But in the end, my inner Jewishness, and my inner stubbornness, echoes that of Caleb and Joshua and Dr. King. Just tell me what I can’t do.
For those of you who know me best, it may not surprise you to hear that I have put off some of my fellow Peace Corps volunteers with my stubbornness. If I believe something is right or wrong, especially in moral terms, I am not easily persuaded otherwise. I often times have trouble listening to other opinions when my mind is made up. I can be frustrating to work with. I can piss people off. I can push away friends.
And yet, it is these same qualities that push me, my refusal to quit and my courage to stand by my convictions, even if I stand alone. How do I balance my greatest strength and my greatest weakness? Can I learn to be both strong and open minded?
There is a Ukranian word, Vidpochivatee, which has no direct translation into English vernacular. It purports to mean “to relax,” but a more literal translation is “to get away from ones feelings.” It is a word that hovers in between Zen and Pain, a unique linguistic twist that speaks volumes about Ukranian culture and priorities.
After returning from services Friday night, I decided to turn off my phone, and do my best, for the third week in a row, to live a modified Shomer Shabbat existence. This meant not using electricity, not doing work, not washing my clothes. I simply had to relax, vidpocheevatee, to get away from my feelings.
I spent much of the day alone, because, to be honest, its hard for the other Americans, let alone the Ukranians, to understand why I wouldn’t want to do work, won’t spend money, and refuse to turn on my cellular phone. Yet whenever the loneliness started to creep in, I just began vidpocheevatee, to get away from my feelings. I decided to go for a walk, hoping the fresh air and the scenic landscapes would clear my head.
While strolling through the Ukranian village, I recalled a brief conversation I had with Rabbi Duchovny the night before. He was only ordained a Rabbi eleven years ago, after a prior life as a tour guide, and, as he let on, a less pious existence. And yet now here he is, Rabbi of all Liberal Congregations in Ukraine (47, scattered throughout the country) and a deeply spiritual man. He is a man who feels the existence of God everywhere he goes. When I asked him if he has any regrets, he replied, “everything in my life has made me better prepared for this moment.”
In another week, I will be leaving my training village, leaving Natalia and my newfound friends behind. I will be leaving, and my ability vidpocheevatee, to get away from my feelings, will be all the more important. Some days I will feel lonely. Some days the tasks before me will seem to grand. What will the next two years bring?
Will I be able to change the lives of those in my future village? Will I, myself, be able to change? Are they too entrenched in their lives? Am I too stubborn, to entrenched in the man I have become? Questions abound, answers unclear, and yet here I am, attempting to get away from feelings, to be an unbiased observer of my own existence.
And yet, this past Friday night I found myself enjoying a guitar in a religious service, for the first time in a long time, possibly of any time. I found myself uplifted by a whole new set of circumstances, I found spiritual nourishment in a place I did not expect. Perhaps I will learn how to better accept others. Perhaps I will learn how to teach others how to better themselves. And perhaps I will learn nothing, perhaps all my fellow volunteers and detractors are right in assuming what I can and cannot do.
Then again, I have a dream. Im not sure what it is, Im not sure how to attain it. But whatever I am doing is proper preparation. Wherever I am going is where I am meant to go. And like Joshua and Caleb and Martin Luther King and Rabbi Duchovny and like anyone who has ever stubbornly stood their ground in the face of adversity, I say this: I dare you to tell me what I cannot do.
And yet this past Friday night, for the first time, I was absolutely moved by a guitar in a Jewish religious service.
I had already attended synagogue twice in Kiev, both times at the city’s largest Orthodox synagogue. My father, however, had found out information abut the city’s Liberal congregation. There has always been within me an element of Orthodox inclination. To be honest, I love the traditionalist element, the men shuckling back and forth, the same words my grandfather and his grandfather before him emitting from my mouth, a brief transportation to the shtetl of my imagination.
This flirtation with Orthodoxy has been a roller coaster ride. When I was 14 years old, I almost decided to attend Ramaz, an Orthodox High School in New York City. My father was openly opposed to the idea. As he confided in my mother yet refused to confide in me at the time, he was afraid I wouldn’t be willing to pray in his synagogue anymore.
At his urging, I sent an email to Rabbi Alex Duchovny about a month ago, a note relegated to the back drawers of my mind until, ten days ago, I received a call from him in the middle of my language class. After profusely apologizing for not getting back to me earlier, he promptly invited me to stay at his house that Friday night. Or the next Friday night. Or, truly, any night whatsoever that I felt the urge to spend the night in Kiev. I was already struck by his welcoming nature and kindness. I was not to be disappointed.
The Liberal Congregation in Kiev has no Synagogue. Rather, it rents a few small rooms in a rather touristy area of the city, tucked into a courtyard that can only be accessed by a confusing set of twists and turns. Luckily I was about a half hour early to services, which afforded me plenty of time to get lost trying to interpret the chicken scratch I had scrawled in a notebook that were purportedly to serve as my directions for the evening.
As soon as I arrived, the Rabbi introduced me to everyone who walked in, explained my story, who I was, why I was here. There were a few students there, ranging in age from 16-19, all of whom spoke some english. They’ll sit next to you, he said. They’ll make sure you understand. I felt like a bit of a celebrity. I also felt important, and cared for, and in a strange way, loved.
At the beginning of the service, the Rabbi announced that he would be conducting the service in Ukranian. Usually he conducts it in Russian, he says, but for my sake he will change it, for my sake, to help me feel welcome, to help me pray, to help me connect.
His cantor begins the service with an original tune of Mah Tovu, a traditional opening hymn. Strumming his guitar, I expect to be put off, but I am not. Rather I am enthralled, I am engaged. Often times, cantors or Rabbis with guitars in tow try to turn the service into a rock concert, try to make it just a little too hip and cool and fun. But this cantor, whose name I alter found out was Michael, had beautifully woven the strings of the guitar to suit the millenia-old utterance of praise. This was not an anomaly but the beginning of a trend. The man understood Judaism, and he understood music. He took his bilingual capabilities and transformed it into something awesome, and meaningful.
Rabbi Duchovny also had his own leadership style, interspersing his week’s Torah commentary during brief intermissions in the night’s prayers. Every week, the Jews read a portion of the Torah, the five books of Moses. This week’s Parasha, as it is called in Hebrew, comes from Numbers 13-15, and is called “Shlach Lecha.” Here we read the story of the twelve spies who are sent by Moses into Israel, to scout out the terrain on this so-called promised land. When they return, all the spies report this to be a land that truly is flowing with Milk and Honey. And yet ten of the twelve deem the land unattainable, cities to large to overcome and nations to powerful to destroy. Only two of the twelve refuse to call the promise a pipe dream; only two of the twelve, Caleb and Joshua, say, “the road before us is arduous, but with some faith, we can overcome all obstacles.”
The Rabbi then began alluding to Dr. Martin Luther King and his “I have a Dream” speech. The Rabbi remarked that in this biblical story, as well as in Dr Kings life, a dream of a better tomorrow lurked over the horizon. And no matter how far off the goal seemed and no matter how long it may take for tomorrow to come, Dr. King and Caleb and Joshua all believed they could do it. Dr. King and Caleb and Joshua all felt the very same stubborness and will and faith: Just tell me what I can’t do.
The truth is, in many ways I empathize with the ten spies in the story, the ones who came back and said, “the task before us is to great.” Living here in Ukraine, I have seen firsthand the obstacles I must overcome to really accomplish something, to really try and make this country even just a little bit better. Alcoholism is a way of life, litter fills the streets, and kids start smoking by 14 only if they are late bloomers. Add to that the country’s growing narcotics problem and its rising number of HIV/AIDS victims, and the picture is grim. But in the end, my inner Jewishness, and my inner stubbornness, echoes that of Caleb and Joshua and Dr. King. Just tell me what I can’t do.
For those of you who know me best, it may not surprise you to hear that I have put off some of my fellow Peace Corps volunteers with my stubbornness. If I believe something is right or wrong, especially in moral terms, I am not easily persuaded otherwise. I often times have trouble listening to other opinions when my mind is made up. I can be frustrating to work with. I can piss people off. I can push away friends.
And yet, it is these same qualities that push me, my refusal to quit and my courage to stand by my convictions, even if I stand alone. How do I balance my greatest strength and my greatest weakness? Can I learn to be both strong and open minded?
There is a Ukranian word, Vidpochivatee, which has no direct translation into English vernacular. It purports to mean “to relax,” but a more literal translation is “to get away from ones feelings.” It is a word that hovers in between Zen and Pain, a unique linguistic twist that speaks volumes about Ukranian culture and priorities.
After returning from services Friday night, I decided to turn off my phone, and do my best, for the third week in a row, to live a modified Shomer Shabbat existence. This meant not using electricity, not doing work, not washing my clothes. I simply had to relax, vidpocheevatee, to get away from my feelings.
I spent much of the day alone, because, to be honest, its hard for the other Americans, let alone the Ukranians, to understand why I wouldn’t want to do work, won’t spend money, and refuse to turn on my cellular phone. Yet whenever the loneliness started to creep in, I just began vidpocheevatee, to get away from my feelings. I decided to go for a walk, hoping the fresh air and the scenic landscapes would clear my head.
While strolling through the Ukranian village, I recalled a brief conversation I had with Rabbi Duchovny the night before. He was only ordained a Rabbi eleven years ago, after a prior life as a tour guide, and, as he let on, a less pious existence. And yet now here he is, Rabbi of all Liberal Congregations in Ukraine (47, scattered throughout the country) and a deeply spiritual man. He is a man who feels the existence of God everywhere he goes. When I asked him if he has any regrets, he replied, “everything in my life has made me better prepared for this moment.”
In another week, I will be leaving my training village, leaving Natalia and my newfound friends behind. I will be leaving, and my ability vidpocheevatee, to get away from my feelings, will be all the more important. Some days I will feel lonely. Some days the tasks before me will seem to grand. What will the next two years bring?
Will I be able to change the lives of those in my future village? Will I, myself, be able to change? Are they too entrenched in their lives? Am I too stubborn, to entrenched in the man I have become? Questions abound, answers unclear, and yet here I am, attempting to get away from feelings, to be an unbiased observer of my own existence.
And yet, this past Friday night I found myself enjoying a guitar in a religious service, for the first time in a long time, possibly of any time. I found myself uplifted by a whole new set of circumstances, I found spiritual nourishment in a place I did not expect. Perhaps I will learn how to better accept others. Perhaps I will learn how to teach others how to better themselves. And perhaps I will learn nothing, perhaps all my fellow volunteers and detractors are right in assuming what I can and cannot do.
Then again, I have a dream. Im not sure what it is, Im not sure how to attain it. But whatever I am doing is proper preparation. Wherever I am going is where I am meant to go. And like Joshua and Caleb and Martin Luther King and Rabbi Duchovny and like anyone who has ever stubbornly stood their ground in the face of adversity, I say this: I dare you to tell me what I cannot do.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Project
The pace of life is different here. Never a morning riser, I find myself struggling to sleep in past 6 am. In fact, like clockwork, I awake every morning with the first peak of the sun and the first croak of the rooster, hovering around the 4:35 am mark. Its amazing the things one can accomplish when given a full day’s light.
The shenanigans of these past 2 plus months are known in Peace Corps terminology as PST, or Pre-Service Training. We are somewhat less than, looked upon as naive by older volunteers and as possibilities and liabilities (I wonder where I fall?) by the Peace Corps Staff. The expectations of Peace Corps Training is to prepare us to be volunteers. We teach classes and learn the language and integrate into our communities under the safe tent of our collective struggle, a group of 5 or 6 Americans equally clueless about the world into which they have been thrust. We are preparing to be volunteers. But what does that really mean?
It reminisce fondly about 6 weeks or so back, when I was preparing to teach my first lesson in Ukranian, a class about stress to a group of 13 year olds. At the time, my Ukranian hovered in the category of somewhat “less than,” a reality that forced me to write out, word for word, what I was going to communicate to these children. That is, of course, compounded upon the fact that for a young man who often would watch in horror as his hair fell onto his keyboard in the midst of a finals crunch, perhaps I was not most aptly suited to teach such a class...
But much of the Peace Corps is about doing things you have never done before, about preparing on the ground. Early on in our training, the other volunteers and I were having a conversation about what experience had led us to this point. My friends had worked at orphanages and juvenile detention centers and inner city schools and other educational organizations. I taught Hebrew School once a week to upper middle class ten year olds. How exactly is it that I belong here? How the hell am I supposed to develop Youth?
Part of this “training” process challenged us to perform a community project. After some investigation, it became clear that this project could become whatever we make of it. We could perform the bare minimum, something small to appease the Peace Corps and fulfill our PST obligation. Or we could aim high, try and actually leave an impact on a community in a short time, and potentially fall well short of our aim.
It should be no surprise to those who know me that I pushed for the latter, and, as I have discussed earlier, not everyone felt the same way. I had a lot of expectations coming into the Peace Corps, of which busting my ass was one of them. But here in Ukraine I confronted a problem I had been confronting my whole life---how do I not push what I expect from myself onto others?
One day, we had a meeting regarding our project with Ludmilla Michailivna, or “Mama Luda,” as she liked to be called, and the coach of the local soccer team. Mama Luda is one of those characters that exists in any community or organization you have ever been involved in. She is the penultimate volunteer, and she wants everyone to know it. During our first meeting with the city administration, she was there, assuring us she was going to call all of our families to set up a time for us to have dinner. This meeting, four weeks later, was the next time we heard from her. Later on, during the lead up to the Victory Day celebration, Mama Luda asked us to clean up the monuments. She then took credit for “organizing” a clean up of the monuments at the towns local ceremony. I was reminded of some of the “over-eager” volunteers of my days at Solomon Schechter High School. Have you seen how much I’ve done/how much money my family has given?
The soccer coach, on the other hand, was of an entirely different breed. Well built with a shaved head, Vitaly Anatolivich runs a small Kiosk near the center of town. In his free time, free of charge, he coaches a group of 11-16 year olds in Soccer, giving his time, his emotions, his all to give these kids another change. He is also a proud Ukranian man, and was less than thrilled about having to “beg” these rich Americans for help. But his team desperately needed some new soccer balls. Could we help?
This all coalesced in a compromise between plausibility and ambition, between what they needed and what we could give. We decided to throw a fundraiser for the community, to attempt to raise money to purchase some new soccer balls. 500 Hriven was our goal, 2 new balls the result.
The plan for our project was simple. We would go around the community with some of the local team members, asking local businesses to donate prize for a raffle. We would then sell tickets for the raffle, with all of our actions culminating in a big afternoon of events at the end of May. We would set up Carnival games in the local park, play a jovial game of soccer pitting overweight Americans against the kids, and finally, at the end, doing the drawings for the raffle. The concept of a fundraiser is so foreign to Ukranians that there really is no word for it in the language. Local officials were skeptical. Ukranian friends rolled their eyes at our naivety. Could we do it?
Vitaly the buff soccer coach was none to found of me after our first meeting. I took on my usual role of devils advocate, and even through the translator he could read the skepticism on my face as easily as I could read his distaste on his. But I started attending the soccer practices with some of the other volunteers, in the hope of getting to know the kids, and in the hope of getting to know him.
At about my third practice with the team, I went up to the coach to shake his hand. He had a shit eating grin on his face that was infectious, a Ukranian version of Mr. Clean. Three practices, jsut watching kids play soccer? maybe these Americans are serious, after all.
Somewhere around this time, I asked the Coach if he would be willing, assuming we were able to purchase some new balls, to donate some of the teams old balls to the local orphanage. He readily agreed---some of their balls were well beyond the shape where they were useful to the team.
A week before the event, we asked members of the soccer team to meet us at the Park to help us go around to local businesses. They all said they would come. Five showed up. While at first we were despondent, we rolled with the punches. For many Ukranians, to ask for help was akin to begging. Lets work with what we have. Be flexible. Play on the fly. We are training for the Peace Corps.
Peace Corps is a collection of small victories. So even though only 5 kids showed up, and even though only 2 or 3 really seemed to care, those few really got into it. At the first few stores, we had to show them the way, push them as to what to say. By the end, they were cajoling local stores, pushing our project, promoting the idea of helping one’s community.
A few days later we went to the local bazaars to start asking for prizes. For many of the stores, the owner was often not present, and the workers could not simply hand out presents at a whim. At the bazaar, things are different. The bazaar is the essence of the community, a bunch of lower middle class people, mainly women, primarily single mothers, trying to make ends meet. 90% of the sellers in the bazaar gave us prizes. By the end, we didnt even have to ask. They were there, ready to give. Ready to help.
When we showed up in the town center to start selling raffle tickets that week, the first hour was...awkward, to say the least. I tried approaching a few random Ukranians, but they were unresponsive. But then we wrote “Loteria”, Raffle, in giant black letters on a piece of poster board and before we knew it one person and then two people and then a dozen people were buying tickets. Others were handing us money and walking away. The money we were raising was climbing before our very eyes. Could we really do this?
By the day of the event, we had already raised 400 hriven, of which was included one local businessman who simply handed us a 100 hriven bills and wished us luck. And although we had scheduled our event to begin at 1230, unsure anyone would come, by 1145 the park was packed with children and their parents and random communal stragglers, wanting to see what this whole thing was about.
We had face painting and relay races and fortune telling and guessing games. And of course we had the raffle. One of the most popular tables was a group of 11 jars, with people encouraged to put money into the jar of the American they would most like to see receive a pie in the face. Suffice it to say I raised 50 hriven on my own, as apparently many members of the community were hoping to see me get a little dirty. Video is soon to follow.
At 3pm, we closed down the games to play a game against a group of Ukranian “tweens and teens.” We lost 11-2. As goalie, I gave up about four of those goals. Attending Jewish high school, however, prepared me well for the perils of getting creamed. After the game, Vitaly, the burly soccer coach, approached me with a plastic bag. Inside were two relatively inexpensive but brand new soccer balls. For the orphanage, he said, that shit eating grin saying more than I can understand in Ukranian. I can’t beleive you guys pulled this off.
After the game, we were announcing the winners to the lottery as I sat off to the side with two eighth grade girls. One of the girls remarked to me that she couldn’t believe this worked, that she didn’t know such an event could work in their community.
Now that you know, you can do it yourselves.
Mi Znaemo. We know.
In the end, we raised 1,200 hriven, enough for four new balls and some school supplies for the the orphanage. Expectations to the win, small victories set aside, this was an invasion of ideals that were swept on shore, embraced as their own. There were too many victors to enumerate here, the soccer team with their new balls and the coach with his smile and the eighth grade girls who would repeat the project and even Mama Luda, who go to tell the whole community that this was her idea.
And then, of course, there was us, the lowly Peace Corps volunteers. We aimed high and we hit the mark. What did we learn? Maybe its too early to tell. But I guarantee that once we all get to our sites, none of us will fear taking risks. Because now that we know what we’re capable of, how can we not?
The shenanigans of these past 2 plus months are known in Peace Corps terminology as PST, or Pre-Service Training. We are somewhat less than, looked upon as naive by older volunteers and as possibilities and liabilities (I wonder where I fall?) by the Peace Corps Staff. The expectations of Peace Corps Training is to prepare us to be volunteers. We teach classes and learn the language and integrate into our communities under the safe tent of our collective struggle, a group of 5 or 6 Americans equally clueless about the world into which they have been thrust. We are preparing to be volunteers. But what does that really mean?
It reminisce fondly about 6 weeks or so back, when I was preparing to teach my first lesson in Ukranian, a class about stress to a group of 13 year olds. At the time, my Ukranian hovered in the category of somewhat “less than,” a reality that forced me to write out, word for word, what I was going to communicate to these children. That is, of course, compounded upon the fact that for a young man who often would watch in horror as his hair fell onto his keyboard in the midst of a finals crunch, perhaps I was not most aptly suited to teach such a class...
But much of the Peace Corps is about doing things you have never done before, about preparing on the ground. Early on in our training, the other volunteers and I were having a conversation about what experience had led us to this point. My friends had worked at orphanages and juvenile detention centers and inner city schools and other educational organizations. I taught Hebrew School once a week to upper middle class ten year olds. How exactly is it that I belong here? How the hell am I supposed to develop Youth?
Part of this “training” process challenged us to perform a community project. After some investigation, it became clear that this project could become whatever we make of it. We could perform the bare minimum, something small to appease the Peace Corps and fulfill our PST obligation. Or we could aim high, try and actually leave an impact on a community in a short time, and potentially fall well short of our aim.
It should be no surprise to those who know me that I pushed for the latter, and, as I have discussed earlier, not everyone felt the same way. I had a lot of expectations coming into the Peace Corps, of which busting my ass was one of them. But here in Ukraine I confronted a problem I had been confronting my whole life---how do I not push what I expect from myself onto others?
One day, we had a meeting regarding our project with Ludmilla Michailivna, or “Mama Luda,” as she liked to be called, and the coach of the local soccer team. Mama Luda is one of those characters that exists in any community or organization you have ever been involved in. She is the penultimate volunteer, and she wants everyone to know it. During our first meeting with the city administration, she was there, assuring us she was going to call all of our families to set up a time for us to have dinner. This meeting, four weeks later, was the next time we heard from her. Later on, during the lead up to the Victory Day celebration, Mama Luda asked us to clean up the monuments. She then took credit for “organizing” a clean up of the monuments at the towns local ceremony. I was reminded of some of the “over-eager” volunteers of my days at Solomon Schechter High School. Have you seen how much I’ve done/how much money my family has given?
The soccer coach, on the other hand, was of an entirely different breed. Well built with a shaved head, Vitaly Anatolivich runs a small Kiosk near the center of town. In his free time, free of charge, he coaches a group of 11-16 year olds in Soccer, giving his time, his emotions, his all to give these kids another change. He is also a proud Ukranian man, and was less than thrilled about having to “beg” these rich Americans for help. But his team desperately needed some new soccer balls. Could we help?
This all coalesced in a compromise between plausibility and ambition, between what they needed and what we could give. We decided to throw a fundraiser for the community, to attempt to raise money to purchase some new soccer balls. 500 Hriven was our goal, 2 new balls the result.
The plan for our project was simple. We would go around the community with some of the local team members, asking local businesses to donate prize for a raffle. We would then sell tickets for the raffle, with all of our actions culminating in a big afternoon of events at the end of May. We would set up Carnival games in the local park, play a jovial game of soccer pitting overweight Americans against the kids, and finally, at the end, doing the drawings for the raffle. The concept of a fundraiser is so foreign to Ukranians that there really is no word for it in the language. Local officials were skeptical. Ukranian friends rolled their eyes at our naivety. Could we do it?
Vitaly the buff soccer coach was none to found of me after our first meeting. I took on my usual role of devils advocate, and even through the translator he could read the skepticism on my face as easily as I could read his distaste on his. But I started attending the soccer practices with some of the other volunteers, in the hope of getting to know the kids, and in the hope of getting to know him.
At about my third practice with the team, I went up to the coach to shake his hand. He had a shit eating grin on his face that was infectious, a Ukranian version of Mr. Clean. Three practices, jsut watching kids play soccer? maybe these Americans are serious, after all.
Somewhere around this time, I asked the Coach if he would be willing, assuming we were able to purchase some new balls, to donate some of the teams old balls to the local orphanage. He readily agreed---some of their balls were well beyond the shape where they were useful to the team.
A week before the event, we asked members of the soccer team to meet us at the Park to help us go around to local businesses. They all said they would come. Five showed up. While at first we were despondent, we rolled with the punches. For many Ukranians, to ask for help was akin to begging. Lets work with what we have. Be flexible. Play on the fly. We are training for the Peace Corps.
Peace Corps is a collection of small victories. So even though only 5 kids showed up, and even though only 2 or 3 really seemed to care, those few really got into it. At the first few stores, we had to show them the way, push them as to what to say. By the end, they were cajoling local stores, pushing our project, promoting the idea of helping one’s community.
A few days later we went to the local bazaars to start asking for prizes. For many of the stores, the owner was often not present, and the workers could not simply hand out presents at a whim. At the bazaar, things are different. The bazaar is the essence of the community, a bunch of lower middle class people, mainly women, primarily single mothers, trying to make ends meet. 90% of the sellers in the bazaar gave us prizes. By the end, we didnt even have to ask. They were there, ready to give. Ready to help.
When we showed up in the town center to start selling raffle tickets that week, the first hour was...awkward, to say the least. I tried approaching a few random Ukranians, but they were unresponsive. But then we wrote “Loteria”, Raffle, in giant black letters on a piece of poster board and before we knew it one person and then two people and then a dozen people were buying tickets. Others were handing us money and walking away. The money we were raising was climbing before our very eyes. Could we really do this?
By the day of the event, we had already raised 400 hriven, of which was included one local businessman who simply handed us a 100 hriven bills and wished us luck. And although we had scheduled our event to begin at 1230, unsure anyone would come, by 1145 the park was packed with children and their parents and random communal stragglers, wanting to see what this whole thing was about.
We had face painting and relay races and fortune telling and guessing games. And of course we had the raffle. One of the most popular tables was a group of 11 jars, with people encouraged to put money into the jar of the American they would most like to see receive a pie in the face. Suffice it to say I raised 50 hriven on my own, as apparently many members of the community were hoping to see me get a little dirty. Video is soon to follow.
At 3pm, we closed down the games to play a game against a group of Ukranian “tweens and teens.” We lost 11-2. As goalie, I gave up about four of those goals. Attending Jewish high school, however, prepared me well for the perils of getting creamed. After the game, Vitaly, the burly soccer coach, approached me with a plastic bag. Inside were two relatively inexpensive but brand new soccer balls. For the orphanage, he said, that shit eating grin saying more than I can understand in Ukranian. I can’t beleive you guys pulled this off.
After the game, we were announcing the winners to the lottery as I sat off to the side with two eighth grade girls. One of the girls remarked to me that she couldn’t believe this worked, that she didn’t know such an event could work in their community.
Now that you know, you can do it yourselves.
Mi Znaemo. We know.
In the end, we raised 1,200 hriven, enough for four new balls and some school supplies for the the orphanage. Expectations to the win, small victories set aside, this was an invasion of ideals that were swept on shore, embraced as their own. There were too many victors to enumerate here, the soccer team with their new balls and the coach with his smile and the eighth grade girls who would repeat the project and even Mama Luda, who go to tell the whole community that this was her idea.
And then, of course, there was us, the lowly Peace Corps volunteers. We aimed high and we hit the mark. What did we learn? Maybe its too early to tell. But I guarantee that once we all get to our sites, none of us will fear taking risks. Because now that we know what we’re capable of, how can we not?
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