Hannukah

HI! I know this is a bit delayed, but heres a fairly long peak into my daily life. Also, I want to wish a very happy birthday this week to Ruth Shavelson, who is turning 90 years young!

The eight nights of Hannukah

Wednesday, December 1:
I wake up around 630, which is a little later than I’d like, and then I proceed to lie in bed for fifteen minutes, which makes me later yet, still. I am tired, and I want to sleep. But there is no mechanism for telling the boss I’ll be in a few hours late. I throw myself out from under the covers and search for my slippers, because even with my gas heat at 40 degrees celcius it is still cold, very very cold, in my house. I throw on sweat pants and a JETS sweatshirt my mom just sent me, and I go into the kitchen to make breakfast. Today I am feeling rather lazy, so I fry some bread and glob some peanut butter on top afterwards. I iron my pants and sweater, throw some food to my dog Tuzik (the Ukrainian equivalent of the pet name “spot”) and head out to school. It is cold, so I wait for the bus to pick me up along its route.

I get to school, and I am immediately bombarded by my cadre of 6,7, and 8 year old female admirers. I must admit I rather enjoy their fawning---it gives me a nice ego boost, and it allows me to teach them as much english as I can squeeze out of the bottle. “Good morning!” They cry. “Good Morning!” I respond. I exchange a hurried rush of “Dobre Dien”s as I head up to my office, which is located on the second floor, near the director.

On Wednesdays I have the first two periods free, so I spend some time surfing my spankin’ net moderate speed internet in my office. You don’t know what you’ve got until its gone, let me tell you. I also attempt to prepare myself, as I know that during the break between first and second period, my counterpart will approach me with one of the following four criticisms:
I didn’t shave that morning. Which is true, but frankly I thought I had done a good job shaving the previous day and god damn it why the hell do I have to shave every freaking morning. If only I was somehow descended from a less hairy Jewish family. (Authors note: My wonderful gene pool has also kicked in as of late with my ever destined male pattern baldness. Hurrah!)
I did not adequately iron my pants. I actually did iron my pants that morning, but frankly I’m not very good at it, which is a ridiculous thing to say, perhaps. But I’m trying.
I look like crap. Which I do.
My clothes are dirty/they smell/I have absolutely no idea how to do laundry.

Today she decides to touch on all four, but she really emphasizes the last one. She insists I change my English lessons schedule that I hold after school, so she can come over and teach me how to properly do my laundry by hand. Forget the fact that I have been living here for about eight months now. I clearly have no idea what I’m doing.

I understand that she only criticizes me because she cares about me, and a part of me is flattered. She seens me as another son. But I already have one overbearing mother (love you mom!) and another one might just send me to the insane asylum.

At the end of 2nd period, the English teach arrives, only to informed me that she needs me to teach her classes for her fourth and fifth period because she is headed to the hospital. She recently became pregnant (shes 21 already, so a little behind the game on Ukrainian standards) and there was some sport of issue. I readily agreed, partially to help and partially because I really do enjoy teaching.

The res of my day was jam packed. 3rd period I had an individual tutoring session, fourth and fifth I taught 2nd and 7th grades, respectively, 6th and 7th period I had private tutoring sessions. This is not to mention the fact that during the breaks my guitar students wander in and out of my office in the desire to jam out a bit here and a bit there. It can get wild.

School was over at 230, and I missed the bus, so I had to walk home, about 12 minutes. It snowed for the first time the weekend before, and had done so continuously since then, so there was some sluddgery in my trek.

I got home, fed myself some bread and cheese (again, no time to cook) and I headed over to my counterpart’s house to get my water. My new house has pluses and minuses. A plus is that I now get my water from a faucet. A minus is that this faucet is in my counterpart’s house next door. So literally any time I want water, I have to intrusively enter their home and ask for it. It can get weird.

We fill up about 5 buckets of water as my counterpart displays the proper techniques for the washing of the clothes. Warm water for sweaters, hot water for whites, swish them around lots in the bins, scrub the edges together to get rid of excess dirt, pay careful attention to the armpits because I’ve seen you on hot days Jeremy and frankly your armpits ain’t so pretty.

We spent the next two hours with her barking orders at me, and telling me how bad I was at doing laundry. Luckily my ego has taken enough beatings over the last few months that I was able to take her criticisms in stride. Although, to be fair, I was incredibly tired already, and she certainly didn’t put her in a better mood. Her husband, the School Director (Principal), noticed my displeasure and said to me these golden words of advice, eerily similar to those of my own father: “Dzheremi. Tilky Skazhit Dobre.” Jeremy. Just say ok.

At a quarter to 5 I headed back to school. It was already dark so I brought my flashlight (the sun has been setting around 430). From 5 until 8 I proceeded to conduct English lessons from school. I got home around 815, and got ready to cook a little foot (boiled potatoes) when my mother called. She asked me if I had gotten her Hannukah package, replete with Candles, a Menorah, a few gifts, and a dreidel. I told her I had. She reminded me that it was the first night of Hannukah. I had almsot forgotten.My mother stayed on the phone with me as I set up my menorah and then lit the candles. We said the blessings together.

And it was evening, and it was morning, the first day.
Thursday, December 2: I again woke up at 630, because frankly I am just too tired to set my alarm any earlier. It is especially cold this morning. I almost crush my glasses while simultaneously looking for them and my slippers. I fry a few eggs but lack the effort to take it to a higher level. I make sure to shave, which I do without the aid of shaving cream. This is for two main reasons:
It makes me feel like a man
The shaving cream here makes my face break out. (Author’s note: Mom, this does not mean you have to send me shaving cream. Please do not send me shaving cream. If it will help, I will take out a billboard in New York City on the West Side Highway that will say “DO NOT SEND YOUR SON SHAVING CREAM.” But my Peace Corps salary of $150 doesn’t go a long way as it is, so maybe we can cut that one out.”

I get outside, and realize that this is easily the coldest day I have experienced thus far in Ukraine. I see my counterpart and Director waiting outside for the school bus, and since my hands are becoming frostbitten simply out of exposure to the air, I join them. Today there will be a small bazaar in the center of our village, where I have a weekly routine. I buy chocolates for the teachers lounge, and I buy my weekly allotment of cheese. I also realize the necessity of buying some new gloves. I brought some from home, but in wonderfully classic Jeremy fashion, I seem to have lost one. Exactly what I need to exacerbate my lifelong search for the one armed man who killed my wife and destroyed my pleasant life as a surgeon at a major Metropolitan Chicago Hospital. If only Tommy Lee Jones would get off my back.

I come to school to find that the English teacher is absent, and that there will be no English classes today. On some days the English teacher’s absence means that I have to teach an English class sans preparation. On other days it just means I have to find some other way to occupy my time. Ukrainians like to make decisions at the last possible moment. The whole notion of planning of advance is so foreign, that when I begin talking about events a month from now, I often receive quizzical looks. Its almost as if there is a glimmer of doubt whether a month from now, anyone will be here.

And yet my day is still surprisingly busy. I help teach a healthy lifestyles class, and I sit in on two geography lessons. Fortunately most country names are the same in both languages. I give three guitar lessons, and two individualized english lessons. During fourth period, I head to the first grade with my guitar. I have been writing simple english songs on my guitar to help them learn the language. The first was the alphabet song, albeit a Jeremy-Borovitz-variation. Then we did “I like to eat apples and bananas.” Now we are on “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.” I’m having all these flashbacks to Kindergarten. It can get nostalgic.

At the end of the day, my first post-school English lesson informs me she won’t be able to make it. I am disappointed and yet thrilled at the same time. This affords me the rare opportunity to actually relax for a bit when the school day is over. I head home and actually cook some food---fried potatoes with onions, garlic, mushrooms, and an egg cracked on top. My menu choices are somewhat limited, because I can’t really buy much in the local store. I am forced to eat whatever the locals bring me. Currently that means inordinate amounts of potatoes and apples.

It was supposed to be a light day, but I get a call from my neighbor as I am heading home from school. She has been trying to convince me to tutor her two cousins, who live in the village over. They go to a different school and frankly my time is scarce as is. But she guilts me into it, finally. So I head to school for two hours of english lessons, and then I head over to my neighbors house for one more. I am very strict with the girls, as this is our first lesson, and I don’t really want to do it. I tell them that homework is a MUST. The girls turn out to be both smart and motivated, though, so I get more enthused as the lesson goes on. Chalk another hour up to not having time to breathe.

I finally get home a little after 8. I am tired. I call my friend Stephanie, a fellow Wolverine and Jew. She will be going on her first trip to Israel in December with the Borovitz clan. I knew she didn’t have a menorah at site, so we said the blessings together as I lit the candles. I then informed her of my mother’s already laminated itinerary for our trip to Israel. (Author’s note: Mom, I apologize for all the references. i joke because I love.)

And it was evening, and it was morning. Day two.

Friday morning I woke up, for the first time, with the hope that I might actually survive this week. Not that it was ever in question, but, well, the morosity (jewish guilt) that occasionally consumes my being was becoming a little burdensome. I got to school and penned off a letter to my friend Vanessa. She suggested I write her a letter in Ukrainian cursive in order to practice my writing skills. A nice little exercise.

Friday was a lighter day. The snow was pretty thick so I spent much of my time playing in the cold thickness with children ages 6-9. I had three english lessons with students during the day. Friday is also the day where any teachers in the school who want an English lesson or to practice their English skills can come to me. There is one teacher, Ina, who has a dream of eventually starting a school for the deaf. She wants to learn english so she can learn American Sign Language, as well as be able to teach the kids how to read lips in English. You’ve got to admire someone who is trying to create a legion of bilingual deaf kids. Ina is an excellent student and truly wants to learn.

I also usually tutor Victoria. Victoria is 21 and is in University. She is doing a “work-study” program, where part time she is working in a school (her mother is the first grade teacher) and part time she is in classes. While part of her curiculuum is English, Victoria knows generally no English. Her English lessons consist of the following:
Victoria attempts her homework. Most if it is incorrect.
I try to teach her the basic grammar lesson that corresponds to her homework assignment.
After about ten minutes she asks if I will just do it for her. I tell her I won’t, and she begins to cry. Her husband doesn’t love her, her life is terrible, she can’t catch a break, she just wants a baby. That’s the basic jist, at least. Of course none of it is true; I’ve met her husband, he is a wonderful guy, and is enamored with her. But Victoria is adept at complaining, and eventually, I give in.

At the end of the day I had a lesson with Angela (pronounced An-Gel-Ah, with a stress on the middle syllable rather than the first), one of my star pupils. Angela is in the fifth grade and is easily the smartest student in her class. She is also incredibly driven, and has a remarkably clear idea of where she is headed in life. She is confident and a know-it-all, which could be annoying in some places but are exactly the qualities one needs to get out of the village. I have been struggling for some time now to light a fire under Angela, to get her to really study hard. I had remembered talking to Stephanie about a women’s empowerment summer camp she would be involved with. So I called Stephanie and asked her for more information. It turns out the camp is incredibly cheap but also requires the campers to be at a certain level of English. Perfect. I tell Angela about the camp, and she is enthralled. Fire lit (Hannukah pun not intended).

I go to my local store, and purchase grape juice and a challah. Of course they don’t call it a challah. They call it sweet bread. And they don’t talk about how its a Jewish bread. Thats largely irrelevant. I go home, clean my house, and set up my candles. I only have two candles left. They are pretty large, but I am unsure if I will have a chance to get out of my village to buy more before next Shabbat. I decide to cut them each in half. Hopefully, I am still Yitzeh, still adequately fulfilling the commandment. As per tradition, the Hannukah candles are lit before the Sabbath candles, because one cannot kindle a new flame after the Sabbath has begun. I call my friend Avital to see if she would like to light with me. Avital is in training as a PCV in Ukraine, and is also from my local area in New Jersey. In fact, we went to school together for about nine years. She unfortunately doesn’t have any Hannukah or Sabbath candles, so I figured it might be nice to do the whole shebang over the phone together. We light three candles and say the blessings.
We light the Sabbath candles and chant Lecha Dodi, welcoming the Sabbath into our midst. I say the Kiddush, the blessing over the grape juice, and Avital says Amen. I wash my hands and take the cover off my challah. I taste a bit for myself and a bit for her. And she says, Amen.

And it was evening, and it was morning. Day three.

I slept in on Saturday, which means until about 830. My mother had sent me a book that I wanted to read, and I resolved to finish it in one day. As a part of my ever evolving Jewish identity, I don’t use my computer on the Sabbath, which means I am unable to watch my plethora of TV shows and movies nestled into the safe confines of my external hard drive. So I cooked myself some eggs and then laid in bed for the next three hours reading. At around 1 some of the kids knocked on my door. They wanted to know if I wanted to go sledding. I acquiesced. Sledding in America is a lot different than sledding in Ukraine. In America, sledding often consists of one big hill with lots of little kids flying down it. In Ukraine, it involves children carving out paths on the hilly countryside and then seeing which of them can fly the farthest after being launched off of the ten foot ledge. I mainly watched.

I really rested on Saturday, which was nice, it being the Sabbath and all. I have really begun to appreciate since arriving in Ukraine, and really being on the job 24/7, the value of having a day of rest. I am tired a lot here, bordering on a state of exhaustion. It is so necessary to have time to shut the world off, to be able to flick a switch and ignore the crazy world outside your walls. Every day I am consumed with the lives and travails and troubles of the people of my village. Its nice to have on day just for me.

After sledding I went back home and did some more reading. Around 5 one of my neighbors called to invite me to dinner. Apparently it was sme sort of Ukrainian holiday, and they were celebrating. I should mention that Ukraine averages about 5-7 holidays every month, and they insist on “celebrating” every one of them. This consists of multiple shots of varying spirits and liquors, inordinate amounts of food, and minor hangovers. The sabbath nearing its end, I agreed, mainly because it meant I would not have to cook myself dinner.

The dinner ended up being myself with four other women and two small girls. I have learned my limit in Ukraine and drank only a modest amount. The women all drank me under the table, chastising my manhood in the interim. I went home and got ready to go to sleep, even going so far as to lie down in bed. Then I remembered it was Hannukah, and in my tipsy form I set up the four candles, lit them, and said the prayers.

And it was morning, and it was evening. The Fourth day.

Sunday I woke up with a bit of a headache. I dont drink much here, so even a smidgen can give me a wee case of the weelies come the AM. I took my time waking up but not too much time. Saturday is my day of rest, and thus Sunday is my day to work.

First I gave the house a good ol fashioned sweep. Then I collected all my carpets and hung them over the clotheslines, and I proceeded to beat them with a broom. It is therapeutic and exhausting, much like the Peace Corps in general. I then mop the floors of my house. I scrub down the counters and soak my dishes in warm water and soap. I scrape the bottom of my pans and change my sheets. Finally, I burn my toilet paper. Nothing life the sweet smell of your own burning feces to really get a start to your day.

After four hours of scrubbing my place clean, i take an hour or two to plan out my lessons for the week. Much of the lessons I give are ad libbing---I’ve always been a man who works well on his feet. But I have found it useful to at least mentally sketch out what I will teach for the week, look up any grammar rules I may not know (happens more than I’d like to admit) and write out my schedule that will undoubtedly change a million times.

It being Hannukah and all, and having some free time, I try to test my wit at cooking some genuine Latkes. I grate 10 potatoes and mix it with five onions, flour, and two eggs. I throw in some salt and pepper, and some chalula hot sauce for that extra kick (great care package, mom!). I then throw in some Kefir, which is similar to buttermilk. A smidgen more flour and then I fry it up. Surprisingly, they turned out delicious. I even brought one over to my counterpart, and she refused to believe that I had cooked it. Best compliment I could have received.

At around 4, Vannya calls. Vannya is the son of two of the teachers at school, and is in the midst of a pretty standard teen identity crisis. He is 15, his parents don’t understand him, and he constantly thinks about getting laid. The similarities are oddly familiar. As an outlet for his frustration, I started teaching him guitar. About four months in he has gotten pretty good, and he has even started teaching some of the younger kids in the village, including a pretty ninth grade girl whom he gives “private lessons” to once a week. Its definitely hard to change your image when you’ve grown up with the same 20 kids your whole life, but Vannya is giving it a whirl.

Vannya had seen on television that it was a Jewish holiday. So at about 7, I set up the candles and lit them and said the blessings. Vannya thought it was interesting, but his mother is very involved in the local church and as a part of his rebellion he isn’t much interested in God right now. I suspect that might one day change, but we will see.

And it was morning, and it was evening. Day Five.

Monday, Monday. The start of another week at school. Hurrah! The English teacher is absent again, which means I have absolutely no idea if I will be teaching English or not that week. They particularly enjoy keeping me in the dark. Additionally, the Vice Principal, who decides the work schedules, for some reason is not my biggest fan. I have tried my usual kiss-ass techniques but she is immune to my charm. Somewhat like most women I talk to in New York City bars. She lays down a decree that I will not teach any English classes while she is gone. However, the teachers of the younger classes (until fourth grade) still ask that I come in for 20 minutes, or longer. For them, I am double whammy: I teach the kids English, and they get a nice rest.

I talk to my friend Rachel today for quite some time. Rachel was in my training cluster, and is still one of my closest friends in Peace Corps. Rachel also has this wonderful habit of asking me for my advice, and then informing me she is going to do the complete opposite. I have a feeling she would get along well with some of my closer friends.

The teachers all saw a segment on the news about Hannukah, and they asked me to explain the holiday. When we get to the part about the oil lasting for 8 days, I am forced to head to the dictionary to look up the world miracle. Divo. They then proceed to tell me about a tree a few villages over that was struck by lightning, causing a formation that looks stunningly akin to the virgin mary to form.

I head home quickly after school, because my first English lesson starts at 330. I check on the clothes I washed the Wednesday before, and it appears they are still frozen. I also learn a brand new lesson: toilet paper can, in fact, freeze. Mental note: Bring toilet paper inside after pooping.

My lessons go well. Two of my students are Tanya and Alina. They are the smartest girls in the 11th grade, and they really want to make something of themselves. Tanya wants to be a lawyer. Alina does not know what she wants to be, but senses that she does not want to be beholden to a man for the rest of her life. I try my best to regale them with stories of my feminist mother. They still have trouble grasping why she kept her last name.

I head home at about 830 for the night. I am tired and hungry. I still had a Latke left over, and Tanya had cooked me Peroshki, which is basically a roll filled with either jam or cabbage. I call my friend Tommy before going to bed. He is smiling, as always. I put in the candles and say the blessings and kindle the flames. And then I head to sleep.

And it was morning, and it was evening, day six.

Tuesday was a mildly insane day. For some reason that I have yet to entirely gather, Tuesday there was a celebration at school. It involved the first graders receiving their first library books. Even though many of them can’t read. I think it might have been “library day.” One of the most interesting outgrowths of the Soviet Union is that almost every day is a holiday. Well, not really. But almost. We have women’s day, men’s day, policeman’s day, teacher’s day, student’s day, postal workers day, cossacks day, shevchenko’s day, artists day, politicians day, army day, victory day. The list goes on, and on, and on.

There was also a lot of snow, so during 4th period I went outside and built a Baba Cnih, or a Snow Grandmother (their version of Frosty) with the 2nd graders. I was especially useful in the molding of the bottom ball, and in the heavy lifting. Most of the 2nd grade girls have massive crushes on me, so they insist on poking me and then running away. Again, I do not remember being this popular in 2nd grade with women. In fact, if I remember correctly, most of 2nd grade was spent with my teacher trying to convince me not to cry so much.

I have four lessons in school on Tuesday, in addition to the holiday and my usual jovialty with the second grade. I go home and decide to take a bucket bath. Not to be confused with a bath of any kind, this consists of me heating up water, and then sitting naked in a giant bucket as I pour it over myself. Its pretty much the opposite of refreshing, especially when the freezing air outdoors creeps in through the cracks in the windows and I’m shriveling while curled up in the fetal position sitting in a plastic container in the middle of my kitchen with no door in a small Ukrainian village. Just another day in the life.

I go back to school and have three more hours of English lessons. I come home and call another volunteer, Rachel (a different Rachel than the one mentioned earlier, we will refer to this Rachel as Jewish Rachel). Jewish Rachel, through the wonderous system known as American Jewish geography, actually knows my cousin Cara. The first time we met, she informed me, “you have to call your grandmother more.” I figured Rachel might enjoy joining in on the Hannukah fun, so I give her a call. We light the candles, say the blessings, she joins in with resounding “Amens.” Then Vannya shows up unannounced at my house. He wants to have a guitar/therapy lesson. This will consist of him not understanding why Yulia, one of his classmates, keeps “playing games” with him. I do my best to assure him that I, 8 years his senior, do not understand women, either. I suggest he “plays it cool.” I later convey this message to my friend Vanessa, another Volunteer, over the phone, and she tells me I’m an idiot.

And it was morning, and it was evening. The seventh day.

Wednesday again, one of my busiest days. I have five lessons on average during the day, and then another three at night. Today it will actually be four because of scheduling issues. Also today some of the girls are practicing songs they will sing on Christmas. I am pretty content watching them sing songs in a language I can’t begin to understand (it is in old Slavic.) Apparently, on Christmas day, all the kids go around and sing songs to different people in the village. I am sorry I will likely not be there.

I end up playing basketball 2nd period with the 11th graders. I happen to be the second coming of Kobe Bryant (or perhaps Mugsy Bogues, but still he wasn’t so bad). None of them have any idea of how to dribble, so the game consists of my literally running circles around defenders and then getting my own rebound on my missed layup because they don’t know how to box out. Hell yea.

This week seems to be going especially slowly, and I am having one of my “what the hell am I doing here” days. I am tired, I am cranky, and I feel very unappreciated. Furthermore, I begin to wonder whether I am having any impact at all. One of Peace Corps’ big thing is sustainability---does this project have the potential to continue after you leave. Alot of the time I really am not sure if anything I do is sustainable. Rather I get the sense I am driving a bus and as soon as I stop everyone will hop out and no one else will get behind the wheel. This is very discouraging, and depressing. I want to do more, but sometimes I’m just not sure if I know how.

I am sitting in my director’s office, and our schools technology teacher comes in. He wants to start having a serious conversation with some of the local political leaders about building a monument at the old Jewish cemetery.

Andrei comes up to me seventh period. He wants to start doing English lessons. He says he knows he is lazy sometimes, but he promises to work hard.

Two first graders, Katya and Nastiya, approach me to show how they have learned the English Alphabet, although they mixed up M and N.

Igor approaches. We have been talking about restarting the school newspaper, and he wants to be Editor in Chief.

Vannya comes into my office. He has made up his own chord progression on the guitar.

That night, I have a lesson with the Verhulatsky family. They cook me Latkes. They heard I had cooked some myself (word travels fast in the village) and they wanted to show me how delicious they could really be.

My work here is no Hannukah miracle. An its possible this Oil isn’t going to last eight days, or eight years, after I’m gone. But I still feel like I’m doing something, as long as I keep focused on the small victories of every day.

I film myself lighting the eight candles of Hannukah. And it was morning, and it was evening, and it was the eighth day, but my story continues to day nine.

Hey all,

Here is a video I took from our Thanksgiving feast. In the video is Julia, Vanessa, and Paula, my three American friends, as well as Vannya, or Ivan, sitting in the corner. Vannya is a student in the tenth grade at my school. Playing the guitar is Vitaly, a friend of mine from the village who is studying to be a Veterinarian. And yes, ladies, he is single.

A rough translation of the songs chorus:
You are the sun, a gift from the sky
You are the early light on a spring's day
I want to love, but is it still necessary
For you have decided who will be with you, and it is not me

Thanksgiving

About 25 years ago, my Grandfather, Irving Appelbaum, had a heart attack. My grandmother, Cecelia, strong willed Jewish woman that she was (and is), resolved to keep him alive for as long as humanly possible. The staple of this effort lay in putting my grandfather on a very strict diet. No more cigars, no more scotch, no more cheeseburgers. And no more pie.
Cecelia was known the world over for her pies. Well, if not the world, then certainly some percentage of the population who would join my family for thanksgiving every year. My Grandfather accepted most of the restrictions, but on one he refused. He had to have pie on thanksgiving. And so my Grandmother found a not-too-fatty apple pie recipe, and a tradition was borne.
And so year after year in late November my family and I would trek to the airport and fly to Chicago, to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with my aunt and cousins and Grandparents. And year after year we would eat turkey and stuffing and sweet potatoes and cranberries and we would watch football and old home movies and we would be together as a family. And in the end, of course, we would indulge with Apple Pie.
This was my first Thanksgiving away from home. If there were two annual events that marked the consistency of my childhood, it was Passover in New Jersey and Thanksgiving in Chicago. I had missed this past year’s Passover by a nose, but I was so rushed in the jumble of excitement that was my initial few days in Ukraine that the shock of missing it all was hard to find. But this time around I am all ready well into my Ukrainian routine, 8 months in (man how time has flown, and also crept incredibly slowly) and thinking a lot more about home than I used to. It was hard to imagine that I wouldn’t be at the Thanksgiving table, that 22 years of tradition was coming to an abrupt end (or, optimistically, a pause).
The approaching holiday coincided with the fact that these past few weeks have been among my hardest in Ukraine. My workload has begun to spiral ever so slightly out of control. Full days at school, followed by 3-4 hours of English tutoring sessions at night. No one is pressuring me to take on such a heavy workload; I primarily bring it upon myself. But I can’t say no to these kids. My over bearing Jewish-White-Upper-Middle-Class guilt too much.
The perfect storm of stress and the sun setting at 4 O’clock and winter’s imminent arrival and Thanksgiving made me, for the first time since arriving, pretty homesick. I was, therefore, pretty glad when three of my Peace Corps friends, Paula, Julia, and Vanessa, decided to come check out my humble abode in Boyarka for the weekend.
I have a perfect place to host visitors. Plenty of room, extra beds, a welcoming community. The only problem lies, of course, in the fact that there is only one bus a day directly into my village, and it leaves from the Oblast center, Cherkassy, not far from where Vanessa is placed. Vanessa and Julia were arriving together late at night, and they were understandably nervous about finding the right bus. I assured them it would be easy enough. Just ask the bus driver if their name is Sasha or Petya, and if it is, ask them if they know Jeremy, the American who lives in Boyarka. Just a couple of small town folk’.
All worked to plan, and when Vanessa and Julia arrived, we set to work on a presentation, to be given at my school the next day, about the meaning of Thanksgiving. Wanting to balance American cliches of being grateful with historical accuracies of the desecration of a continent’s worth of inhabitants, we hobbled together a brief presentation that covered history, culture, and traditional foods. We topped it all of by drawing a “Thanking tree.” Vanessa sketched a beautiful tree with hanging leaves, and at the end of our presentation, we encouraged people to come up and write what they are thankful for. At first everyone was a bit hesitant, so I wrote down three examples: Cimya, Druzi, i Boyarka. Family, Friends, and Boyarka.
Then the crowd really got into it. First a few of the teachers came up, and then the oldest students, and then a group of seventh grade girls who have developed some affectionate feelings for our fair writer. (Author’s note: When I was in seventh grade, I couldn’t get a girl to talk to me. Now that I’m a teacher, they follow me wherever I go.) It only took a few minutes for the tree to get filled in. What are you thankful for? I was asking. Their answers were beautiful and humbling, honest and embarressing. Druzi, Cimya, Babusia, Zdorovya, Friends, Family, Grandmothers and Health topped the list. But not far behind were scribbled markings saying Dzeremi Natanovich, Jeremy Son of Natan. Our schools technology teacher even took it a bit further: I am thankful for Jeremy, and his parents, and his sister Abby, and his two grandmothers. Thousands of miles away and family was still around.
Its hard to speak for their impressions, but I think Vanessa and Julia were at least a bit jealous of my village. Vanessa and Julia had trained in a small village but now were placed in larger towns or cities, and they missed that whole “everyone knowing everything about you” feel. Paula, who arrived later that day, also lives in a small village, and she enjoyed comparing our various experiences.
While I love life in the small village, it can, at times, become suffocating. I know by face, if not by name, practically every person in Boyarka, as well as much of the surrounding villages. And I am known the region over, for there aren’t many foreigners, let alone Americans, dilly-dallying around this corner of the Ukrainian countryside. The Peace Corps has a set a core expectations they have given to us periodically through our service, and one of them is this: As a Peace Corps volunteer, you are on-duty 24 hours a day. In my village, this is very much the case.
The last few weeks have been exhausting. I have been working non stop, 12 hour days becoming a norm. I am always tired and I never seem to have a free moment to ourselves. I have been speaking and thinking and dreaming so much in Ukrainian that sometimes I forget English words. In the most innocuous way possible, I have been losing it, just a little.
I don’t really drink in my village. I try to always have a smile on my face and a positive attitude in tow. My frat kegger days are far behind me, and would shock any memebr of my community. My pessimistic sarcasm wrought from angst ridden teenage years watching too many Woody Allen films has no place in my new home. My doubts and fallibilities I try to keep hidden. I portray a version of my self I want them to see, for their benefit, for America’s benefit, for the Jewish people’s benefit. I am, at the same time, both more in touch with myself than I have ever been and farther from whom I know I am than I ever could have imagined. A life of contradictions is exhausting.
The girls coming to visit wasn’t just a break. It was a wake up call, a much needed injection of life and purpose and friendship that I desperately needed. Friday night we stayed up late, talking and drinking and laughing. We weren’t trying to escape the moment, however. The lack of running water and the outdoor toilet surely prevented us from pretending we were in some other place. But perhaps we were being just a bit more ourselves than our usual circumstances allow.
On Saturday, after taking a nice stroll through the village, the girls and I got down to business. We had all gathered as much food as we could---a giant fish my neighbor had caught for me, onions, carrots, potatoes, pumpkins, apples, soy sauce, more potatoes, cheese, bread, butter, flour, baking soda, more potatoes---and begin to cook a feast for the ages. We made stuffing and mashed potatoes and vegan gravy. I was in charge of making fish burgers, which was an interesting endeavour that luckily gave no one salmonella. And Julia, at my request, ventured to bake an apple pie. It just wasn’t Thanksgiving without Apple Pie, that much I knew.
We cooked extra food, in true Appelbaum/Borovitz/Jewish style, correctly anticipating that four or five of the locals were going to stop by to get a peak at the American girls. After the food was cooked, and the table was set, we each poured ourselves a glass of wine, and the girls asked that I make a toast. My exact words are long lost, but I can still recall the basic jist:
Its easy to get lost here. Sure my village is small and there are only three roads, but its easy to get lost. We drown in language and swim through this strange culture and gasp for breaths of respite from the comparative insanity of our everyday lives. And so its nice, once in a while, to be among friends, just to remember that we know who, and where, we are.
And so we clanked our glasses and we drank our wine. Some guests came by and they tasted our food and we taught them some english and they taught us some ukrainian. I pulled out the guitar and played some American songs, and then my friend Vitaly serenaded us in Ukrainian and Russian. We played Uno and we told stories, we spoke of our old homes and our new ones, we were thankful for we had, even more thankful for what we have.
And in the end we ate Julia’s Apple Pie. And it may not have been as tasty as my Grandmother’s (although it was damn close) and it may have desperately needed a scoop of ice cream on top. But as delicious as the pie was, what it meant to me to have it was so much more important. My Grandmother’s pie helped my Grandfather live a little longer. Julia’s pie gave me that extra little jolt that I desperately needed to push my own adventure a bit farther into the future.