Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Women's Day
Jewish tradition mandates that when a man and a woman marry, they must sign a contract, known as a Ketubah, dictating the terms, both financial and otherwise, of their marriage. One of the older still-practiced Jewish traditions, archaeological digs have discovered such contracts dating back nearly three thousand years. And so it was with grandparents and their parents before them. So when my father and mother decided to tie the knot, it was, of course, a logical part of the process.
But my mother had some issues. A graduate of Barnard College in 1970, she was the first Barnard woman on the Columbia Alumni Relations board. She was a true 70s feminist, interning for Bella Abzug during college, breaking her own glass ceilings, cementing her place as a woman in a largely male professional world. The traditional Ketubah often contained passages about a woman’s duty to serve her husband. Such talk didn’t fly with Ann Appelbaum (who has kept her name to this day). So she broke out her legal mind and talked to some Rabbis and wrote her own contract, dictating the terms of a marriage where they would serve and love each other, as equals.
Growing up, I was partially sheltered to the struggles of women in the world, largely due to the fact that I grew up with a mother who knew no fear. She claimed women could do it all, and to me, it seemed she did. She was a successful university lawyer, served on the Board of Trustees of my various schools, and managed to cook dinner most nights. It wasn’t until later in life that I realized what she probably gave up, the baseball games she wish she could have attended, the career advancement that probably passed her by. She made her choice, sure, but it was still a choice, and choices have their consequences, good or bad.
In Ukraine, women do not seem to envision these choices. When dealing with some of my more precocious and ambitious female students, I try to regale them with anecdotes about my mother. How she is a lawyer, how she didn’t marry until after 30, how she kept her name and how she is respected for her intellect. And my students listen, and they register their shock, but I have some trouble getting the message through that they, too have choices. That they don’t have to be married by 25 and they don’t have to be subservient to a man. I usually find myself a persuasive man. But its hard to convince someone of something that, for you, is such a self-evident truth.
Am I a feminist? Its a question I’ve asked myself a lot in recent years, especially since college. Because I believe in equality and pay equity and I recognize serious gender issues in the workplace. I am distraught by cases of sexual abuse and I am concerned that much of the advances my mother fought for have stagnated. And yet, whenever in college I found myself in discussions with self-described feminists, I often found myself at ideological odds. We just always seemed to place the emphasis on different issues. And so when I’d argue with these strong willed women, they’d simply tell me I didn’t understand. I could never understand. I am a man, and I will never know what it is like to walk a day in a woman’s shoes
I think about this alot here. I want to teach these girls to stand up for themselves, to have options, to be individuals. So I tell them not to get married too young and I tell them to dream big, but it seems sort of silly, like I am giving pigeonholed advice for a pandemic problem. I simply find myself unable to teach them how to be a feminist. And perhaps, its because I’m not.
I’ve always believed complete empathy is impossible. I’ll never be able to fully comprehend the plight of African Americans or Hispanics or Native Americans. And no one can ever explain what the Holocaust means to me. And I can believe in equality and I can preach about women’s issues, but I am not a woman, and I will sort of always feel like an outsider looking in.
There is this movement that began 160 odd years ago in Seneca Falls, or perhaps, one could argue, long before that. As much as I try to be a part of it, I just struggle to feel like a feminist. And maybe its a linguistic issue and maybe its a movement issue and most likely its largely a personal issue. But I sometimes think that I’m probably not the only guy like me, someone who is told I’ll never understand, rather than have his concerns entered into the equation.
Women’s day is fast approaching in Ukraine, and I have been thinking for some time how I could do my part, how I could try and instill a bit of the gender ideology I have always held into these girls who have grown up a world apart.
I want to teach these girls what being a modern woman means. And I read the steps men can take to promote women’s issues, and some of them resonated, but as much as I tell these boys to respect women, its not the half the lesson that is taught by a women who demands respect. Thats the feminism I learned, and no one seems to be able to tell me how to teach it.
So for women’s day this year, I am going to be baking cookies. My mom’s recipe. And I’m going to hand out the cookies around the school and regale the females around me with stories of my mother and Seneca Falls and Bella Abzug. And I’ll also be sure to tell them how much I enjoy baking these cookies, and how my sister, who probably orders take out multiple times every week, has a monthly salary that makes mine seem like it has the decimal point in the wrong place. I’ll tell them I come from a place where our choices, not our genders, define our roles. And I’ll tell them they can do anything, if they just believe.
I doubt that I’ll drastically alter the landscape, but Rome was not built in a day. One university degree earned, one marriage contract rewritten, one cookie at a time, one more step in a positive direction. I may not be a feminist in the traditional sense of the word. But I’m going to do the best I can, and hopefully that’s something.
(Author's note: This article was originally written before March 8, womens day. The day was a success, and no one died from the cookies, although I did singe my eyebrows. This article may also appear in some form in the GADFLY, Peace Corps Ukraine's Gender and Development Newsletter.)
But my mother had some issues. A graduate of Barnard College in 1970, she was the first Barnard woman on the Columbia Alumni Relations board. She was a true 70s feminist, interning for Bella Abzug during college, breaking her own glass ceilings, cementing her place as a woman in a largely male professional world. The traditional Ketubah often contained passages about a woman’s duty to serve her husband. Such talk didn’t fly with Ann Appelbaum (who has kept her name to this day). So she broke out her legal mind and talked to some Rabbis and wrote her own contract, dictating the terms of a marriage where they would serve and love each other, as equals.
Growing up, I was partially sheltered to the struggles of women in the world, largely due to the fact that I grew up with a mother who knew no fear. She claimed women could do it all, and to me, it seemed she did. She was a successful university lawyer, served on the Board of Trustees of my various schools, and managed to cook dinner most nights. It wasn’t until later in life that I realized what she probably gave up, the baseball games she wish she could have attended, the career advancement that probably passed her by. She made her choice, sure, but it was still a choice, and choices have their consequences, good or bad.
In Ukraine, women do not seem to envision these choices. When dealing with some of my more precocious and ambitious female students, I try to regale them with anecdotes about my mother. How she is a lawyer, how she didn’t marry until after 30, how she kept her name and how she is respected for her intellect. And my students listen, and they register their shock, but I have some trouble getting the message through that they, too have choices. That they don’t have to be married by 25 and they don’t have to be subservient to a man. I usually find myself a persuasive man. But its hard to convince someone of something that, for you, is such a self-evident truth.
Am I a feminist? Its a question I’ve asked myself a lot in recent years, especially since college. Because I believe in equality and pay equity and I recognize serious gender issues in the workplace. I am distraught by cases of sexual abuse and I am concerned that much of the advances my mother fought for have stagnated. And yet, whenever in college I found myself in discussions with self-described feminists, I often found myself at ideological odds. We just always seemed to place the emphasis on different issues. And so when I’d argue with these strong willed women, they’d simply tell me I didn’t understand. I could never understand. I am a man, and I will never know what it is like to walk a day in a woman’s shoes
I think about this alot here. I want to teach these girls to stand up for themselves, to have options, to be individuals. So I tell them not to get married too young and I tell them to dream big, but it seems sort of silly, like I am giving pigeonholed advice for a pandemic problem. I simply find myself unable to teach them how to be a feminist. And perhaps, its because I’m not.
I’ve always believed complete empathy is impossible. I’ll never be able to fully comprehend the plight of African Americans or Hispanics or Native Americans. And no one can ever explain what the Holocaust means to me. And I can believe in equality and I can preach about women’s issues, but I am not a woman, and I will sort of always feel like an outsider looking in.
There is this movement that began 160 odd years ago in Seneca Falls, or perhaps, one could argue, long before that. As much as I try to be a part of it, I just struggle to feel like a feminist. And maybe its a linguistic issue and maybe its a movement issue and most likely its largely a personal issue. But I sometimes think that I’m probably not the only guy like me, someone who is told I’ll never understand, rather than have his concerns entered into the equation.
Women’s day is fast approaching in Ukraine, and I have been thinking for some time how I could do my part, how I could try and instill a bit of the gender ideology I have always held into these girls who have grown up a world apart.
I want to teach these girls what being a modern woman means. And I read the steps men can take to promote women’s issues, and some of them resonated, but as much as I tell these boys to respect women, its not the half the lesson that is taught by a women who demands respect. Thats the feminism I learned, and no one seems to be able to tell me how to teach it.
So for women’s day this year, I am going to be baking cookies. My mom’s recipe. And I’m going to hand out the cookies around the school and regale the females around me with stories of my mother and Seneca Falls and Bella Abzug. And I’ll also be sure to tell them how much I enjoy baking these cookies, and how my sister, who probably orders take out multiple times every week, has a monthly salary that makes mine seem like it has the decimal point in the wrong place. I’ll tell them I come from a place where our choices, not our genders, define our roles. And I’ll tell them they can do anything, if they just believe.
I doubt that I’ll drastically alter the landscape, but Rome was not built in a day. One university degree earned, one marriage contract rewritten, one cookie at a time, one more step in a positive direction. I may not be a feminist in the traditional sense of the word. But I’m going to do the best I can, and hopefully that’s something.
(Author's note: This article was originally written before March 8, womens day. The day was a success, and no one died from the cookies, although I did singe my eyebrows. This article may also appear in some form in the GADFLY, Peace Corps Ukraine's Gender and Development Newsletter.)
Monday, March 7, 2011
YOUTUBE meets UKRAINE
my wonderful guitar students have made a video on how to play the guitar. check it out!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZ-i14qn3gI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZ-i14qn3gI
Thursday, March 3, 2011
English Language Week
In Ukrainian society, everyone has their day. The Soviet Union, as a part of their efforts to instill a collectivist mentality, mandated a holiday for all possible non-ethnic subgroups. There is a Victory Day, which seems appropriate enough, and an Army day, and a Women’s day, and two Men’s days, nothing all too out of the ordinary. But there is also a Teachers’ day, and a Volunteers day, and a Dentists’ day, and a Tourism day, and so on, and so on, and so on.
And just as every profession has its day, in a Ukranian School, everyone has their week. There is a math week and a physics week, a technology week and a Ukranian language week. I’ve been wanting to contribute for some time, so I thought to myself, why not have an English language week, as well?
While I first kicked the idea around with my fellow teachers last November, it was only at the beginning of February that I was informed that we would be having an English language week. And that it would start in just over two weeks. Nothing like have to get things moving on the fly.
Most of these weeks tend to be much of the same: a few contests, maybe a crossword puzzle, and a heavily scripted skit where a few students will memorize their lines and the rest will awkwardly read off of sheets of paper. I wanted to try something new---thats why I’m here, isn’t it? But new is always a struggle here, in a village where traditions are older than anyone can remember.
On Monday, I came into school a bit early, and wrote out on 8 1/2 by 11 pieces of paper simple English words with their Ukrainian translation. Dog. Sobaka. Cat. Kit. Door. Dveri. School. Shkola. 50 pages in tow, I headed to the first grade classroom. Placing the piles of paper in front of them, I asked them to draw the words in front of them. By the end of the day the halls were lined with illustrated vocabulary.
Additionally, I announced that for the entirety of the week, five items in the two village stores would be English-only. Pechivo would be cookies and tsukerki candy, buluchkas would be rolls and shokolad would be chocolate, students from ages 6-16 forced to say an english word, albeit a sugary one.
On Tuesday, we held an event we entitled “global tourist.” We assigned each grade from 8th to 11th an english speaking country. They had to research the country, make a presentation, and then ask the other grades questions about their presentation. It was, I feel safe to say, a resounding failure. Few students really learned any facts, most read awkwardly off of sheets of paper.
On Wednesday our week was interrupted by a Ukrainian holiday, roughly translated as “Defense of the Homeland Day,” although it is really some variation on a celebration of men. Women are supposed to buy men gifts and celebrate their contribution to Ukrainian society. The female teachers at our school decided to end school 40 minutes early and cooked a huge feast. The food was good, but they tried to mix it with a bit too much vodka for my taste. When I told them I could not drink, that I had lessons after school, they told me to cancel the lessons.
Thursday was the big day for the week. For the two weeks of preparation, Vitalina and I had been teaching every grade, 1st-11th, an English song. The songs varied from “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” for the first graders to “Yankee Doodle” for Sixth grade to a hodge-podge of music by The Beatles for 8th-11th. Two of my guitar students in the tenth form even learned how to play Let it be on the guitar. It all culminated in a huge school-wide concert, whose result was the polar opposite of the country reports. Most of the grades learned their songs quite well, the little kids were adorable, and smiles were visible all around. It felt pretty good.
It had been a tough few weeks for me at site, a lot of work to be done and seemingly little time to do it. Our business plan is in full throw and our school newspaper is a bit stagnant. Peace Corps always emphasizes that we need to create something sustainable. And while a new business and a newspaper and garbage cans might have some more permanent elements, knowing how to sing Yellow Submarine likely does not.
I think one of the lessons I’ve started to learn is that not everything I do has to be life altering, as hard as it can sometimes be to place my still vibrant youthful idealism on the back burner. A couple of village youth learning the words to The Beatles and the Alphabet Song and Jingle Bells won’t change the world. But the teachers have a day and the men have a day and the women have a day and the army has a day and tourism has a day. For me, that Thursday was a really great day, and that feels important, too.
And just as every profession has its day, in a Ukranian School, everyone has their week. There is a math week and a physics week, a technology week and a Ukranian language week. I’ve been wanting to contribute for some time, so I thought to myself, why not have an English language week, as well?
While I first kicked the idea around with my fellow teachers last November, it was only at the beginning of February that I was informed that we would be having an English language week. And that it would start in just over two weeks. Nothing like have to get things moving on the fly.
Most of these weeks tend to be much of the same: a few contests, maybe a crossword puzzle, and a heavily scripted skit where a few students will memorize their lines and the rest will awkwardly read off of sheets of paper. I wanted to try something new---thats why I’m here, isn’t it? But new is always a struggle here, in a village where traditions are older than anyone can remember.
On Monday, I came into school a bit early, and wrote out on 8 1/2 by 11 pieces of paper simple English words with their Ukrainian translation. Dog. Sobaka. Cat. Kit. Door. Dveri. School. Shkola. 50 pages in tow, I headed to the first grade classroom. Placing the piles of paper in front of them, I asked them to draw the words in front of them. By the end of the day the halls were lined with illustrated vocabulary.
Additionally, I announced that for the entirety of the week, five items in the two village stores would be English-only. Pechivo would be cookies and tsukerki candy, buluchkas would be rolls and shokolad would be chocolate, students from ages 6-16 forced to say an english word, albeit a sugary one.
On Tuesday, we held an event we entitled “global tourist.” We assigned each grade from 8th to 11th an english speaking country. They had to research the country, make a presentation, and then ask the other grades questions about their presentation. It was, I feel safe to say, a resounding failure. Few students really learned any facts, most read awkwardly off of sheets of paper.
On Wednesday our week was interrupted by a Ukrainian holiday, roughly translated as “Defense of the Homeland Day,” although it is really some variation on a celebration of men. Women are supposed to buy men gifts and celebrate their contribution to Ukrainian society. The female teachers at our school decided to end school 40 minutes early and cooked a huge feast. The food was good, but they tried to mix it with a bit too much vodka for my taste. When I told them I could not drink, that I had lessons after school, they told me to cancel the lessons.
Thursday was the big day for the week. For the two weeks of preparation, Vitalina and I had been teaching every grade, 1st-11th, an English song. The songs varied from “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” for the first graders to “Yankee Doodle” for Sixth grade to a hodge-podge of music by The Beatles for 8th-11th. Two of my guitar students in the tenth form even learned how to play Let it be on the guitar. It all culminated in a huge school-wide concert, whose result was the polar opposite of the country reports. Most of the grades learned their songs quite well, the little kids were adorable, and smiles were visible all around. It felt pretty good.
It had been a tough few weeks for me at site, a lot of work to be done and seemingly little time to do it. Our business plan is in full throw and our school newspaper is a bit stagnant. Peace Corps always emphasizes that we need to create something sustainable. And while a new business and a newspaper and garbage cans might have some more permanent elements, knowing how to sing Yellow Submarine likely does not.
I think one of the lessons I’ve started to learn is that not everything I do has to be life altering, as hard as it can sometimes be to place my still vibrant youthful idealism on the back burner. A couple of village youth learning the words to The Beatles and the Alphabet Song and Jingle Bells won’t change the world. But the teachers have a day and the men have a day and the women have a day and the army has a day and tourism has a day. For me, that Thursday was a really great day, and that feels important, too.
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