How far can cultural understanding really go? I know I’ve covered this topic before, but it reemerged on my consciousness this past week as we solemnly remembered the ten years that have passed since that Tuesday in September.
Memory often fascinates me, especially my own. I can remember obscure facts from my sixth grade Social Studies textbooks (the rise and rule of Justinian comes to mind) but I struggle to remember what I did last weekend. Things I read tend to stick with me; things I do tend to fall by the wayside. A friend of mine once remarked to me that she felt I paid more attention to books than to life. She might have a point.
But I will always remember the 11th of September, or at least I will always remember my Hebrew teacher Shoshana Cohen coming to me after Second period and telling me that the Twin towers had fallen down. It would weeks, months, years before I would even begin to wrap my head around those statements. I remember driving through Montclair and seeing the black smoke enveloping New York city. I remember walking into Jeff’s house, more scared than I’ve ever been in my life. I remember the days afterwards, the planes flying overhead and the silent wondering, “could we be next?” I remember the fear that permeated us all, and the terror upon which we declared War.
How does one properly convey a memory? Next month, I am beginning a series of lessons in Lysyanka, the nearest town of 10,000 people which before the war was almost 30% Jewish. I will be teaching about tolerance, stereotypes, and Jewish history and traditions. Together with the students, we will conduct a research project about the Jews of our region, and we will hopefully build a museum of Jewish history and tolerance on the grounds of the former Jewish cemetery.
The topic of our first lesson will be, “What is History?” I’m going to attempt to convey that no history, no story, can be completely objective. The author or the teller’s voice and opinion always seems to seep through. In Ukrainian, the word for examination, ohlyad, is very close to the word pohlyad, or viewpoint. Does the lone p explain enough of the difference?
Most of my students know nothing of 9/11. People my age tend to be inundated by many of the 9/11 conspiracy theories, theories that have such a casual relationship with the truth that it in many ways saddens and offends me. Even the people in my village who know of the day---how can I explain to them what it meant? What it means? What it will mean tomorrow?
On Friday, I asked my Director if I could take a few moments to speak to the students the following Monday. He agreed.
On Saturday, the Sabbath, I read a book, Holocaust by Bullets, written by Patrick DuBois. It is the story of how DuBois, a French priest, traversed the Ukrainian countryside in search of Jewish mass graves, interviewing aging witnesses, recording unwritten history. The book is depressing in and of itself, but living in a village much like the ones he describes, it was especially difficult. The worst part of the book, the hardest chapter to read, are the ones where it describes the pits that were dug, the bodies thrown in, and the reports of what it looked like afterwards: For three days, the earth moved. Jews were shot and buried alive. For three days, the earth moved.
On Sunday, I thought about the ten years, and the seventy years since the mass killings, and the almost 80 years since the great Ukrainian famine. I thought about the pain of memories we have and the pain of memories we hear from others. I thought about life, and about death, and about God.
On Monday, I came into school. After second period, I called an assembly. And as the students were standing there, I told them about that Tuesday in September, and about the towers, and about the terrorists, and about the nearly 3,000 people who died. I asked them to remember that these people were killed in the name of hate. I shared with them my believe that weapons of hate can only be defeated with weapons of love. I told them the only thing we cannot tolerate is intolerance. I gave them a piece of my memory, in all its subjective glory.
And then I asked them for a moment of silence for the lives lost. In silence we stood.
On Friday, there was another in a long line of Ukrainian holidays, the day of flowers. Children picked flowers from their gardens and brought them to school. Tables were laid out with reefs abd bouqets galore. Olha Alexandrivna, the Ukrainian language teacher, asked me to clarify the date of the tragedy of which I spoke. A few minutes later, she showed me a reef of flowers her children had made. Pamyatayemo bci scho pomerli na 11oho veresen, 2001. We remember all those who died on the 11th of September, 2001.
They may not understand what 9/11 means to me, or how much it troubles me to know that for three days, the earth moved. But it seems that I can convey to them the importance of it all, at least to me. Getting them to care, having them remember my subjective memories, might be victory enough.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Poems
I'm hoping to have a more traditional "introspective-Jeremy" post tomorrow, but in the meantime, here are two poems written by some of my best students. Olia wants to be a flight attendant (she wants to see the world!) and Yulia wants to be a Doctor. Please be generous with the rhymes while reading.
One short and beautiful day
I met a flower in my way
She lives in a garden near home
And is happy when I come.
She told me all about flowers
About hot and funny summers.
One time, since you've heard what I say,
When you will be coming this way
You'll find this flower in a garden
Olia Pretula
9th form
A Rose is a nice flower
It has a very big power
Its Power is matchless
It is nice like her dress
A dress with Roses
Is the garden of clothes
Yulia Cherevko
9th form
One short and beautiful day
I met a flower in my way
She lives in a garden near home
And is happy when I come.
She told me all about flowers
About hot and funny summers.
One time, since you've heard what I say,
When you will be coming this way
You'll find this flower in a garden
Olia Pretula
9th form
A Rose is a nice flower
It has a very big power
Its Power is matchless
It is nice like her dress
A dress with Roses
Is the garden of clothes
Yulia Cherevko
9th form
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Batki
Ann Appelbaum, and her husband Rabbi Borovitz, are two of the best troopers I have ever met in my life, not to mention a fairly decent set of parents.
My parents recently completed an 11 day sojourn in Ukraine, a trip that has been in the planning since I got my official letter of invitation to join the Peace Corps some 20 odd months ago. Obviously, I had some trepidations about the parental visit. I am used to a certain lifestyle in Ukraine, one that involves overnight train rides and youth hostels and outdoor toilets. My parents are accustomed to a slightly different lifestyle of their own, one that consists of airplanes and fancy hotels and toilets with automatic flushers so as not to unnecessarily spread germs.
Compromise is a part of life, however. So I gave my parents nice hotels in exchange for a pair of overnight train rides, and I secured an assurance from my neighbors that my parents could dabble in their toilet.
From the time I met up with my parents in Lviv, the trip was nearly flawless. From the Ukraine’s west to Odessa in the south back up north to Kiev with a quick jump to my village in the middle, I couldn’t have planned a more fluid or enjoyable excursion.
My parents really met me halfway. Upon reading that in an infusion of Jewification I have begun donning my tefillin and praying every day, my father brought his set with him, as well. While my father is a very religious man, Tefillin is not necessarily his path towards connecting with God. But he knew it was a part of my path, and so he donned the Tefillin in order to better connect with me.
On the first full day of our trip, we took a day long trip to Rohatyn, a small town (or large village, depending on your perspective) from whence my father’s grandfather, David Nagelberg, once came. Rohatyn also happens to be the Peace Corps site of my good friend Abe, the daydreaming philosopher king of PC-Ukraine. While visiting the site of the old Jewish cemetery, under which ground my ancestors once laid (and perhaps remnants of which still remain) my father and I donned our Tefillin and we began to pray. And as the words left our mouth and enriched the soil beneath, as we recited the EL Maleh Rachamim, the Jewish prayer for the dead, I felt something wonderful. Not so much because I was connecting with God or my deceased ancestors, but because I was connecting with my father.
Probably the most hilarious part of the trip occurred on the train ride from Odessa to Kiev. I had ordered a four bed train car for my parents and I, along with my comrade Kevin who tailed us on our visit. As many of you may or may not be aware, my father suffers from sleep apnea, which causes him to snore excessively. After years of my mother suffering from massive exhaustion, my father eventually purchased a machine to help him breathe while he sleeps. It cuts down on noise, and the whole lot is better off.
Except the machine requires an electrical outlet, and those aren’t always so easy to come by on a Ukrainian train. The good news: our train compartment had an outlet. The bad news: it was near one of the top bunks of our train car. The top bunks of a Ukrainian train are not the most accessible place in the world. But through a combination of the massive might of Kevin and myself, we were able to lift my father into the bed. Of course, our efforts were in vain, because two hours into the train ride the electricity on the train shut down and the snoring most certainly did commence.
The two days we spent in my village were an experience, to say the least. Lots of the locals were very excited to meet my parents, and wanted to tell them some small anecdote about my time in my village. It was hard for many of them to understand, however, that my parents didn’t understand what they were saying. Probably my favorite of these interactions was when one of my neighbors looked at me and said “how is it that your parents have such a smart son and yet they aren’t smart enough to learn ukrainian?” I didn’t think it was necessary to add that, you know, we speak a different language in America. Then there was my other neighbor, who had knocked back a few or four, and was so excited to see my parents that he kissed my mother. I can only imagine how much she enjoyed it.
My mother, however, was the true champion of the trip. For all the family chatter about my outdoor toilet, my mother did not hesitate to give the ol’ fortress of solitude a whirl. Sure, she used my neighbor’s bathroom a few times. But her perseverance was remarkable, her lack of complaining heartwarming.
There is a Ukrainian word, Batkivshina, fatherland. On the one hand, it happens to be the name of the political party of Yulia Tymoshenko, the embattled and imprisoned former Prime Minister of Ukraine. But it also expresses a specific emotion, a certain yearning, a connection to our ancestors and our past and our families.
I hadn’t seen my parents in some time. And our roles were most certainly reversed. I was the parent, the one communicating with the world at large, the one leading the way, the one with an idea of how the world worked. But the most amazing part of our trip was how nothing had really changed at all.
David ben Gurion one said that we can change anything in this world. We can change our name, we can change our country, we can change our religion. But we can never change who our parents are. I couldn’t be happier I’ll never have to change mine.
My parents recently completed an 11 day sojourn in Ukraine, a trip that has been in the planning since I got my official letter of invitation to join the Peace Corps some 20 odd months ago. Obviously, I had some trepidations about the parental visit. I am used to a certain lifestyle in Ukraine, one that involves overnight train rides and youth hostels and outdoor toilets. My parents are accustomed to a slightly different lifestyle of their own, one that consists of airplanes and fancy hotels and toilets with automatic flushers so as not to unnecessarily spread germs.
Compromise is a part of life, however. So I gave my parents nice hotels in exchange for a pair of overnight train rides, and I secured an assurance from my neighbors that my parents could dabble in their toilet.
From the time I met up with my parents in Lviv, the trip was nearly flawless. From the Ukraine’s west to Odessa in the south back up north to Kiev with a quick jump to my village in the middle, I couldn’t have planned a more fluid or enjoyable excursion.
My parents really met me halfway. Upon reading that in an infusion of Jewification I have begun donning my tefillin and praying every day, my father brought his set with him, as well. While my father is a very religious man, Tefillin is not necessarily his path towards connecting with God. But he knew it was a part of my path, and so he donned the Tefillin in order to better connect with me.
On the first full day of our trip, we took a day long trip to Rohatyn, a small town (or large village, depending on your perspective) from whence my father’s grandfather, David Nagelberg, once came. Rohatyn also happens to be the Peace Corps site of my good friend Abe, the daydreaming philosopher king of PC-Ukraine. While visiting the site of the old Jewish cemetery, under which ground my ancestors once laid (and perhaps remnants of which still remain) my father and I donned our Tefillin and we began to pray. And as the words left our mouth and enriched the soil beneath, as we recited the EL Maleh Rachamim, the Jewish prayer for the dead, I felt something wonderful. Not so much because I was connecting with God or my deceased ancestors, but because I was connecting with my father.
Probably the most hilarious part of the trip occurred on the train ride from Odessa to Kiev. I had ordered a four bed train car for my parents and I, along with my comrade Kevin who tailed us on our visit. As many of you may or may not be aware, my father suffers from sleep apnea, which causes him to snore excessively. After years of my mother suffering from massive exhaustion, my father eventually purchased a machine to help him breathe while he sleeps. It cuts down on noise, and the whole lot is better off.
Except the machine requires an electrical outlet, and those aren’t always so easy to come by on a Ukrainian train. The good news: our train compartment had an outlet. The bad news: it was near one of the top bunks of our train car. The top bunks of a Ukrainian train are not the most accessible place in the world. But through a combination of the massive might of Kevin and myself, we were able to lift my father into the bed. Of course, our efforts were in vain, because two hours into the train ride the electricity on the train shut down and the snoring most certainly did commence.
The two days we spent in my village were an experience, to say the least. Lots of the locals were very excited to meet my parents, and wanted to tell them some small anecdote about my time in my village. It was hard for many of them to understand, however, that my parents didn’t understand what they were saying. Probably my favorite of these interactions was when one of my neighbors looked at me and said “how is it that your parents have such a smart son and yet they aren’t smart enough to learn ukrainian?” I didn’t think it was necessary to add that, you know, we speak a different language in America. Then there was my other neighbor, who had knocked back a few or four, and was so excited to see my parents that he kissed my mother. I can only imagine how much she enjoyed it.
My mother, however, was the true champion of the trip. For all the family chatter about my outdoor toilet, my mother did not hesitate to give the ol’ fortress of solitude a whirl. Sure, she used my neighbor’s bathroom a few times. But her perseverance was remarkable, her lack of complaining heartwarming.
There is a Ukrainian word, Batkivshina, fatherland. On the one hand, it happens to be the name of the political party of Yulia Tymoshenko, the embattled and imprisoned former Prime Minister of Ukraine. But it also expresses a specific emotion, a certain yearning, a connection to our ancestors and our past and our families.
I hadn’t seen my parents in some time. And our roles were most certainly reversed. I was the parent, the one communicating with the world at large, the one leading the way, the one with an idea of how the world worked. But the most amazing part of our trip was how nothing had really changed at all.
David ben Gurion one said that we can change anything in this world. We can change our name, we can change our country, we can change our religion. But we can never change who our parents are. I couldn’t be happier I’ll never have to change mine.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
The girls of Ukraine
Hi all,
Here is a hastily put together video to get my friend Josh to stop pestering me for more video. As you can see, I am daily tempted by the awe-inspiring beauty of the women of this country.
A post should follow later in the week about my parents visit...
Here is a hastily put together video to get my friend Josh to stop pestering me for more video. As you can see, I am daily tempted by the awe-inspiring beauty of the women of this country.
A post should follow later in the week about my parents visit...
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
The boys
Its probably safe to say that Ben is my oldest friend. I’ve known him as long as I’ve been able to hold down memories, and there are photographs to prove we were bonding long before then. In the 24 or so years of our relationship, we’ve managed to have together a plethora of near-death experiences. We got mugged in New York city, almost drowned in a lake, and crashed a car.
I met Jeff in Kindergarten. My first strong memory of Jeff is pretty well documented. We were having some sort of ceremony at school, and Jeff’s mother Debbie approached me. Jeff was apparently bawling, because the Gods for some reason had placed him to sit in between two girls. So I graciously sat next to him, to save him from this daunting wave of x chromosomes.
I must have met Eric sometime around Kindergarten also, although we met through the local synagogue, not through school. Our parents used to drag us both to synagogue on saturday mornings (my father was the rabbi, so it was likely an occupational hazard) and Eric and I would spend our time pretending we could pick the locks of various doors using only the bobby pins meant to fasten our yarmulkes to our heads. We never succeeded.
It wasn’t until high school that the four of us began hanging out regularly, and perhaps it was some time later when we really began to gel as a group. But they are my oldest friends, and know me better than anybody. As soon as I knew I’d be spending 2 plus years in Ukraine, I immediately began my fineigling to convince them a trip was necessary. On July 1, 2011, they arrived.
My time here has both gone incredibly slowly and at the speed of light. When I think of the pace of some of the days, they creep by at a snail’s pace. But the memories of my last moments are vividly clear, that hanging over a cliff feeling, not knowing the depth of the fall.
How have I changed? I’ve always believed its impossible to tell how a certain situation or event has changed you until its completion. The person I am becoming will only be clear once I have returned to life in the States. But for the amazing ten days I spent with my friends, I was afforded a lens of sorts with which to view my “new” self.
All in all, I had a great week with the boys. We spent some time in Kiev, celebrated the 4th of July with other Peace Corps volunteers, and hung out in the village. But as much fun as I had, and as happy as I was to be with them, I was surprised at how hard it was for me to adjust to them being around.
I remember there once being a culture shock for me in Ukraine, but that moment has long passed. So for me, when an outlet doesn’t work or I end up not sleeping and eating bread and cheese for three days, I just chock it up to a part of the experience. And as a part of my desire to be a Sprazhni Ukrayinski Muzhik, a real Ukrainian man, I try not to let anything bother me, to roll with the punches. This is probably one of the best changes that has occurred to me so far, my ability to accept things more for how they are. Sometimes I forget how different that is than the person I used to be.
Jeff had some sort of allergy to my house. And for some reason, I had trouble being sensitive to this issue. Ben hurt his toe, and was reluctant to accept the advice of local doctors. I was unable to realize that if I was in a foreign country and didn’t speak the language, I’d be skeptical of some topless dude who took a break from working on his farm to peak at my foot. Eric wanted to stay in a nicer Hotel in Kiev. For me, any place with running water is such a huge step up, I fail to realize that different people have different standards. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy getting to know the people here, investing myself in their successes and failures, trying to understand where they are coming from, who they are, what they want. Somewhere along the way, did I forget how to empathize with those who are closest to me?
I’m more Jewish than I used to be. This may be hard for some people to understand, and its definitely hard to describe. But there have been two main changes in my Jewish observance that are somewhat significant. The first is that I pray and wear Tefillin (or Jewish phylacteries every single day. While my friends were certainly shocked by this development, they were supportive to varying degrees. The second, and more problematic one, is that I am now shomer shabbat, or at least in the process. This means that on Friday nights and Saturdays, on the Jewish Sabbath, I do not use electricity, I do not travel in cars, and I attempt to take a meaningful break from the rest of my week. While this was problematic during my friend’s time here, they were incredibly respectful and caring to my new desires. I know it wasn’t necessarily easy for them, and they certainly don’t agree with my choices. But they are my best friends, and so they accept me and love me for who I am.
The boys happened to be in the village during the holiday of Ivana Kupala, which is a mixture of an old Pagan holiday mixed with the Christian worship of the apostle John. Basically, it involves people dressing up in traditional Ukrainian clothes, putting on various skits and contests, and jumping over a fire. While at the celebration, Natasha, who was the woman running the event and is also the head of the local house of culture (not to mention the mother of one of my students), called me up to participate in an event. The village’s response was uproarious; pretty much any time I do something that is considered very “Ukrainian,” the village thinks its absolutely hilarious. I also was wearing my traditional Ukrainian shirt, which likely increased the hilarity. After I participated in the contest, Natasha insisted my friends participate as well. And thus Jeff was forced to pull toothpicks out of an apple with his teeth and Ben braided a random girl’s hair. Probably the funniest moment of the whole trip was Ben looking at me, a girls locks in his hand, and asking me, “What do I do? Make a challah?” And make a challah he did.
It was nice to expose them to this aspect of traditional Ukrainian culture, to show them the country that has become my new home. And they lived in my house and helped me do laundry and peeled potatoes and went to the well and worked in the fields. It was definitely really hard for them at certain points, hard in ways that used to be impossible for me but have since become a part of my daily routine (pooping is definitely high on that list.) But to their credit, they really did try very hard to enjoy themselves. Because they are my best friends, and they love me, and thats what best friends do.
On our last night in my village, we cooked a big dinner. Two of my Peace Corps friends, Avital and Paula, were there as well. As part of a long, extended toast, my friends went through the various stages of my life. First there was fat Jeremy, who was loud and annoying and a show off. Then there was Frat-tastic Jeremy, who was a super “bro.” And now, to misquote Jeff, there is “preachy” Jeremy. I thought the word sounded harsh, as well, but, Jeff swears, he meant it as a compliment.
Preachy? Perhaps thats not a bad way to describe it. I’ve been described to a whole different way of life here, and I love it. Its as if through the land and the people and my tefillin I’ve discovered some sort of individual truth I’d like to share with the world. And I have trouble describing it and I don’t know what it means because I’m still in the thick of it and what I really need is to be on the outside looking in. But Jeff and Eric and Ben, they can still see me, they still understand and will always understand who I am and what I’m about, even when I can’t see myself. Because they are and always will be my best friends, and thats just one of the things best friends are able to do.
I met Jeff in Kindergarten. My first strong memory of Jeff is pretty well documented. We were having some sort of ceremony at school, and Jeff’s mother Debbie approached me. Jeff was apparently bawling, because the Gods for some reason had placed him to sit in between two girls. So I graciously sat next to him, to save him from this daunting wave of x chromosomes.
I must have met Eric sometime around Kindergarten also, although we met through the local synagogue, not through school. Our parents used to drag us both to synagogue on saturday mornings (my father was the rabbi, so it was likely an occupational hazard) and Eric and I would spend our time pretending we could pick the locks of various doors using only the bobby pins meant to fasten our yarmulkes to our heads. We never succeeded.
It wasn’t until high school that the four of us began hanging out regularly, and perhaps it was some time later when we really began to gel as a group. But they are my oldest friends, and know me better than anybody. As soon as I knew I’d be spending 2 plus years in Ukraine, I immediately began my fineigling to convince them a trip was necessary. On July 1, 2011, they arrived.
My time here has both gone incredibly slowly and at the speed of light. When I think of the pace of some of the days, they creep by at a snail’s pace. But the memories of my last moments are vividly clear, that hanging over a cliff feeling, not knowing the depth of the fall.
How have I changed? I’ve always believed its impossible to tell how a certain situation or event has changed you until its completion. The person I am becoming will only be clear once I have returned to life in the States. But for the amazing ten days I spent with my friends, I was afforded a lens of sorts with which to view my “new” self.
All in all, I had a great week with the boys. We spent some time in Kiev, celebrated the 4th of July with other Peace Corps volunteers, and hung out in the village. But as much fun as I had, and as happy as I was to be with them, I was surprised at how hard it was for me to adjust to them being around.
I remember there once being a culture shock for me in Ukraine, but that moment has long passed. So for me, when an outlet doesn’t work or I end up not sleeping and eating bread and cheese for three days, I just chock it up to a part of the experience. And as a part of my desire to be a Sprazhni Ukrayinski Muzhik, a real Ukrainian man, I try not to let anything bother me, to roll with the punches. This is probably one of the best changes that has occurred to me so far, my ability to accept things more for how they are. Sometimes I forget how different that is than the person I used to be.
Jeff had some sort of allergy to my house. And for some reason, I had trouble being sensitive to this issue. Ben hurt his toe, and was reluctant to accept the advice of local doctors. I was unable to realize that if I was in a foreign country and didn’t speak the language, I’d be skeptical of some topless dude who took a break from working on his farm to peak at my foot. Eric wanted to stay in a nicer Hotel in Kiev. For me, any place with running water is such a huge step up, I fail to realize that different people have different standards. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy getting to know the people here, investing myself in their successes and failures, trying to understand where they are coming from, who they are, what they want. Somewhere along the way, did I forget how to empathize with those who are closest to me?
I’m more Jewish than I used to be. This may be hard for some people to understand, and its definitely hard to describe. But there have been two main changes in my Jewish observance that are somewhat significant. The first is that I pray and wear Tefillin (or Jewish phylacteries every single day. While my friends were certainly shocked by this development, they were supportive to varying degrees. The second, and more problematic one, is that I am now shomer shabbat, or at least in the process. This means that on Friday nights and Saturdays, on the Jewish Sabbath, I do not use electricity, I do not travel in cars, and I attempt to take a meaningful break from the rest of my week. While this was problematic during my friend’s time here, they were incredibly respectful and caring to my new desires. I know it wasn’t necessarily easy for them, and they certainly don’t agree with my choices. But they are my best friends, and so they accept me and love me for who I am.
The boys happened to be in the village during the holiday of Ivana Kupala, which is a mixture of an old Pagan holiday mixed with the Christian worship of the apostle John. Basically, it involves people dressing up in traditional Ukrainian clothes, putting on various skits and contests, and jumping over a fire. While at the celebration, Natasha, who was the woman running the event and is also the head of the local house of culture (not to mention the mother of one of my students), called me up to participate in an event. The village’s response was uproarious; pretty much any time I do something that is considered very “Ukrainian,” the village thinks its absolutely hilarious. I also was wearing my traditional Ukrainian shirt, which likely increased the hilarity. After I participated in the contest, Natasha insisted my friends participate as well. And thus Jeff was forced to pull toothpicks out of an apple with his teeth and Ben braided a random girl’s hair. Probably the funniest moment of the whole trip was Ben looking at me, a girls locks in his hand, and asking me, “What do I do? Make a challah?” And make a challah he did.
It was nice to expose them to this aspect of traditional Ukrainian culture, to show them the country that has become my new home. And they lived in my house and helped me do laundry and peeled potatoes and went to the well and worked in the fields. It was definitely really hard for them at certain points, hard in ways that used to be impossible for me but have since become a part of my daily routine (pooping is definitely high on that list.) But to their credit, they really did try very hard to enjoy themselves. Because they are my best friends, and they love me, and thats what best friends do.
On our last night in my village, we cooked a big dinner. Two of my Peace Corps friends, Avital and Paula, were there as well. As part of a long, extended toast, my friends went through the various stages of my life. First there was fat Jeremy, who was loud and annoying and a show off. Then there was Frat-tastic Jeremy, who was a super “bro.” And now, to misquote Jeff, there is “preachy” Jeremy. I thought the word sounded harsh, as well, but, Jeff swears, he meant it as a compliment.
Preachy? Perhaps thats not a bad way to describe it. I’ve been described to a whole different way of life here, and I love it. Its as if through the land and the people and my tefillin I’ve discovered some sort of individual truth I’d like to share with the world. And I have trouble describing it and I don’t know what it means because I’m still in the thick of it and what I really need is to be on the outside looking in. But Jeff and Eric and Ben, they can still see me, they still understand and will always understand who I am and what I’m about, even when I can’t see myself. Because they are and always will be my best friends, and thats just one of the things best friends are able to do.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Russia
I just got back from an amazing trip in Russia. Moscow is a phenomenal international city, and St. Petersburg is stunningly beautiful. I was also fortunate enough to be there during white nights, when, due to the summer months, the sun sets at 1130 and there is light until 2-3 am. Two small thoughts about my trip:
1) I visited Lenin's grave. He has been preserved through some sort of embalming process, and is on display in the creepiest room I have ever seen in my life. You stand on line for an hour, then you are ushered into this small, dark room where only his tiny, shriveled body is lit up. It was the first time in my life I truly realized how much Communism was a religion as well as a political and social ideology.
2) Be careful booking hostels via hostel world. Below is the review I posted for my hostel Crazy Duck, in St. petersburg. As a note, 3 am is not late in St. petes----
My friends and I rented a private four person room here. One night we got back at around 3 am when we ran into some guys from New Zealand. My friend Tom went back out with them, as he knew of some cool clubs. At about 8 am, I hear the door open. The next thing I know, some dude is PEEING ON TOM's BED. I smack him across the face, and, thinking it is Tom, scream "TOM. NO. BATHROOM." As he drunkenly stumbles out of the room, when my friend Kevin says "dude, that wasn't Tom." Tom soon returns and we scream "DONT GET IN YOUR BED!!!!!" When we went downstairs to tell reception about our new air freshener, they were a little accusative. Why didn't you lock your door? Well, we didn't think someone would confuse it for the toilet! Best Hostel Ever!
1) I visited Lenin's grave. He has been preserved through some sort of embalming process, and is on display in the creepiest room I have ever seen in my life. You stand on line for an hour, then you are ushered into this small, dark room where only his tiny, shriveled body is lit up. It was the first time in my life I truly realized how much Communism was a religion as well as a political and social ideology.
2) Be careful booking hostels via hostel world. Below is the review I posted for my hostel Crazy Duck, in St. petersburg. As a note, 3 am is not late in St. petes----
My friends and I rented a private four person room here. One night we got back at around 3 am when we ran into some guys from New Zealand. My friend Tom went back out with them, as he knew of some cool clubs. At about 8 am, I hear the door open. The next thing I know, some dude is PEEING ON TOM's BED. I smack him across the face, and, thinking it is Tom, scream "TOM. NO. BATHROOM." As he drunkenly stumbles out of the room, when my friend Kevin says "dude, that wasn't Tom." Tom soon returns and we scream "DONT GET IN YOUR BED!!!!!" When we went downstairs to tell reception about our new air freshener, they were a little accusative. Why didn't you lock your door? Well, we didn't think someone would confuse it for the toilet! Best Hostel Ever!
Sunday, June 19, 2011
11 Steps to planting a Ukrainian Garden
Step 1: Go to college. Lose yourself. Become convinced you need to do something outlandish in order to get rid of your upper white middle class Jewish guilt. Go out with friends one night senior year and announce you are joining the Peace Corps. Start the application later that week just to prove wrong the doubts milling in your head. Wait one year. Receive your invitation to go to Ukraine.
Sep 2: Arrive in Ukraine. Experience culture shock, followed by immense guilt that you chickened out and didn’t go to Africa and get attacked by mosquitoes every night. Express your desire to the Peace Corps personnel to go to the smallest, most remote place they can find.
Step 3: Begin life in your small Ukrainian village. Realize you have no idea what you are doing. Wake up at 6 with the roosters. Go to the well for water. Head over to school during the summer holiday lull and realize you have nothing to do. Play with small children, because they find you of interest. Teach how to throw a baseball. Build a seat for your toilet. Memorize a poem or two by Taras Shevchenko, the Ukrainian National Poet.
Step 4: Take baby steps. Give English lessons. Have absolutely no idea what you are doing. Learn rules of English Grammar. Refuse to accept monetary payment, taking potatoes, beets, carrots, onions, and various basked goods in their stead. Teach Vannya the guitar. Clean up the trash that litters the side of the road, first alone, then with previously stated small children in tow.
Step 5: Help with the fall harvest. Dig, Collect, Sort. Potatoes, Beets, Hay. Chop Wood. Learn how to seal tomatoes for the winter. Run the soil through your toes. Cut grass using a scythe. Try to gain a sense of what your urbanized ancestors lost some years ago. Take a bucket bath.
Step 6: Invent a project idea out of thin air. Write a grant. Buy some wood. Learn to hammer, nail, measure, cut, sand, paint. Build some trash cans. Tell your English students that in exchange for lessons, they have to help collect the trash. Try to create something sustainable. Fail, try, try again.
Step 7: Notice the cold is beginning to set in. Seal up broken windows. Become sad when days end at 3 or 4 o’clock. Continue giving English lessons until 8 in the evening, for lack of a better idea of what to do with your time. Question your purpose. Have Vannya come ask if he can begin giving guitar lessons to others. Teach some English songs for a big concert. Go Sledding. Go Ice Fishing. Watch your clothes freeze on the line. Have the days begin to get longer. Regain momentum. Start anew.
Step 8: Hear an idea for a new business, to sell produce over the internet to people in Kiev. Decide its time to become a music producer, and start recording an album, the children as the stars. Be approached about an ecological project. Write a grant. Begin to earn trust of people who never trust, speak a language beyond verbs and nouns and conjugations. Push ideas to completion, even when they tell you they cant, even when you tell you you cant.
Step 9: Ask your neighbor for a plot of land. Have neighborhood kids, the ones who clean up trash and learn english and rock out on the guitar, help you dig holes and plant seeds and water tomatoes. Learn how to hoe, the difference between a weed and a cucumber. Identify Potatoes, Beets, Watermelon, Onion, Garlic, Peas, Peppers, and everything in between. Wake up extra early every day, just to see the progress your plants are making. Pray for Rain, but not too much.
Step 10: Wake up with the sunrise and go to the well. Feed the dog. Cook some Borscht. Teach English. Record Vannya’s new song. Write a business plan and translate it into Ukrainian. Build a Bench. Learn something. Head for your garden, your land. Hoe some weeds. Feel the sun on your chest and the earth under your feet. Stand and admire. Realize you have returned to something, the joy in planting a tiny seed in the ground and watching it grow to something huge and wonderful and hopefully delicious. Be proud. Forget about Africa, and about guilt, and about the myriad of your villages problem. Work the land, work on yourself. Learn Something.
Step 11: Repeat, if necessary. I guess that’s why Peace Corps is two years.
Sep 2: Arrive in Ukraine. Experience culture shock, followed by immense guilt that you chickened out and didn’t go to Africa and get attacked by mosquitoes every night. Express your desire to the Peace Corps personnel to go to the smallest, most remote place they can find.
Step 3: Begin life in your small Ukrainian village. Realize you have no idea what you are doing. Wake up at 6 with the roosters. Go to the well for water. Head over to school during the summer holiday lull and realize you have nothing to do. Play with small children, because they find you of interest. Teach how to throw a baseball. Build a seat for your toilet. Memorize a poem or two by Taras Shevchenko, the Ukrainian National Poet.
Step 4: Take baby steps. Give English lessons. Have absolutely no idea what you are doing. Learn rules of English Grammar. Refuse to accept monetary payment, taking potatoes, beets, carrots, onions, and various basked goods in their stead. Teach Vannya the guitar. Clean up the trash that litters the side of the road, first alone, then with previously stated small children in tow.
Step 5: Help with the fall harvest. Dig, Collect, Sort. Potatoes, Beets, Hay. Chop Wood. Learn how to seal tomatoes for the winter. Run the soil through your toes. Cut grass using a scythe. Try to gain a sense of what your urbanized ancestors lost some years ago. Take a bucket bath.
Step 6: Invent a project idea out of thin air. Write a grant. Buy some wood. Learn to hammer, nail, measure, cut, sand, paint. Build some trash cans. Tell your English students that in exchange for lessons, they have to help collect the trash. Try to create something sustainable. Fail, try, try again.
Step 7: Notice the cold is beginning to set in. Seal up broken windows. Become sad when days end at 3 or 4 o’clock. Continue giving English lessons until 8 in the evening, for lack of a better idea of what to do with your time. Question your purpose. Have Vannya come ask if he can begin giving guitar lessons to others. Teach some English songs for a big concert. Go Sledding. Go Ice Fishing. Watch your clothes freeze on the line. Have the days begin to get longer. Regain momentum. Start anew.
Step 8: Hear an idea for a new business, to sell produce over the internet to people in Kiev. Decide its time to become a music producer, and start recording an album, the children as the stars. Be approached about an ecological project. Write a grant. Begin to earn trust of people who never trust, speak a language beyond verbs and nouns and conjugations. Push ideas to completion, even when they tell you they cant, even when you tell you you cant.
Step 9: Ask your neighbor for a plot of land. Have neighborhood kids, the ones who clean up trash and learn english and rock out on the guitar, help you dig holes and plant seeds and water tomatoes. Learn how to hoe, the difference between a weed and a cucumber. Identify Potatoes, Beets, Watermelon, Onion, Garlic, Peas, Peppers, and everything in between. Wake up extra early every day, just to see the progress your plants are making. Pray for Rain, but not too much.
Step 10: Wake up with the sunrise and go to the well. Feed the dog. Cook some Borscht. Teach English. Record Vannya’s new song. Write a business plan and translate it into Ukrainian. Build a Bench. Learn something. Head for your garden, your land. Hoe some weeds. Feel the sun on your chest and the earth under your feet. Stand and admire. Realize you have returned to something, the joy in planting a tiny seed in the ground and watching it grow to something huge and wonderful and hopefully delicious. Be proud. Forget about Africa, and about guilt, and about the myriad of your villages problem. Work the land, work on yourself. Learn Something.
Step 11: Repeat, if necessary. I guess that’s why Peace Corps is two years.
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