The first days of school

The first day of school in Ukraine is always celebrated with a ceremony called “the first bell”. It’s a lot like any other celebration in Ukraine which consists of singing, speeches, and music played by the DJ while people mingle. Likewise, there is a “last bell” celebration at the end of the year. The girls don the traditional Ukrainian uniform, which looks more like a sexy French maid outfit. See for yourself:












School has been an interesting experience, to say the least. More and more, being in Ukraine, I find myself feeling younger as time passes. During training, it was the forced feeding and the lack of privacy. Now I’m back in school on the wrong side of the student-teacher dichotomy. I’ve been sitting in on classes with students ranging from 2nd-11th form (grade). It’s like those dreams where you are back in school when in fact you’re long-graduated. Except I’m pretty sure I’m not dreaming. I’m not complaining. I am essentially getting a free education in Ukrainian and Russian. The only problem is that these students’ abilities at these languages far exceed that of mine.

Celebrity status

On the first actual day of school as I was walking down the hallway, I was attacked by a detachment of handshakes and “hello’s”. I even signed a couple autographs. Doing so, I couldn’t help but crack a smile as I was trying to hold back the laughter because I found the situation so ridiculously funny. I stood there wondering if these kids realized that I’m not famous.

On the second day of school I was thrown into a class of 2nd formers, whose teacher was absent. I was to be the substitute teacher. It quickly turned into a Q/A session about my life and America. Then some girl asked me to sign her notebook. Then the whole class crowded around me asking for autographs. Again, I found myself almost cracking up because this was so bizarre. In a classroom of about 20 students I signed about 40 autographs. “How is that possible?” you might ask. Because then they started looking for anything that I could sign: English workbooks, pieces of scrap paper, notebooks, hands, arms, etc. At least 2 of them took out their camera phones and tried to sneak a photo of me. They had me read an excerpt from one of their English books, which one of the boys tried to record on his camera phone.

One day I was walking home from school and had the usual encounters with neighbors and strangers walking by: anytime I go out, whether to the school, store, or the bus station, I have to factor in a buffer time of about 10 minutes because I know that someone will run into me and start a conversation. On this particular instance, there was a boy that was on his bike, who followed me all the way from school to my neighborhood, keeping the same pace as my walking, about 10 meters behind me. I turned around and said “goodbye”, because I suspected his intention. He would say “goodbye” but kept following, pretending that he was headed in the same direction as me. When I got to my building, I ran up the steps, opened my door, went in, and quickly shut the door behind me. I heard his footsteps running up the steps behind me. I looked through the peephole and I saw him creeping.

I tried so hard to keep my living location a secret, especially from the students. The last thing I want is for a few hundred students to know my exact location. My life is already like that of a goldfish in a fishbowl as it is. Later that day I heard a knock at my door. It was a man. He introduced himself to me and told me that his daughter had talked to me at school earlier that day. She’d told me that her father wanted English lessons. I told her that I’d meet him somewhere to discuss it. As it turns out, he already knew where I lived. I guess the secret’s been out. Sigh.

Football

A few weeks ago I received an American football with a care package from my parents, for which I’m very thankful. I’ve put it to great use. I’ve been teaching the kids how to play and they picked it up surprisingly quickly. Within the first day of introducing the game to them, we were playing (a short) full-field two-hand touch football. And they love it. Everyday I’m asked when we will play again.

Here’s a quick little anecdote. Today a few of us were tossing the football around. At one point a boy, about 5 years old, walked onto the field in passing. One of the students threw the ball and completely overthrew his target. The trajectory of the ball collided directly with the face of the 5 year old boy. Of course, with concern, we ran over and asked if he was ok. The kid held his hand to his mouth and stood there for a few seconds. I thought he was going to do one of those delayed cries. There was a man with us and he said to the boy, “hey boy, what is your name? are you ok?”. The boy turned around slowly, spit into his hand, and said, “I lost my tooth”. He didn’t cry. He didn’t seem phased at all. He then proceeded to his destination. I was kind of shocked.

Host family visit

If I had to describe my host family visit in two words, they would be “food” and “heavy”. Immediately upon crossing the threshold of the front door of my host family’s house I noticed a table set up like a banquet with about 10 place settings. There was all kinds of food and such an overabundance that after the ten of us ate, the prepared food lasted every meal for three of us throughout the duration of my two and a half day stay and still there was a remainder. Of course my host grandmother would pack some of it for me to take on the train. And after every meal, I felt heavy. The reason for the smorgasbord was that it was my host grandmother’s birthday.




















As we began the feast, the toasts did as well. They kept pouring me glass after glass of both champagne and wine. They had me double-fisting in addition to the ingestion of a grotesque amount of food. It was like PST all over again.

It was after the meal that I witnessed something strange. There was only one other time in my life that I’d noticed anything quite like it and it was among old Korean men at a passionate reunion of old childhood friends. They began singing songs together. I know that doesn’t sound that strange, but you had to witness the gravity of the moment. This wasn’t karaoke. In their half-drunk state, they took turns singing dirges, with the low frequency vibrato that echoes the pains and memories of generations, particularly from a people that have had such a tumultuous and defeated history as Ukrainians. Some of them would grimace soulfully as they bellowed their guttural notes.

There was one other man at the table. He was an elderly man with white hair. He was bald on top and the hair on his sides billowed out freely but unobtrusively. He had about 5 teeth, probably not due to age: he didn’t seem that old. He had the look of a retired professor. He was quiet but not timid. Never was there a superfluous utterance that came from him. During one of the songs, he left the table abruptly as his hands covered his face. His wife, sitting across the table from him, chuckling understandingly, explained to the others, “this is his favorite song”. At that juncture I realized the heaviness of Ukrainian culture. The last day in Armiansk, Michael and I had a conversation about how different it is here: how different it is from how different we thought it would be from home. There is a heaviness in the countenances and attitudes of people here and more and more I’m beginning to see how it shapes peoples’ lives here. After switching over to a “lighter song”, still somewhat dense to my ear, they sang another dirge and the man, mid-note, contorted his face and spilled tears as the note turned into a sob. Heavy.

Potatoes

I’d told my host family that I wanted to come back in the autumn to help them harvest their garden. And so they left a patch of crop untouched, just so that I could do some of the work that I so eagerly waited to help with. Little did I know that I would be carrying my own cross. I knew that my Ukrainian grandmother wanted to give me potatoes to take back with me, because she told me over the phone to bring an extra bag. I didn’t. Not because I forgot, but because I thought I could just bring them back in a plastic bag.













As my host grandmother would have it, she emptied my backpack filled with my belongings and placed them in a plastic bag. She then proceeded to pack my backpack full of potatoes. And she packed it. I was expecting to take back just a few pounds with me. A backpack full of potatoes is, I think, about 30 + pounds, maybe more. I kept telling her that it was too heavy. She would respond by lifting it slightly off the ground with one arm, then waving me off, telling me that it’s nothing. That’s easy for her to say. She’s not the one that has to carry it on her back for 30 minutes to the bus station and then around the metro in Kiev. So I did just that, sweat dripping from my face as I trod my way to the bus station. It was heavy.

Cluster Reunion

Last week I had the privilege of meeting my cluster mates for our first reunion since training. There was a lot that we did so I’ll try to condense this entry and include only the most notable things.

Innate racism?

My journey to Armiansk, where our cluster mate Michael lives, required a circuitous route from my town of Shevchenkove. The first leg of my trip was a bus ride north to Kharkiv, from where I’d take an overnight train to Jean-Koy, which is further south of our destination, from which 4 of us would meet up and together take a bus north to Armiansk.

It was on the first leg of my trip that I encountered a strange instance of racism. Standing outside of the bus, waiting to board, I looked through the window where there was a child not more than 7 years old. With an expressionless face, devoid of any air of contempt, the kid slowly, almost mechanically, as if mandated by duty, raised his index fingers to the ends of his eyes and pulled them back while staring directly at me. I reciprocated by giving him the dirtiest look I could possibly give. He retreated behind the curtain. Meanwhile, I stood there wondering if I should chide the child in front of his mother and everyone on the bus. I wanted to tell his mom but I figured it wasn’t worth it. It might lead to more misunderstanding. A minute or so later, he came out from behind the curtain and did it again. And we replayed the exchange that I have just described.

Of course I can’t blame the kid. He is after all, just a kid. But it made me wonder how, in a place where one rarely makes contact with Asians, this child knew to make that gesture. Are some people just born with this propensity to point out differences? What does one expect when making that gesture? Do people feel better about themselves after doing such a thing? He must’ve known that I wouldn’t have appreciated it.

Dancing under the stars

One of the notable venues of Armiansk is the discotech that Michael recently discovered in the woods. A narrow pathway through the woods leads to it. Looming over it was a canopy like that of a small stadium. But it only covered the table area. In the middle, where the dance floor was, there was no roofing. One could easily see the stars by just looking up while on the dance floor. It was pretty amazing.

Like any discotech, it seemed to operate only at night. It certainly got busier as the night went on. After a round of beers, we hit the dance floor and more people joined as time passed. Before long there was a large crowd. I broke it down as usual and got a high five from some stranger.

Евпатория, Крым (Yevpatoria, Crimea)

On one of the days, we decided to take a bus trip to Yevpatoria, which is a town on the Western coast of Crimea, which is a peninsula in the Black Sea. Yevpatoria is largely a tourist destination and it was crowded. But it wasn’t uncomfortably so. There were a myriad of vendors and boardwalk games (minus the boardwalk, it was just cement if I remember correctly).

The beach was beautiful. The sand: perfect. The water was blue and clear but not as blue or as clear as that of the Caribbean. The floor of the ocean was mostly rocks and it was hard to walk on. It was also littered with the occasional boulder. But the water felt great. It perfectly complimented the hot, subtropical weather. Looking out on the ocean, as it was a touristy beach, there were lots of large beach toys scattered across the view: giant water slides, inflated floating devices for rent, wind-surfers, boats, etc. It looked like a child’s bathtub that he’d forgotten to clean up after his bath from the perspective of a Lilliputian.

Sitting on the beach, we were approached by moonshwine sellers. We decided to get a bottle of the homemade wine, which tasted a lot like cough syrup but was good nonetheless: more for the novelty than the taste. The moonshwiners were extremely nice and basically gave us a free wine-tasting session, which included all the different wine bottles they had, all of which were in previously used plastic water bottles. To top the day off right, we got some shwarma before heading back.

Shady business

I stayed in Crimea until Wednesday because there were no seats on the train for my next destination on Tuesday. Everyone else except Maggie and me had stayed until then. But I was the last to leave. So after Maggie left, Mike and I decided that we’d go on a hookah run because we ran out of coals and shishah. We didn’t have anything better to do so we ventured off, not knowing whether we’d find anyplace that sold them.

We asked around and made our way towards the general area where we were directed to go. We happened to walk right up to the store, which had a few hookahs and hookah equipment in the display window. As we walked closer, however, we found that it wasn’t really a store. The door was open and inside was a guy wearing just a beater and a pair of boxers sprawled out on a bed, which was really the only piece of furniture that was in there. I called out “извините” (excuse me) a few times, almost to the point of shouting, before he woke up. I asked if he was selling those items in the window and he indeed was. We did business and then before we walked away, the guy pulled something out of his pocket. His hands revealed an array of packets, made of printer paper, with staples on each edge, holding inside of them, (I’m guessing) pills. The paper had pictures on them, printed by a color printer. We promptly declined the offer and left. We crossed the street, which at the very moment had a cop car passing by. But nothing came of it. I guess it was pretty stupid to buy shishah from such a place, but it worked out fine. Unless of course I’m unknowingly tripping on acid right now and all this is a figment of my imagination.

After my trip to Crimea, I went straight to Kiev, from which I took a 45 minute bus ride to Obukhiv, my training site, to visit my host family. But you can read about that next time.