My first week of classes has gone well. I have given the same presentation
about America and my hometown about nine times at this point and will give it a
few more times next week. On Friday, I was awakened in the morning by a phone call from a
teacher at the international relations faculty located in a different district
of the city and was asked to come in to discuss my schedule and drink tea. I
hurriedly threw on some clothes and met the students who were sent from the
faculty to guide me to that unfamiliar territory that is the “Northern District” of the
city. They were excited to have an official reason to skip class. When I
arrived, my contact, Anastasia, exclaimed
“Oh good, you’re just in time to teach!”. Before I knew it I was in front of
twenty 1st year
English students gazing at me eagerly. Thankfully, since I had practiced
my introductory lesson a
million times already with
my other students I was able to recreate a fun introductory class on the spot, without
all of my supplies (lesson learned: always be prepared with materials even when
there is no apparent sign of needing them. Rookie first-year teacher mistake).
Every forty-five minutes I was whisked away by my contact to another class of
shy, big-eyed students. After four such classes, I finally sat down with my
contact, and she explained that, just as at
the applied sciences faculty, the students have English for a three hour period
every couple days. I will be a “guest lecturer” for 45 minutes with as many
classes as they can fit into my schedule. Basically, my
students are at varying levels of English…and interest in English...or in me. Some classes bombard
me with question after question, and
some just stare at me as
if I were an
alien....and an alien
they have no desire to communicate with who insists on asking them questions about themselves in an attempt to break the ice and get to know them
better . And they
are ALL named Sergei or Sasha. One class of 16 has 4 Sergeis. I guess that
makes life easier. I have a 25%
chance of being right when I guess their names!
In other news, dorm life has significantly improved. I have
purchased matches so I can now use the stove. One of the other students helped
me make pasta (I did not exaggerate when I wrote I do not know how to cook anything). Ira stops by every day or so
with her five year old son, Sasha, to give me random things she knows I need.
An iron. Prettier curtains. Shoe polish (Russians compulsively clean their
boots. They always look so nice).
A tub to hand-wash my clothes in. Fresh fruit from her dacha. A space heater.
She’s a saint. Sasha knows a little English and constantly whispers questions
in Ira’s ear asking how to say things in English and then proudly states his
newly learned English words to me with a wide grin. He calls me Mary Poppins. I
foresee a great friendship in the future.
I tried using the space heater one especially cold night and accidentally blew a fuse and my whole section of the dorm lost power. Oops. I
braced myself for what I knew would be a failed attempt at explaining/apologizing
for what happened. The lady RAs at the front desk listened to my broken Russian
with listlessness and proceeded to ever
so slowly and apathetically state that there was nothing they could do. All of
a sudden three guys came down to report that they also lost power even though
they had nothing plugged in. The women then proceeded to roll their eyes, call
the electrician, and give the boys a loud, stern lecture about their “selfish
use of television…electric tea kettles…refrigerators…” as I surreptitiously shrunk
away from the scene. The ladies knew perfectly well it was my fault. I swear
one of them winked at me. I forgot that even if they seem disinterested/
utterly annoyed at my ever-failing attempts at communication and apology, they
really do appreciate it in their own way- even though they will never admit it.
Thankfully, the heat has since turned on, but I now keep my windows open because it’s way too warm in my
room. Russia is a land of extremes. We have since lost
power a couple more times, but
I shrug it off now, knowing at least it's not my fault.
At one highlight of my week, I was in contact with some fellow Americans! O. Nikolai Olhovksy wrote me an email
saying that the Kursk Root Icon would be arriving at the Voronezh airport for a
quick moleben on Wednesday.
The world keeps getting smaller and smaller. I took a taxi to the airport and
waited for the delegation to arrive. At first, there were only about
fifty people waiting, but all of a
sudden flocks of Russian babushki came out of the woodwork. There must have
been literally hundreds of them. I argued with some of the Russian police as I attempted to shove my way to the front to look for O. Nikolai. After straining
to find him, I finally did and he brought me into a special room in the airport and introduced me to some
of the clergy of Voronezh. I was
able to venerate the icon when it was returned to the room. It was difficult
for me to wrap my head around the fact that I had just seen and venerated this
icon a few weeks ago in Jordanville and here hundreds (thousands? I’m bad at crowd estimates…) of people
stood outside for hours to simply catch a glimpse of it. It was comforting to see familiar
faces and converse in English with native speakers for a bit. My original taxi
driver, Sergei, made me take his number and offered to pick me up when I was
done. In between, he had apparently told all of his close ones about his
interaction with an American and had a list of follow -up questions to ask on
our drive home.
On
Saturday, some of my second year students
organized a sort of excursion for me to see the city and an excuse to practice
their English with me. They took me on an eight hour (!) walking
tour, showing me some of their favorite sites while teaching me useful slang
and asking questions about stereotypes and American psychology...and McDonalds.
They took me by the riverbank and were eager for me to test out my BB gun skills.
We then explored the main part of the city. Here we find the obligatory “Lenin square” of the city.
Some of them were eager to debut their
home-recorded music, recite poems to me, or explain the complicated
mathematical concept they learned that day. Russian college students have
classes on Saturdays- the concept of a “weekend off” is foreign to them. Reason
#230423 I appreciate my college education more since arriving here. I left with
a better grasp of the geography of the city, an appreciation for the curiosity
and intellect of Russian teenagers, and a strong desire to go home and
collapse. I sometimes feel as though I have to think through everything I say
before I answer any of their questions. They analyze my answers and ask
multiple follow -up questions. I also have been fighting the urge to use
articles incorrectly and say “some peoples”. I’m forgetting English (The English? Just kidding. I swear I remember articles). Saturday is Russian wedding photoshoot day, and we saw probably
eleven or twelve weddings. How many brides can you spot?
It was also featured recently in this list I came across of
typical Russian foods. It is one of the few things I was fed by my host mom in
St. Petersburg besides hotdogs and therefore I now have an instinctual desire
to constantly order it for fear that the alternative will be stale Russian
hotdogs.
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