Languages are hard!
This small text written by a seventh former made me think about the difficulties of learning a language:
My friand
My friand name is sasha. He levs in Ukrein. He is a twelve. He in six form in school N1. He rely friand. I can rely on his. I think a friand in need is a friend in deed. He help in a biffikal situation. He let you down. He have a good sense of homor. He is not like sport and lessons scianse, literature. I respect his. He too respect me. I suppose so his very good friend.
Common mistakes:
“My friend name is” vs “My friend’s name is”
The present tense for to be, Russian has no present tense for to be, so as a result they write things like: “He in six form, he rely friand.”
he vs him vs his: I too have trouble with this in Russian
adding on an s to verbs: It’s hard for them to remember
have and has
negatives “He is not like sport..”
Introducing our parents
“Dasha, what does your dad do?”
“I don’t have a dad,” she says smiling.
“Vania, what is your dad’s name?”
“No, no,” Vania says politely, as if the question doesn’t apply to him.
“Nadia, how old is your dad?”
And shaking her head, as if to save me from another one of the same responses, I say,
“Ok. New topic!”
Break
I sit waiting during the 15 minute break in between second and third lesson, when my door opens unexpectedly and a woman pops her head in, pausing slightly when she sees me. Looking vaguely familiar, I recognize her as the woman across the hall who teaches geography, whom I have never spoken to and who has never come into my classroom. She hesitates for a moment, her hand on the door, wavering, as if she’s not sure what she should do, and in an unexpected move, takes a step forward. Walking over, she stands beside me and asks, “Preparing for lessons?” in understandable Russian. “Yes, yes,” I say, somewhat startled by the new company.
“So you’ve adjusted?” She asks, the words coming out casually, like it is a common enough question. I nod, and tell her yes, as if I would say anything else. “Oh,” she says, raising her eyebrows, “but we still haven’t.” Not sure of whether I understood her correctly, I give her my best neutral face, so as not to give an incorrect response. She asks me where I went over the summer and I tell her London, to which she gives the usual surprised look.
“My parents are coming soon,” I say changing the subject, something most Ukrainians seem to love to hear. She smiles and puts her hands on my shoulders affectionately and says something about money, but whose gist I can’t catch. She then asks me about Russian and I say I understand most things, unless people speak to me in Ukrainian, the words coming off my tongue smoothly and quickly, the Russian precise after having said it so many times before. She seems to understand what I’m talking about and shakes her head enthusiastically, saying something quickly in response, but which, once again, I can’t quite understand. The bell soon rings as expected, and we are both quiet, as it is time for our little conversation to come to an end.
“I think no one bothers you in Svesa. Right?” She says assuredly, as if it isn’t a question.
“Oh no,” I say, “No one bothers me.”
Looking satisfied with my response, she walks towards the hallway. “You know,” she says stopping suddenly in the doorframe in an almost regrettable tone, “we learned German when we were young, German and French,” as if giving me the reason as to why we can’t understand each other properly. “But now it’s all English.”
“I know,” I say.
“It’s ok,” as if I am some kind of glaring symbol for the future.
Hilarious!
Very funny Seinfeld reference to Ukraine:
“To Write!”
The gasps begin, just as I had thought, as my unsuspecting new students, previously fourth formers, enter the room to find Mrs. Kathleen instead of their usual Luidmila Gorivna.
“Mrs. Kathleen,” the whispers go, kids looking at one another in shock, unsure of what to think.
“Yes,” I say, “It’s true.”
As the children trickle in, I wait in front, allowing them to adjust.
After the bells rings, I say, “Hello,” “How are you,” as slowly as I can, remembering the young age of the students.
A little boy in front looks at me, shaking his head, like he’s about to tell it to me straight.
“We don’t understand anything in English,” he says proudly.
Sonya, across the room, counters this angrily, “That’s not true, we understand some things.”
Trying to keep them on track, I ask them about their summer.
“Ms. Kathleen, what’s it like over there in Chicago?”
“Ok Sergey, we’ll talk about that later.”
I draw their attention to the board, and tell them to repeat verbs.
“To know,” “Znat!”, the class says in unison.
“To see,” “Vedeet!”
“To want,” “Hateet,”
As we go through present simple and present continuous, Igor raises his hand with a question.
“Yes, Igor,” “Mrs. Kathleen, what is to write in Russian,” he asks politely,
“Igor, like I told you a million times, Peecet.”
The class freezes momentarily, looking at me, as if giving me a second to reverse it.
“Peecat, Peecat!” I say, trying to correct myself, but it is too late, I have said it, and the snickers slowly rise around the room, and I can’t help but laugh myself, as all I can picture is each one of them going home and telling their parents that the American said “to pee,” instead of “to write” in Russian on their first day with her.
Afternoon at the Cafe
The invitation comes suddenly, after seeing Natasha for the first time in more than a month, the words “Come tomorrow,” diminishing any fears of readjustment that inevitably arise after being away, traveling to places that increasingly draw you away. The following day at 1:00 I go to the local café in town, where Natasha’s family is holding “remembrance day”, a Ukrainian tradition in which deceased loved ones are remembered with family and friends and in this case her mother. “Katerina!” I hear as I walk up to the door. “Where have you been?” Natasha’s father speaks in his usual jolly, lighthearted tone, like it doesn’t matter if I give him an answer or not. “Many places,” I say, a vague response I know will suffice for the 60 year old Ukrainian, who is just happy to see I am doing well, the places where I’ve been irrelevant to him. “Good, Katerina, Good,” and passes me along inside, where I see Yura, Natasha’s son, seated in the corner. “Kathleen, where have you been?” He says and expecting he’ll want a real answer, I start from the beginning, “Vienna first,” “Oh,” he says, as if approving, “Then La Vive.” Interjecting he says, “Isn’t it great? Better than Kiev I think,” “Oh yes,” I say, “but smaller,” and before I can continue, I am called from behind to a long table where 40 Ukrainians sit, stacked with traditional Ukrainian food, fish and mayonnaise salads, and various bottles of wine, vodka and samagon (homemade vodka). I take a seat in the middle and looking up at the row of Ukrainians before me, I recognize the woman who sells me my vegetables at the local kiosk sitting across from me, who the previous day told me in long, drawn out sounds, “FOUR FORTY”, when I picked a cabbage to buy and later cautioned me against the red pepper, saying “SPICY”, slowly and loudly again in Russian, withholding it until I shook my head in acknowledgment, reluctantly selling it to me. Next to her is the woman who runs the shop where I buy bath products, who smiles at me when I look her way, and beside her is the mother of one of my students, and across is the old woman I see selling fruit in the center, and the people continue on, all those I have seen in Svesa, all now gathered together at one time. And to my right, I find to my surprise my next door neighbor, who I greet somewhat startlingly. “Katya, where have you been?” she says like all the rest. “When did you arrive?” “Yesterday,” I say, “Oh! I didn’t even hear you come in,” she says, like we live in the same house and I had somehow managed to sneak past her door unnoticed. I then notice “totya”, Natasha’s aunt from Moscow sitting next to her, who I also say hello to. “Katya,” “Where have you been?” I tell her Austria, to which the two women both shake their heads up and down. Then totya says something to my neighbor and the two laugh and say, “Katya, you’ll teach us English this week,” to which I smile and tell them, “Ok,” not knowing the appropriate response. The meal begins with the small plastic cups in front of our plates being filled with various liquids, mine the fortunate receiver of wine and as I think to raise my glass, I stop, as no one else does, this being a more somber event. I take a sip of wine, and to my pleasant surprise, find it to be dry, a rare occurrence, and invite frequent refills from Yura, who sits next to me. After the first drink, hands begin to move and I see the eyes of the old women around me, waiting for me to make my move. I rush to fill my plate, knowing from experience I must move quickly or it will be done for me. I choose salami and cheese to make a sandwich with the bread set aside me and then scoop some mayonnaise salad after some prodding from my neighbor, who insists it is delicious. Light conversation soon breaks out, though nothing ostentatious, as people remain more introverted throughout the meal, a rarity for Ukrainians. To my left, I see a woman gesturing to Yura. “She looks like..,” is all I manage to catch. All the heads around me move up and down in agreement and the woman continues. “Oh, yes very much. She looks like.. very much.” Yura shrugs as if he doesn’t see the resemblance and continues eating. I want to tap him on the shoulder and say plaintively, “what, what did they say about me, who do I look like?” but I figure I should save such a request for something more important. I move on to tomatoes with some kind of dressing and catch various heads looking my way from down the table. I continue drinking the wine, which Yura supplies, watching as a vodka bottle is emptied and taken away. I speak to Yura in English, ask him about university in Moscow, and continue on to the next course of mashed potatoes and cutlets. I soon hear the familiar words, “She looks like..”, this time said by a different woman, which my neighbor later informs me she thinks I look like the daughter of one of her relatives in the south. Then someone even says I look like Yura, to which we both laugh somewhat uncomfortably. After all the women give their opinion about who I resemble, I tell them I’m Irish, and that my family came to America a long time ago from Ireland, which they find interesting enough, commenting to each other. I then see Yura taking questions from the left side of the table, more people speaking up now. I wait for a few minutes until he looks towards me and says, “Do you have this tradition in your country?” “No,” I tell him, “Not really.” He relays my response to the rest, to which I watch the various reactions, mostly surprise pass through the faces. Then the woman who sells me my vegetables starts saying my name. “Kathleen,” she says, “What is your favorite Ukrainian dish, or maybe you don’t like any of it.” I assure her I like Ukrainian food, borsh in particular, a response many Ukrainians love to hear. She continues on through a series of questions, like they have been building up to this moment. “Kathleen,” she says just as I have looked away towards totya who says I should come next time with a husband, to which another woman remarks, “No, you don’t need to. They are all drinkers.” Before I can come up with a response, I hear “Kathleen” again from the vegetable seller. And as I had expected she breaks into the usual set of questions about differences in food, the most oft repeated topic of conversation when asking about America. I answer them all, as I have done many times before, and notice the many newly turned faces towards me as I make my best attempts at Russian, after having been gone for so long over the summer, and just when I think everyone is looking at me, I notice an old woman crying at the end of the table, dabbing the corner of her eyes with a napkin, and I remember why we are here, and I realize it’s not about me at all.
Morning Bus Ride
I sling the trash bag over my shoulder, grab my suitcase and rush out the door, walking quickly through the mostly empty streets. I arrive at the trash dump, walk up the few steps and throw the bag over the wall holding my breath, happy to be unable to see what lies on the other side and continue on towards the bus stop, where I find to my surprise, an unusually large gathering of people crowded around the door 15 minutes before the bus is set to leave at 5:40 in the morning. People are particularly roudy at this early hour and I silently curse myself for not arriving earlier to get a better seat. I inconspicuously weave myself into the hoard of people, hoping to not be the last one in, fated to stand on the little step by the door, getting hit by the opening and closing of people getting on and off. I manage to squeeze my suitcase and I into the group somewhat unnoticed and land a fairly decent spot standing in the middle of the aisle. Despite the load of people, the bus still sits and collects the stragglers for ten more minutes, the insides increasingly compressing, tensions running high. A woman appears stuck outside and tries to yell her way in, to which I think she can’t possibly fit, but hurls her way in regardless, constricting the insides even more. I find myself pressed up against the back of a woman who turns her head slightly, notices me, and says, “Oh Katya,” “Hello.” The woman is the shopkeeper who I go to regularly, who is very patient and understanding of my special circumstances, who I am now smashed up against, talking to her from behind on an over-crowded bus at 5:40 in the morning. “Where are you going?” She says. “To Sumy,” I say, a town four hours away. “Oh!” She says, somewhat surprised. “By yourself?” “Yes, by myself,” I say, somewhat exhaustedly. “Good job Katya,” She says, slightly doubtful about my independence. Just then, another man enters and pushes everyone just a little bit further, and even starts complaining about the seating, to which someone shouts angrily at him, “Well you should get here earlier!”, to which a woman retorts, “What at 3:30 in the morning?!” The tension continues to grow and I hold my breath hoping to appear as a phantom, invisible matter in this groaning mass of human life. Then, as if it would never come, the bus fidgets to life, causing the man behind me to press up firmly against me and the shop keeper to turn slightly, settling in a position that allows her to stare freely at me, leaving me trapped in the confines of the bus, entangled with the townsfolk of Svesa.
Luckily, most of the people get off, in an uncomfortable exchange, at the next stop for the train heading to Kiev. I manage to land a seat beside the window and revel in my newfound comfort. We arrive in Yampil, the nearest town 30 minutes away, where the bus stops for a 10 minute break. Most of the people stay inside, considering the early hour and the bus remains uneventful, save for the heat that is slowly taking its toll. I stare out the window at empty glass beer bottles littered around hapless looking benches, watching men smoke cigarettes, keeping mostly to themselves. I then notice a man staggering around, eyes glazed over, fingers and toes black with dirt, approaching people absentmindedly, even coming up to the bus, mouthing to those inside who gawk at him from the windows like spectators at a zoo. The laughter starts slowly, and soon picks up loudly as people are brought to life. The man stumbles to the left, then to the right, like a baby learning to walk, retreats back inside, coming back out again, going up to the same business type looking man reading his newspaper, who repeatedly shoos him away like he would a fly, before coming back up to the bus . Some of the women close their window curtains politely, as if indecent to watch, a collective laughter forming, and as I watch him, I can’t help but think about this grown man as a young boy and I too close my curtain, with my own young students in mind.
Exiting
I awake dramatically, my eyes bursting open, my arms groping around the bed for my cell phone, my inherent fears at work, reading the clock at 4:29. I happily jump out of bed, put on the water to boil, and sit at my kitchen table, waiting in the dark, overlooking my luggage packed in the next room. After coffee, I collect my bags, take my keys and leave. I walk through the deserted streets of Svesa with luggage slung over all parts of my body and come to the bus stop where a crowd of people stand around. I set my luggage down and stand next to small groups of men chain smoking and women with wicker baskets at their sides, filled with food from their garden to sell elsewhere. The bus pulls up at 5:40 and the line forms quickly, with people clogging around the door. I see a man putting his large bag in the back, so I follow him and hand mine to the driver as well, who places it in the back. I climb inside and manage to get a seat by the window, my excitement building. We drive past all the little houses, past the neighboring village, with the old women in head scarves just beginning to pump out water from the wells, who stop and stare at the bus as it passes them, past the men without shirts standing in their front yards smoking cigarettes, awake to tend to the farm animals. I pass it all joyfully, considering it in my past, looking ahead now. The bus passes a stop named “Ivotka”, and slows. I watch as all the people leave, without a single one of them retrieving anything from the back and I walk up to the driver and politely inform him that my bag is in the back.
“Where is it?” He says in a startling voice. “In the back,” I say as quietly as I can in Russian, a risky move which might result in him asking me to repeat it in louder Russian, which will certainly cause everyone on the bus to look at me if they notice my accent.
“Why is it in the back?!” He says loudly, “The back is only for those going to Sumy,” the end destination for this 5:40 bus. “I didn’t know,” I pleaded, “I’m sorry,” and turn to see the faces on me. I exit the bus, hoping he won’t drive away, and open the back to get my bag. I close it and walk around to find the driver’s head stuck out of the door, asking, “Is it closed?” “Da,” I tell him confidently, and he looks at me for a moment more, as if to memorize my face and take a note of my blunder, and drives away, with face imprints on the windows. I continue on, trying to forget the first inconvenience of the day, and cross through a small forest, across train tracks to wait for the 6:45, which will take me to Kiev, then onto the airport, where I will then leave Ukraine for the first time in nine months.
When the shopkeeper asked me about my summer plans, I told him proudly, “I’m going to London.” He raised his eyebrows fearfully, skeptically at the information I disclosed, and shook his head up and down without a word. I decided not to mention that I was also going to Paris and Croatia as well, as to not over exaggerate the fact that I was leaving. These places are far off and unreachable for many Ukrainians, as they are only allowed to travel to Russia and Turkey. They must obtain a travel visa to go anywhere else in the world, an impossible and expensive feat for most, so such places as London and Paris are mere words, rather than destinations, notions of the unknown that sit like fairy tales in their lives. As a result, in my small town, there persists a kind of reality in which the outside world doesn’t factor in, a mindset carried over from soviet times.
When the plane lifts off the ground, an instinctive feeling of freedom takes hold of me, as well as excitement as I am soon to rejoin the outside world and be back in “the west”. I stare out the window, remembering when I first flew into Ukraine, almost ten months ago, looking out the window and seeing long, bare stretches of land, scarcity in general, which left me rather anxious, asking “where am I going??”, feelings probably exaggerated by sleep deprivation. When the plane reaches London, I look out the window and see a density of buildings, lights, and roads; a sharp contrast to my previous experience and I welcome it gratefully. I walk out of the plane and feel a real sense of relief, like I am coming home, back to the Western world. I walk into the airport terminal and stare at all the people, the coffee shops, the beautiful couches, and wait for Theresa to come find me, to bring me out into London, and soon to see my sister. When Theresa does find me, we take the tube, and walk out into the city, along the Thames, past people out celebrating for the world cup, and find a bar where we settle on the second floor balcony with a glass of wine, listening to the English all around me, overlooking the water, feeling a general sense of well being, at being back in the world.
The Return
I find my gate and settle next to a group of people, who after a few minutes of adjustment I notice are speaking Russian, familiar sounds that eerily bring me back to a previous life, to which I am now returning to. I can already feel the separation anxiety taking hold from the English speaking world, from the effortless integration of the past two weeks, and feel anxious about my return to Ukraine. On the plane, I am surrounded by English business men, who I want to ask what they are doing in Ukraine. When we are near, I look out the window and see the familiar sparse view of farm land, and feel an alienation in my new surroundings. While waiting in the line for customs, I feel a strange kinship with the business men speaking English and suddenly don’t want to be separated from them. Surely they won’t leave me, I think, knowing that I’m American, but once filtered through, they are gone and I am left alone. I pick up my bags and am met by a worker who says something in Russian, which doesn’t make sense to me, as I seem to have forgotten the past nine months of learning Russian. I shake my head and walk by him out into the front, and find a seat on the shuttle which will take me back to Kiev. The alienation increases, as the heat clings to me on the 90 degree day and the man next to me looks at me urgently, asking about the next stop, to which I can only look back at him dumbfounded, unable to help. Once in Kiev, I see I have missed all the trains that will bring me back to my town, and welcome the idea of staying a night in Kiev, and set out for a 30 minute trek uphill, arriving at a hostel doused in sweat, covered in luggage, knocking on the door, hoping to find an open bed. I sit on my bed in the hostel, talking to a boy who says he is “traveling the world”. I listen to his stories of roaming from city to city, envious of the one-week limit he imposes on each place. I tell him I’ll be here for two years.
The next day I gather all my things, strapping them to me and walk back to the train station, catching the 9:50. Leaving the vastness of Kiev, of cities in general, and into the world of small town, brings a sudden surrealism to my life and everything grows stranger as I come closer to my destination. I soon find myself passing all the little houses, past the neighboring villages, with the old women in head scarves pumping water from the wells, who stop and stare at the bus as it passes them, past the men without shirts standing in their front yards smoking cigarettes. I see Svesa in the distance, which now looks like the foreign, far- away place it always was. I exit the bus and walk as quickly as I can to my apartment, which I find to be as I left it, feeling like I am there for the first time as I did six months ago.
The next morning I tell Natasha I will meet her at the bazaar. I still feel a strong sense of energy from the cities I have been in, which sharply contrasts to the small, quiet town I am now in. I walk past the tomatoes and onions, past the peppers and carrots, seeing the same people and things as I had left them two weeks prior, and see Natasha up ahead, waiting for me.
“Hello,” I say somewhat nervously, hugging her, trying to act as normal as possible.
“Hello!,” she says back. “How was the trip, what did you do, what did you see, tell me everything!”
“Great,” I say. “It was great.” I don’t quite know how to talk about my trip, but settle for talking about attractions we saw, which will surely suffice. We decide to meet at her apartment in an hour, as I will go to the shop to buy bread. I walk to the store and find the familiar shop keeper inside, who smiles when she sees me, her mouth opening quickly, speaking to me, which sounds like a voice on fast forward. Has she always spoken this fast, I think, listening as she speaks without pausing and continues on despite my silence.
“How was your trip,” I think I hear her say, “We went to the sea, we got a tan, it was fun, want to see my pictures, we just got cutlets in, you should buy them, they are good, will you stay to look at my pictures, what would you like, where else will you go this summer, we have the bread you like in.” The words come at me fast and I can’t seem to come up with any answers, so I just shake my head up and down.
Later that day, I go over to Luida’s apartment, where Vika and her are waiting. They sit expectantly on the couch, ready for my tales from abroad. I sit across from them and again try to convey something from my trip.
“Did you see the big ben,” Luida asks, before I say anything. “Yes I did,” I answer.
“What about the tower of London,” Vika asks next. “Uh yes I did.”
“Did you ride the double decker buses?”
“Yes I was on them.”
“Is it true that all the buses are double deckers?”
“A lot of them are yes.”
“Wow.”
“ I also saw the ferris wheel.”
“Isn’t it called the London eye?” they say in unison. “Oh,” I say, slightly embarrassed at my mistake, “Yes, I guess it is.”
“And did you see the globe theater?” Luida says, the two of them continuing on like that for quite some time.
Later, I give them a few postcards from the trip, to which they praise gratefully, deciding where to hang them in their apartments.
“What impressions you must have,” Vika says, looking intently at me.
“Yes,” I say.
“Such impressions.”
Vegetables
That night Luida and Vika take me to the town’s camp, where many of my students are for the summer.
As I walk up to the fence, I hear “Anglichanka (English woman)!” being screamed out across the small territory by a small girl who comes running up to me, wrapping her hands around my waist. I soon see heads pop out of doors and faces in windows, as the news is spread. Groups of girls come up to me, while the boys hang around the cabin looking on. I see Nastya, Yulia, Marina, all my old students, who stand around me, asking me questions.
“How was your tour,” they ask. “My tour?” I say, “Oh it was nice.”
They tell me about the nightly discos, the way the boys spend all day playing football without stopping, the concert which will soon happen. They give me a tour of the place, which is half the size of a football field, consisting of small houses where the kids sleep, a cafeteria, a shower house, and a volleyball court. I feel claustrophobic already in the small space, to which they are allowed to leave just once a week.
“It’s a different life here,” Luida says beaming, looking around camp. “Yes it is,” I say, thoughts of London and Paris now far away.
That night, as I am in my apartment, my doorbell rings. I open the door to find my neighbor from the fourth floor. “Hello!” I say. “Hello!, how was your trip?” She asks. “It was great.”
She then says something I don’t quite understand, to which she guides me outside with her finger. I follow her downstairs into the cellar somewhat hesitantly, a place I have never been, down a dark, musty hallway to a closet.
She pulls out three large green vegetables, to which I take to be some kind of squash and hands them to me. “Oh!” I say surprised, “thank you”, to which she then hands me a jar of blueberries.
“Now don’t come down here alone,” she warns.
“Oh don’t worry,” I say, feeling my old life coming back to me,
“I won’t.”
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