It's a Good Day to Have a Good Day

Wednesday, March 5^th

My three-day weekend with friends was definitely as refreshing as I needed it to be.

Then, on the bus ride back to Zovreti from Zestaphoni, I sat beside one of my fifth graders and we taught each other words. He was honestly already one of my favorites. He’s an adorable kid with this girlfriend in sixth grade who is at least a head taller than him. He sits in the front of the class and looks at me with these bright blue eyes and eager smile. I want to huggle him up.


Then, yesterday, I finally got to attend dance class with some of my high school students. It was fun, both dancing and hanging out with them. And the dance teachers are both in their early twenties, which is cool for me.

12:30pm

We are reviewing a reading with the second grade class. It’s simple, but they still don’t fully get it. In traditional Russian-inspired Georgian style, my female co has a few different students read one at a time while the rest of the class listens…or doesn’t listen. Usually the latter. But it isn’t long before she looks to me and says, “shall we do something with them?” I love it when she asks me this. She really does understand that the read and regurgitate method doesn’t necessitate actual understanding, and she has noticed that activities which get the students involved are more effective. I think making these teachers realize that they have to try new methods is half of the battle.

So I end up reviewing numbers 1-10 with them. I hold up however many fingers and a dozen exited little voices scramble to say the correct number in English. They are so cute, we can’t help but grin when they keep getting hung up on the number 5.

Then, something even better happens. My co takes over again and chooses the next activity. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but to me, it means a lot. Getting Georgian teachers to realize that student engagement is more effective than zombie-learning is half the battle. Getting Georgian teachers to experiment with engaging activities is the other half.

1:30pm

Only one student is present in the 12^th grade class today.  After the three of us chat for a while, my co having to translate the whole conversation, I give him a challenge. My co will choose ten words. I will learn them in Georgian, and he will learn them in English. On Friday, she will quiz us to see who has learned more. He accepts the challenge, and the trash talking commences. With frequent pauses to ask for more English synonyms of win, of course.

2:00pm

It’s time for my weekly extra English class for grades 7-9. We do a number of activities, including a couple that my male co suggested.

On the walk home, we chat and giggle and I answer a dozen questions that we reviewed in the lesson. “What music do you like,” “What sports do you like,” etc. I happily let them practice their English with me. And I soak up the interaction.

5:00pm

It's a beautiful day, so I decide to go for a walk. The neighbors stare at me as I pass by, either because I am the new American teacher or just because Georgians are lazy and going for a walk on any day seems silly.

I go to the school, and see one of my students there. He, his mom, and his little sister are cleaning the school. I share a very light-hearted but linguistically limited chat with them and head back down the road. I’m not far before I run into a random village dude, and then some of the kids who live in the houses nearby. I recognize a couple, including a little buddy of mine from the dance studio. I meet their mom and hang out with them for a bit. They bring out their adorable puppy, I get out my camera, and we take a million photos.

7:00pm

At home, when we sit down for dinner, my host mom gives me a normal size plate instead of a big bowl, which is also a victory of sorts. Traditional Georgian hospitality requires that hosts feed their guests to their hearts’ content. In real life, that seems to translate into feeding them a dubious amount of food no matter how realistically said amount can fit into a guest’s stomach.

10:00pm

I even get to take a shower tonight. I don’t get to bathe myself, as the mom holds the shower head for me…again. I’m not really sure how to politely ask to bathe myself. But afterwards I am at least able to convince her that I can brush my own hair this time. It’s a step.

So this is still hard. And I am still thinking that next semester I should find a place where I can be surrounded by other young adventurers who speak English. But right now, all I can do is take it one day at a time. And today, I had a really good day.

My First Georgian Excursion

Friday, February 28^th

11:00am

Classes are all short today so that the teachers can go on an excursion to an old church in Tbilisi, where the body of a Georgian saint is being kept for the weekend. As teachers trickle into the teacher’s room after their last classes, we sit down to celebrate one teacher’s birthday with cake. And homemade wine. And some Russian drink that is definitely more alcoholic than wine. And a little prompting from our directorio (principle), who notices how slowly my wine is disappearing and asks, “Don’t you drink?!”

Not anything we would expect in a school back home. But I can certainly enjoy the differences. I think I’ll enjoy the excursion, too. At the very least it gives me a free marshutka ride to start off my three-day weekend out of the village. I'll hang out with friends in Tbilisi, then head to Bakuriani for a ski trip with other friends. Monday is a holiday, so I don't have to return to Zovreti until then.

5:00pm

We are running on Georgian time, aka late, but finally reach the old and respected Semeba Cathedral.  The walk from our marshutka to the church is heartbreaking. Every beggar in Tbilisi seems to have found a place to camp out.

When we get there, there are already hundreds of people crowding together on the cathedral steps. I ask my co, “What are those people doing?”

“They are in a queue.”

“To see the monk’s dead body?”

“Of course.”

Of course. What else would they be waiting so long for? Silly American me.

Before long, I give up on the monk viewing and leave early so as to not be late meeting up with friends. My co and his brother walk me to the metro, scan a card, and push me through before I can ask which train I’m supposed to take. Thankfully there are only two options.

10:00pm

I’m at a Georgian restaurant drinking and talking with quite an interesting group. There’s the Georgian university student who I just happened to meet at the airport during my connecting flight from Istanbul to Tbilisi. He was traveling home from a semester in Estonia. There are also a couple teachers from the same batch of Teach and Learners as myself: the Irishman who spent six months in China just to learn kung fu and the Scotsman who has already taught in Japan and Thailand. Then there is a friend of the Scotsman, who he met in Serbia, and who happens to be a fellow Arkansan and a Teach and Learn veteran. Quite possibly the only other person from my little state who has even done Teach and Learn with Georgia. And here we are meeting through a mutual friend who is from a completely different part of the world.  How does that even happen? I don’t know, but I love it. I enjoy the conversation. I enjoy the company. I enjoy being part of a group of young adventurers who care about the world and its happenings and its past and its future. And its present.

I really belong here. I thrive here. Not in any place, but here.

Cakes Weren't Meant for Eating

Tuesday February 25^th

9:00am

I’m at my school, about to start another day of co-teaching. I’m feeling down. I haven’t adjusted to the language barrier, and I miss all the friends I made in orientation. As I go from class to class, the inefficiencies of the Georgian education system add to my gloom. These kids read and recite English all day, but can’t actually communicate in English at all. They know more than I ever will about the past simple perfect whatever tense, but can’t even ask me how old I am without a co-teacher translating. It is legitimately baffling that any system of teaching a language could be so terrible that years of study could yield absolutely zero ability to produce or express ideas in said language. A co notices my mood and comments. I guess I’m not a good actor. But I do love hanging out with my students, and today after school I’ll get to join in on a traditional dance class with the high schoolers. Surely I’ll find some energy to feed on there.

1:00pm

My co is reminded that the teachers have a funeral to attend after school today. Will I join them? I’ll have to skip dance class. The one thing I was looking forward too. But how can I say no? I’m a teacher in this community, and I have social obligations to fulfil accordingly. Why can’t I enjoy the independence of adult life without the responsibilities? Why can’t I have my cake and eat it too?

3:00pm

The funeral is boring. We comfort the mourners for about five minutes, then go wait in the yard with all the other guests. My female co isn’t around and my male co is socializing with the other men, so I kind of just stand around with the women, not knowing what the conversation is about except when I look up to see that they are all smiling and staring at me as they talk. They seem to adore me. Or at least the pretty, polite little slice of me they interact with.

After what seems like forever, we load into a marshutka (bus) and drive to the nearest “big” town for a supra (feast). I realize that maybe this funeral thing is good for me right now…it gives me all afternoon to quietly wallow in my misery. Sometimes I just need to wallow before I can get back at it.

A Surprise Visit(ation)

Thursday, February 20th

I’m at school with the male co-teacher and everything is going well. We are with the first graders, who are adorable. The bell rings before we have finished the lesson, and my co-teacher tells me that class has been cut short so that we can see the school accountant. Will I come? Sure, I’ll come.

I’m thinking maybe the school accountant is one who we give account to, or check in with, rather than one who keeps account of the money, especially after I realize that EVERY TEACHER in the school is going. Seriously, I have no idea who we are leaving with the building full of kids. We walk down a muddy road near the school. My male co is up ahead with the couple of other men who work at the school and I must walk with the other women at a pace of about 0.00000000001 miles per hour. I actually have to make a continuous conscious effort to go slow enough and stay with the pack. The female co isn’t there today, so I have no one to ask for more details as to what exactly we are doing.

We stop to wait for a missing teacher. I hear wailing in a house nearby and can’t tell if someone is angry or crying or what. Oh well, Georgians are very loud and unreserved about expressing their emotions, so it could just be someone angry about lunch being burnt.

But when the missing teacher arrives and the turtle walk continues, I realize that we are going into the house with the wailing. For a minute I’m seriously wondering if in Georgian culture, the school accountants are shaman-like personas and if we will be given a big speech completely in hysterical yelling. What kind of ritual could this possibly be?

As we file into the upstairs room, I see that the source of the wailing is a middle aged woman, seated with a row of other women, all in tears. In front of them is a coffin. It’s empty. The body is laying outside of it, covered in a white sheet.

Yeah. I walk in the room and there is a DEAD FREAKING BODY. Furthermore, I can’t in any graceful way remove myself from the procession of teachers as it passes the mourning family, but I don’t know any of them or what to do so I just pass by in silence as the women around me comfort them. We then stand around for a while, many of the teachers tearing up, and listen to the woman lamenting her sorrow over the loss of her loved one. It really is a solemn sight, and even I have to fight tears when the woman goes to the body and pulls back the blanket to kiss the deceased on the cheek. One of the teachers goes to her to calm her down and pull her back to her seat.

Afterward we make our way back to the school and teach the rest of the day’s lessons.

So yeah….what an interesting experience. That evening at dinner, I entertain my family by using a combination of charades and broken Georgian to tell them about my day. They get a kick out of it. So at least the situation provides for some host-family bonding. This is going to be a crazy adventure, but I really think I’m already starting to feel ok.

Holy catchapuri, what have I gotten myself into?

Wednesday February 19th

It’s my second full day and I am already exhausted.

I like school. One co-teacher is a young man who is motivated and ready to take advantage of having a native English speaker in his lessons. The other co-teacher is an older woman who is very kind to me and lets me speak or do activities when I ask, though she doesn’t plan her use of me beforehand. I absolutely love the students and want to be at school from start to finish instead of just my required classes with the 1^st-6^th grades, but I know that settling into two different co-teaching strategies will be challenging.

And being at home is always challenging. Don’t get me wrong, my host family is great. They are very friendly, the food is delicious, and I have the whole upstairs part of the house to myself. But not having anyone around who speaks the same language is absolutely exhausting.

I try not to stay in my room all day, as Georgian society is traditionally a collective society, and families tend to spend all day together in the common room or kitchen. However, sitting there for hours not saying much or being able to express myself is frustrating. Listening to everyone around me and still not having any clue what is going on is boring. And although my host sister-in-law is fairly good at finding a way to communicate things to me when need be, the process is very tiring. And I don’t have internet so that venue of escape or even communication with my family back home is out of the picture for now.

The only way I can rest or relax is to withdraw to my room and study Georgian or call the friends I made during orientation.

But this worries the family. This evening we are playing cards. Well, I’m not really playing cards, because even though it is a game I know, a Georgian friend of the family is “helping” me, aka playing for me. I think people have a tendency to associate language ability with mental ability. I don’t mean that in a snide way. Back at my university in Arkansas, it was something myself and some other students who volunteered with internationals were specifically warned to be conscious of. But anyway, I get bored, and eventually excuse myself and head up to my room. It isn’t long before the sister who lives in Tbilisi and speaks a little English is texting to ask how I am, which she is obviously relaying to the family. Eventually the sister-in-law comes up as well, brining catchapuri and tea and sympathizing with how much work I have.

Despite all the concerns, I stay in my room as long as I can. I’m not mad at anyone. But already, in my second full day in my village, this experience is kicking my ass. I guess I’m starting to realize what I’ve gotten myself into. There is no escape from work except for solitude. Solitude is rude, however. No freedom to come and go from the house as I please. Nowhere to go, anyway. And there is no way to change the situation. Until I learn more Georgian, at least.

But I also realize that the adventurer in me and the masochist in me are interconnected. In the past, when I heard stories like this from others, these parts, the hard parts, made my adrenaline pump as much as any others. I would always wonder if I could handle it. And how much more badass I would be for it afterward. And after all, there is no great adventure without conflict or hardship. So yes, right now it sucks, but I can handle it, and I’ll get through it. Maybe it won’t get to an easy place, maybe there will be continual struggles this semester. But this is what I was asking for-this is what I wanted. And I can do this.

Welcome to your new life....

Monday, February 17th

After our last breakfast at Hotel Sakartvelo, myself and the other teachers say our goodbyes and board our region-specific marshutkas (buses). I'll be in the village of Zovreti in the Imereti Region.

There are about half a dozen of us in the Imereti Region marshutka. About halfway, we stop at a restaurant with a separate building for toilets.  Unlike those in our hotel in Tbilisi, these are Turkish style toilets. We have to pay thirty tetri for toilet paper, the smell is rancid, and there are no doors or even curtains to close off the three stalls. Call me strange, but I get a kick out of it, and even a little bit of excitement about the adventure ahead.

Back on the road, we joke about not wanting to be the first off the bus. Of course, I am the first off the bus.

I can tell from our very first introductions that the host family doesn't speak English. This will be a challenge. Just what I like.

As I am waiting for the supra, or special dinner feast, I am sitting at the table with the three year old. He randomly punches me right in the nose. The grandpa says “ooh!” loud enough to get the attention of the others in the next room, but I can’t just sit there and recover. I have to show them that it really isn’t ok. I go up to my room and shut the door, and try to use the opportunity to cry. I don’t cry that much, because I don’t feel negative emotions that much. I don’t know if they are suppressed or really just not there or what, but the fear and anxiety of all the coming challenges that I know about in my head just haven’t shown up in my chest. But I know crying is healthy sometimes, so I do it until my host sister-in-law comes in with the boy and makes him apologize.

The supra is fun, even though I don't always know what is going on. We toast to a number of things, and establish that I can smoke here and my host family won't assume I'm a "tsudi gogo," or bad girl, as is the typical attitude in villages towards women who smoke.  Actually the word they used in orientation was "whore," but I don't know how to say that in Georgian. I'm not a regular smoker or anything, but I feel like it will play a role in my navigating and challenging Georgian gender stereotypes.