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Jaazaniah*, 2003

Jaazaniah*, 2003

Holding a picture and a “never, never” you were a gritter of teeth and a ram, but because you heard Him you answered yes. You stepped into a heavyset bus with orange curtains in the land of Rus, where you fell and jammed the knee to a bruise, ripening under pale skin. A bumpy endless night follows, with a skipping refrain from a silver Walkman:

And I know that someday soon, you’ll make sense of this despair, and your love, your love, will get me there.

Open the shutters and see the first summer that you were awake, drink the sparkling stars and tall, skinny pines like a shot of vodka, with shivers and burn and clarity.

Earth, rain, mud, sense and a cry, the original cry that was answered with the unexpected, longed for yes.

Through flooded showers with strangers’ hair grabbing at feet like snakes, through mosquitos feasting on flesh layered in sweat and dirt, through a shared mascara and a new friend who shared your name there was that yes,

the yes that answered the question, the original question.

You sat there, twelve and ancient, infinite and tired, tasked with tasking the children with crafts you didn’t understand, and some tasks just don’t make sense in the entropy, and the prayer pours out in all its young, eternal specificity:

“Let it rain God, a rain with drops big like I’ve never seen, but let it be for only five minutes.”

And when the sky immediately rumbles and cries your tears of relief, it is all naturalness to you, but

joy, joy, joy!

Joy in an oversized grey hoodie, running through the forest path in the giddy hope that defines you. Slick with the answer dripping off your face, through your clothes, breathless and known.

I have now seen the One who sees me.

He was in this place and I did not know it.

*Jaazaniah is one of my middle names. It means “the Lord hears.”

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Incoherence

This space has been silent since October. Part of it was the thyroid problem that sneakily sucked my energy during the winter months. But mostly, I think it’s that I’ve felt I’ve had nothing to say that I didn’t say during that 9 month stretch as a foreigner who bungee jumped every morning into the unknown.

Nine months was more like nine years or a century, and I realize that just because I can’t talk about it doesn’t mean I’ve said everything I have to say, will need to say.

The thoughts that come are incoherent but acute, little knives of memory and meaning.

I walked in the rain yesterday, and the chilly little drops slipped through my hair to my skull.

I smile and laugh when a Russian grandmother voice chastises me: Ты что без шапки!? What are you doing without a hat!? But despite the voice, I’m not there and am free to tempt fate by dangerously walking in the rain без шапки. I miss the voice of the collective Russian grandmother, but I shiver at the thought of going back.

On the walk I have nothing except my iPhone, snug in the back pocket of my jeans.  I start to think about the nights I treated it almost like salvation, sobbing into it during the breakdowns (there were many) to hear the voice of my parents, one constant when I knew no one and nothing and I couldn’t even leave my Soviet-era obschezhitiye without getting lost in the city.

I think about the many items that remain in our lives, constant, indifferent to events and changes, reminders of time’s brevity and how old we’ve become. The shoes I am wearing, L.L. Bean hiking boots, were the same ones that molded to my feet 6 years ago in the mountains of New York on that emotional pre-Gordon kayaking trip. I now walk in them years later as a different person, and I feel there has to be some significance in this.

There has to be some significance in the fact that inanimate objects can serve as milestones that invite us to consider the connections and continuity of our lives, of how a dress can be so much more than a dress- because I was wearing that dress when I talked to him for the first time,

when I found out I made it through the first round of the competition for a ticket to teach abroad,

when I gave that presentation in Russian, a whole twenty minutes long!

With each wearing of those boots, that dress, I am reminded that with every experience, we all deepen into a more complicated story that becomes harder and harder to tell.

I can’t quite form the significance into words, and for a moment, I think it means I shouldn’t write about it just yet.

I teach academic English to international students, and I attempt to pound into them the importance of well-structured essays that have a clear thesis statement and sufficient support. I have to do the same as a Masters student, to weekly churn out assignments that exemplify the ever-important criteria of organization and coherent thought.

I’m tired of it.

Maybe I want to think and write incoherently, because there is beauty in the thinking process, in the unrobotic lack of a clear thesis statement for this blog post,

for the walk in the rain,

for this process of processing Russia.

Instead of forcing myself to structure it, wouldn’t it be nice if the conclusion wasn’t the goal, and in a rebellious, healthy act I could just st

Reorientation Ramblings

I sit on the sturdy plastic chair across from my doctor, a vibrant yet calming middle-aged woman who has been more of a counselor than a physician to me.

“You look older,” she says.

My weight is the same, my hair still that thick auburn, but I think she’s looking at my eyes.

“If I were to guess your age, I would say about 25.”

She also tells me that maybe, just maybe, I might have developed an ulcer.

~

Strangely, the journey home was tied up as neatly as a Hallmark movie, a stark contrast to the genre I’d gotten used to. While waiting for my flight from Russia to Germany, I checked my phone to find I had been accepted to the Masters in TESOL program I had applied for. At Gordon graduation, I would have thrown a tantrum at the prospect of more school. Now, I see it as a way to do what I’ve learned that I love doing.

In Germany, while waiting to board my plane to Boston, my tired eyes landed, surprised, on an old acquaintance from college. He was my T.A. freshman year, the one who had first told me about the Fulbright program.  I approached him and we talked for two minutes, small talk mostly, but for me, significant. As I boarded the plane, as silly as it sounds, I realized that I was older. I smiled as I  remembered the nervous freshman who had to rally every last bit of courage to say a word to the genius senior who held the answers to the meaning of life. Coming full circle so seamlessly- can it be coincidental?

No, there are no coincidences in His kingdom.

~

I was reintroduced to English on the plane when a middle-aged southern “gentleman” shouted out as I walked by “you’re lovely!” Though the timing was right, in my two-day old clothes with hair slicked back in a braid and my nerd glasses on, I doubted he was referring to me. My doubts evaporated when he followed me down to the basement floor where the bathrooms were and exclaimed “you’re positively lovely!”

I didn’t go to the bathroom the rest of the plane ride.

~

Preparing myself for reverse culture shock was unnecessary.  As Mom and Dad drive me home from the airport, I do notice that the roads on the highway are really, really smooth.

But haven’t they always been that way?

The waitress at the steak house we stop at speaks English and has a wide smile that I am supposed to rejoice at.

But aren’t waitresses always that way?

I drive the car for the first time in nine months, and it feels comfortable, natural, freedom to the tune of country music and windows rolled down.  Coffee makers and reliable hot showers and not straining to find the right words are taken for granted, because that’s the way things have always been.

Things have always been this way, yet I feel that I’ve taken a backpack off. A backpack full of rocks, a bag I got used to hauling everywhere until I couldn’t remember life without it. Now, I am surprised at how easy it is to walk. I think I could even run.

Still, it is not automatic to be the person you’ve become in the place where you were a different person, in a place where you hadn’t conquered the fears you faced in a different dimension. It was Narnia, where you fought and grew and were crowned. Now that you’re back, you have to fight to keep that identity.

~

I now stand like Polly and Digory in the Wood between the Worlds, in limbo, in that oscillation between a joyful trust fall and a distrustful cynicism.

There is so much I want to do! I want to write that book, start a Russian school, travel, teach, go to grad school, fall in love, buy a car, pay off my student loans!

My brain is an exclamation point.

My brain is an exclamation point, but maybe I’ve missed the message in caps before that eager piece of punctuation.

SLOW DOWN!

I am not used to slowing down.

The past five years have been to and from and flights and car rides and new semesters and new places and new people and new jobs and since I was, 18 life has been a perpetual run on sentence and I’ve never stopped.

How does one stop? 

~

Since I’ve been back, I’ve dreamed twice about juggling. It is a failure dream, of Dad and me passing clubs like we have a thousand times, but this time, I drop every pass. The shiny blue pins are foreign in my hands. We try again and again, and Dad assures the audience that we’ll get it. I go through the familiar, confident motions, but the clubs slip through my hands like butter.

~

Four days after I returned, I coached at a basketball camp, the camp that I went to as a sixth grader, the camp that I came home from crying the first day then went back and faced my fears. I hadn’t played basketball in a while, but it came back to me as easily as hot showers and coffeemakers. The familiar drills were therapy for a mind that was dying for distraction from the implications of uprooting and replanting. I was the coach question of the day, and the little girls soon found out that it was me who spent the last nine months in Russia. One asked why, and when I gave her a bite size answer, she looked at me matter-of-factly and said,

“That’s no reason to go down to Russia.”

All I could do was laugh.

Walking Home, Significant Details

There are less than two weeks to go, and the lack of time concentrates significance into every step. The sounds, colors, smells of this little city, unknown at this time last year, are now dear, родной.

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The familiarity that nine months creates can lull me into not noticing, but the knowledge that 14 blocks of 24 hours is all that separates me from another world wakes me up to savor, to store up memories of the small and significant.

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The call to prayer can be heard from the mosque, deep, throaty Arabic, unintelligible except for the haunting, guttural, drawn-out cry of “Allah, Allah.”

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The dust sneaks inside my shoes with each step, and I remember a friend’s advice: don’t take pictures only of what is considered conventionally beautiful, because then you objectify the place, the experience, rob it of its grit and character.

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I know I won’t see windows like this when I get home,

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and I will see cats, but not on every corner, wild and afraid.

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The white marshrutka, the ubiquitous, sometimes scary, but mostly dependable transport will be something I miss.

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I’ll also miss the colors, where I come from we usually prefer the not-so-bright.

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I will, however, be glad to be able to sit on a bench in the winter without being told that I have just ruined any chance of having children.

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I’ll miss being surprised by where the sidewalk ends.

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And I’ve come to enjoy my dusty walks to the store to buy 5 liter jugs of water and bread, cucumbers and tomatoes.

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And then there is the red fire tower, my landmark, telling me that I’m almost home.

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And my favorite bus stop, where a 4 or 5 bus will drop me off right in front of my dorm, my arms full of bags of milk and pelmeni and candied ginger.

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House 24Б, my home for nine months.

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The metal door that is always unlocked,

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the windowsill where I get my mail,

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the sign that warns non-dorm dwellers to stay out, which is mostly for show.

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And I am home.

I am almost, almost home.

Return to Vladimir

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged, mostly because I’ve been sick the whole month of May 😦 Allergies in Elabuga hit me hard, and what started out at seasonal sneezing and itchy eyes turned into a full-blown bronchitis-y sickness that drove me to antibiotics and laying in bed for four days straight. Thanks to Hanna’s z-pack and the help of a doctor back home, I was able to avoid going to the hospital here and recreating my experience with Konstantine the dentist.

Now that I’m feeling better, the end of my time in Tatarstan seems closer than ever. Today marks the first day of June, which means I can say that I will be going home this month. This is both exciting and bittersweet. Although I am ready to go home, this semester has been a time of deepening the relationships that I made when I first got here, and I know there are so many people that I am going to miss. I want to continue this train of thought, but first, I can’t forget to recount Hanna’s and my adventures in Vladimir at the beginning of May right before I got sick.

Vladimir has held a very special place in my heart since I studied there through the Critical Language Scholarship in 2012. Through some “coincidental” acquaintances (nothing is ever coincidental in His kingdom), I was able to get involved in a local church, and some really special friendships developed. I remember my summer there as a time of hope and adventure and growth, and I will take every opportunity I can to go back and visit the special people that made my summer so meaningful.

As most things happen in Russia, our plans to Vladimir were made fairly last minute. With some hastily bought e-tickets and backpacks stuffed with clothes and chak-chak, Hanna and I flew to Moscow from Tatarstan at 6:00 am, where we would meet our крутая program officer Marina and catch a train to Vladimir. We ate Georgian cheese bread and гуляли without a care and thought we had plenty of time to make our train at Kurskiy Voksal.

Marina, me, and Hanna outside of Kievskiy Vokzal in Moscow.

Hanna and I made it to Kurskiy Vokzal (the train station) with at least 30 minutes to find our train. Moscow train stations are usually easy to navigate, but Kurskiy was a different story. We walked into the buzzing atrium of chaos to find no information about our train’s platform on any of the many screens. What began as leisurely scanning the screens quickly grew into a panicked search as the minutes ticked by. With less than fifteen minutes to find our train, we were running up and down platforms, frantically begging passersby for this seemingly nonexistent information. The first man we asked looked at me and said “Eto tupik!” Assuming that this word shared the same root as the word “tupoy,” which means dullwitted, I thought he was calling me stupid for not being able to find the train, which didn’t help my mood. More running. Allergies and humidity and a heavy backpack made me feel like I was running through marshmallow fluff. Ten minutes was now all we had. We ran up to the main platform and addressed a policeman with a bull-dog face, who addressed Colonel Sanders’ younger brother (Hanna’s observation 🙂 ). Colonel Sanders’ younger brother was surprisingly smiley for a Russian man, and joyfully pointed toward a distant platform. “This is tupik, girls. You still have five minutes!” With a heavily breathed bolshoye spasiba, we were off, sprinting through that marshmallow fluff toward a distant yellow train. We made it to a turnstile where the women on duty kindly let us through without a problem when they saw our red-faced distress. “Just say your last name, girls, and go!” With a “Miller!” and a “Johnson!” we were sprinting toward wagon number 6. We made it. We actually made it. At 3:15, 3 minutes before the train was to leave, we stepped onto a peaceful, almost domestic scene of children eating ice cream and mothers chatting and a guy playing his guitar. The train began to move, and we were headed toward Vladimir. Victory. Adrenaline. We both agreed we hadn’t had that much fun in a long, long time. Thus began our adventures.

On the train writing about our just-making the train with a feather pen that lasted for about 5 lines.

When we got to Vladimir, we took a bus to the hostel I had booked. The only problem was that the hostel didn’t actually exist. Although the website had looked a little fishy, (the last review had been written in 2012, and there was a notice about not ordering online because they were moving locations), I received e-mail confirmation of our reservation. The address of the hostel turned out to be a very regular apartment, and every other hostel I called was booked due to the busy holiday weekend. This is where my friend Masha came to the rescue. Masha is one of the wonderful people I met through the church in 2012, and I was already planning on visiting with her the next day. She works at a hostel that is located inside the church building, and although the hostel was already full, she spoke to the director for us and they let us spend two nights in the church library!

The next day, Masha and her brother Daniel came with us on a picnic to my favorite place in all of Russia, the Church Pokrova Na Nerli. This church was built in the 12th century and stands on a small hill in the middle of a field that has a small path that leads to it. Some have described the walk as a pilgrimage, and I would agree 🙂

 

In the early spring, the field is flooded and you have to take a boat to get to the church. It is at once simple and picturesque, earthy and magical. Here is a picture that Hanna took that will do much more justice that my words could:

I was also able to buy my mom a beautiful shawl for Mother’s Day at the beginning of the field:

The next day, Hanna, Amanda (another Fulbrighter) and I met up with Bethany, the girl who had originally connected me with the church. She and her fiance, Oleg, who I had gotten to know during CLS, invited us to a shashlik in the countryside in honor of their friend Zhenya’s birthday. On the way to Mordysh, which sounds so much like Mordor, Bethany and Oleg stopped the car to show us a very out-of-place sign:

“Welcome of Detroit.”  I would have thought we were in America if it weren’t for the grammatical mistake.

While the guys prepared shashlik, the girls chopped cheese, kielbasa, and veggies:

After eating enough to last us for a week, we were invited to use the banya, which is a true Russian experience.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Russian banya, it is basically like a sauna, except much more humid and almost hot enough to make a Maine girl faint. You go in with your comrades, where you chat, beat each other with aromatic branches, and sweat. If you stay hydrated and take frequent breaks, it is a very refreshing experience.

After the girls got done in the banya, the guys wanted to make more shashkik, so we roasted meat and laughed while the sun set.

Vladimir, I will return. I love you too much not to.

 

 

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