Passports, Violence and Cellar Wine
Things have been a little sad here as I prepare to leave for vacation. I’m obviously excited to travel, and it seems normal for me to ask my students and those around me here what they’re doing for vacation. For some reason I can’t turn off the need to ask these question, for me it’s the simplest means of proving to someone that you’re interested in their life. But by now I’ve probably asked over 100 people, who all answer with the same response: Staying home. Working at home. Resting at home. If the question is turned towards me this unfounded guilt comes over me, and I’m embarrassed to list the countries I’ll be traveling to. Just because I was born in America, I can travel without a worry in the world—an American passport is gold abroad. But for a Moldovan, anytime they try to leave their country they are met with hundreds of questions, rules, regulations and restrictions. The world doesn’t want people like Moldovans ‘sucking the wealth out of their countries’ by traveling abroad and working. I was born in America, thus I have an American passport and US dollars. My host mother was born in Moldova, her passport means nothing, and her money means less.
We are both women in our twenties, who like to learn, cook and dance together. Why don’t we have the same rights?
Alexandru, my host father, who has been working in Italy the whole time I’ve been in Moldova, thought he’d be able to come home for Christmas. Viorica, my host mom explained to me last week that this might not actually happen. Abroad, Alexandru works for credit. His boss in Italy takes total advantage of him, sometimes with 14 hour work days. He receives money for food and for an apartment, and nothing else. According to his boss, “Alexandru won’t be leaving, he has no papers to do so, so why would he need any money.” If Alex wants to send a package home to Viorica, he has to lie and say one of his children is in the hospital to get money from his boss. After telling his boss he’d be going home for Christmas, his boss refused—he doesn’t have the money to pay him now. Alex can’t get any kind of help because he’s ‘illegal.’ He has received this arbitrary label for one simple reason: he was born in Moldova. Where is the logic in this?
My dad will be meeting us on our trip to Spain. During a conversation with my 8 year old host sister, Cristina, she was happy to hear I’ll have this time to visit with him. And then, the next natural step in her thought process reflected her own experience, and she asked me, “But how will your dad get back to America?” We were walking through a thick fog on the way to school, which blurred the mask of tears I wore on my face as I tried to contemplate what I could possibly say to her. How was I to explain to this 8 year old child, a child who prays every night she’ll see her father for Christmas, that my father won’t have a problem leaving Spain. He can come and go as he pleases. Why? Because he has an American passport.
It’s been a bit heart-wrenching to be honest. At what point did our global world begin to value the lives of humans in accordance with the country indicated on their passport?
I’ve also had some frustrating experiences at school lately. One of my 10th grade classes was grouped together because they share a common situation—all of their parents are working abroad. These students live alone or with younger siblings, make the fire in their houses for warmth during the winter alone, cook alone, eat alone, and wake up alone. For obvious and expected reasons, they have no desire to come to school, do work, nor can they make a connection that health would actually matter in their lives anyway. Needless to say, this is a class I am constantly struggling with.
In August, I planned to teach one lesson on violence in school. After the first lesson, especially with these 10th graders, it became abundantly clear that one lesson wouldn’t come close to sufficing. I taught three lessons—135 minutes devoted to violence. During our review, when I proposed a question about domestic violence, I was told that, “Sometimes, it’s necessary to hit a woman.” You can imagine my disgust, which of course I didn’t show in the ways I wanted to. In my classes, the students know they have a right to their opinion, always. But with that, they know they must be able to articulate WHY they believe what they believe—it is not sufficient, nor is it helpful to make blank comments without justification. In this student’s explanation of his opinion, I was told if a wife comes home from the market late, without calling, she deserves to be hit by her husband. I had to walk to the front of the room and take 4 deep breaths as to not cry in front of my 10th graders. It was then that I realized something that will probably be a crucial notion to my time here—I simply cannot shake these students of certain ideas, traditions, and cultural norms merely with my presence and declaration of my opinion. These ideas are deeply ingrained in their heads, and I might not ever be able to get through to them. And furthermore, I don’t always have the Moldovan help that I need. During this discussion, my partner teacher was sitting at a desk in the class, doing other work. I said, very clearly, “Doamna Tatiana, Help me here.” Barely realizing what was going on, she asked someone the definition of physical violence. She was happy, because one student had memorized it and recited it to the class. “See,” she told me, “There’s no problem here.” After class we talked for longer than we ever have about the now proven fact that memorization is a useless ideal, left over from the Soviet Era style of teaching, which has no bearing on whether or not someone understands a concept.
Yesterday with my 9th graders I was told if a woman is pregnant, but isn’t married, she is guilty. When I asked if the man was guilty, I was smacked with a loud and proud No. Where is the sense here? So I asked them if women and men are equal. Of course they’re not equal, I was told, “this isn’t America, there is work outside the house for men that women aren’t capable of, and work inside the house for women.” Furthermore, they told me, “if one parent has to go abroad and work, it should be the man of course, he is stronger, can lift more at the construction site, and is less likely to get robbed.” How can I respond to this?
But there are good days too. After a 30 minute discussion with my 5th graders about whether or not it’s ‘normal’ for a man to cry, I think they finally felt confident that just because someone cries, it does not mean they are any ‘weaker’ than someone who holds it in. (My point was made here at the expense of my dad, and Scott, to whom I owe infinite thanks. After explaining, with great hyperbole, that growing up, I saw my dad cry all the time, and that even though he’s 25, when my boyfriend needs to cry, he does just that, I think they felt empowered to do some crying of their own.) It really is about small gains here, small victories that will hopefully have larger subsequent change.
And I’ll leave you all with a story, which reveals a Moldovan home remedy. I caught a little bit of a cold a few weeks ago, and was given advice by Gheorge, Scott’s host dad. Gheorge explained that to instantly kill a cold, I had to drink warm red wine, with one teaspoon of sugar and one teaspoon of pepper. He’s such a nice guy, whose pride about his wine is so strong that I’ve never once been able to decline ‘one mouthful,’ as they say here. Gheorge was off to the cellar to get some wine before I fully committed to this decision, and thankfully, Scott is a wonderful person who promised to endure the boiled, sugared and then peppered, cellar-wine with me. And so we drank it. It was probably the worst taste I have ever, in my 23 years, experienced in the bowels of every single taste bud on my tongue. Best part of the story—I woke up the next morning with a clear nose, feeling better than I had in days.
Love to all for the holidays.
(I’m still trying to figure out the picture thing. I promise after vacation I’ll figure it out for good, and show you all Moldova. To get you excited—yesterday I spent 40 minutes with the sheep herder from a small village, who had collected the neighborhood’s sheep for the day’s herding, and I took over 40 pictures of him with his sheep.)
We are both women in our twenties, who like to learn, cook and dance together. Why don’t we have the same rights?
Alexandru, my host father, who has been working in Italy the whole time I’ve been in Moldova, thought he’d be able to come home for Christmas. Viorica, my host mom explained to me last week that this might not actually happen. Abroad, Alexandru works for credit. His boss in Italy takes total advantage of him, sometimes with 14 hour work days. He receives money for food and for an apartment, and nothing else. According to his boss, “Alexandru won’t be leaving, he has no papers to do so, so why would he need any money.” If Alex wants to send a package home to Viorica, he has to lie and say one of his children is in the hospital to get money from his boss. After telling his boss he’d be going home for Christmas, his boss refused—he doesn’t have the money to pay him now. Alex can’t get any kind of help because he’s ‘illegal.’ He has received this arbitrary label for one simple reason: he was born in Moldova. Where is the logic in this?
My dad will be meeting us on our trip to Spain. During a conversation with my 8 year old host sister, Cristina, she was happy to hear I’ll have this time to visit with him. And then, the next natural step in her thought process reflected her own experience, and she asked me, “But how will your dad get back to America?” We were walking through a thick fog on the way to school, which blurred the mask of tears I wore on my face as I tried to contemplate what I could possibly say to her. How was I to explain to this 8 year old child, a child who prays every night she’ll see her father for Christmas, that my father won’t have a problem leaving Spain. He can come and go as he pleases. Why? Because he has an American passport.
It’s been a bit heart-wrenching to be honest. At what point did our global world begin to value the lives of humans in accordance with the country indicated on their passport?
I’ve also had some frustrating experiences at school lately. One of my 10th grade classes was grouped together because they share a common situation—all of their parents are working abroad. These students live alone or with younger siblings, make the fire in their houses for warmth during the winter alone, cook alone, eat alone, and wake up alone. For obvious and expected reasons, they have no desire to come to school, do work, nor can they make a connection that health would actually matter in their lives anyway. Needless to say, this is a class I am constantly struggling with.
In August, I planned to teach one lesson on violence in school. After the first lesson, especially with these 10th graders, it became abundantly clear that one lesson wouldn’t come close to sufficing. I taught three lessons—135 minutes devoted to violence. During our review, when I proposed a question about domestic violence, I was told that, “Sometimes, it’s necessary to hit a woman.” You can imagine my disgust, which of course I didn’t show in the ways I wanted to. In my classes, the students know they have a right to their opinion, always. But with that, they know they must be able to articulate WHY they believe what they believe—it is not sufficient, nor is it helpful to make blank comments without justification. In this student’s explanation of his opinion, I was told if a wife comes home from the market late, without calling, she deserves to be hit by her husband. I had to walk to the front of the room and take 4 deep breaths as to not cry in front of my 10th graders. It was then that I realized something that will probably be a crucial notion to my time here—I simply cannot shake these students of certain ideas, traditions, and cultural norms merely with my presence and declaration of my opinion. These ideas are deeply ingrained in their heads, and I might not ever be able to get through to them. And furthermore, I don’t always have the Moldovan help that I need. During this discussion, my partner teacher was sitting at a desk in the class, doing other work. I said, very clearly, “Doamna Tatiana, Help me here.” Barely realizing what was going on, she asked someone the definition of physical violence. She was happy, because one student had memorized it and recited it to the class. “See,” she told me, “There’s no problem here.” After class we talked for longer than we ever have about the now proven fact that memorization is a useless ideal, left over from the Soviet Era style of teaching, which has no bearing on whether or not someone understands a concept.
Yesterday with my 9th graders I was told if a woman is pregnant, but isn’t married, she is guilty. When I asked if the man was guilty, I was smacked with a loud and proud No. Where is the sense here? So I asked them if women and men are equal. Of course they’re not equal, I was told, “this isn’t America, there is work outside the house for men that women aren’t capable of, and work inside the house for women.” Furthermore, they told me, “if one parent has to go abroad and work, it should be the man of course, he is stronger, can lift more at the construction site, and is less likely to get robbed.” How can I respond to this?
But there are good days too. After a 30 minute discussion with my 5th graders about whether or not it’s ‘normal’ for a man to cry, I think they finally felt confident that just because someone cries, it does not mean they are any ‘weaker’ than someone who holds it in. (My point was made here at the expense of my dad, and Scott, to whom I owe infinite thanks. After explaining, with great hyperbole, that growing up, I saw my dad cry all the time, and that even though he’s 25, when my boyfriend needs to cry, he does just that, I think they felt empowered to do some crying of their own.) It really is about small gains here, small victories that will hopefully have larger subsequent change.
And I’ll leave you all with a story, which reveals a Moldovan home remedy. I caught a little bit of a cold a few weeks ago, and was given advice by Gheorge, Scott’s host dad. Gheorge explained that to instantly kill a cold, I had to drink warm red wine, with one teaspoon of sugar and one teaspoon of pepper. He’s such a nice guy, whose pride about his wine is so strong that I’ve never once been able to decline ‘one mouthful,’ as they say here. Gheorge was off to the cellar to get some wine before I fully committed to this decision, and thankfully, Scott is a wonderful person who promised to endure the boiled, sugared and then peppered, cellar-wine with me. And so we drank it. It was probably the worst taste I have ever, in my 23 years, experienced in the bowels of every single taste bud on my tongue. Best part of the story—I woke up the next morning with a clear nose, feeling better than I had in days.
Love to all for the holidays.
(I’m still trying to figure out the picture thing. I promise after vacation I’ll figure it out for good, and show you all Moldova. To get you excited—yesterday I spent 40 minutes with the sheep herder from a small village, who had collected the neighborhood’s sheep for the day’s herding, and I took over 40 pictures of him with his sheep.)
posted by NikkiD | 5:28 AM
