Yuta: Superhero teacher in tights

“Hi, my name is Yuta and I will be your teacher.” As the word “teacher” escaped my lips I quickly closed my mouth realizing that if the word made itself audible there would be no turning back from this terrifying obligation. As I closed my eyes for a minute, I had to remember that I was not at an AA meeting introducing myself, but, rather, I was in front of a row of teenagers who were eager to learn about American essay structures. It was bad enough that I was teaching a topic that I really had no expertise or real knowledge on, but the fact that I was actually teaching made it even worse. Before I realized it, though, 15 eager faces were staring at me and waiting for me to do something, say something, anything. “Well, sucks for you that you’re stuck with me!” I wanted to say in desperation, but with Chris by my side to help me teach I was confident that if I slipped she would be there to help me out. Almost on cue, Chris started to speak and conduct the lesson with experienced finesse that I lacked.

With certain talents I think that no matter how hard you try you either have them or you don't, and teaching is a talent I definitely do not possess. To me, teaching is like trying to be a circus contortionist or using a squat toilet—I just can’t do it. It requires this intrinsic kindness and a desire to nurture others that I completely lack, and no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to find these traits. Offering a compliment to someone is oftentimes difficult if not impossible for me, and because being an optimist and positive person is part of being an effective teacher, I know that I am not made for this kind of thing.

The main difference between Chris and I can be seen by the way we grade papers. We split up the essays that we collect every week and fix the grammar and essay structure of each individual essay, and then we write comments at the end of how they can improve their writing. While Chris always starts her critiques with, “That was a really interesting and great essay!” I usually start mine with, “This essay was interesting, but I think that you could have written it a lot better had you answered the actual essay question.” My method is subconsciously centered around “tough love,” while Chris’s method has a more paternal and encouraging feel to it—seemingly kumbaya. I am the yin and Chris is the yang. If you were to compare our teaching styles to talk shows, I am the direct and pitiful Dr. Phil while Chris was loveable and intellectual Oprah.

Teaching also requires that a person be incredibly patient, and being the youngest of four siblings I feel that I was the one who was always waited on—not the other way around. I admit that living in ROG has taught me the importance of being patient (sitting for hours on train rides or idly twiddling my thumbs for hours while waiting for meetings to start), and having endured nine months of it I don't know how people do it on a daily basis. It would be easy to blame my impatience on American culture—information at my fingertips, service that is extremely expedient—but that might be a lazy explanation. If it is to be blamed on western culture, then I suppose Glenda will be my proof to support my claim. I remember very vividly what it was like when Glenda shopped online. Once the purchased product had been shipped from the warehouse, Glenda—like the diligently obsessive person he is—would check the UPS/FedEx online monitoring system almost hourly. It was like the ultimate litmus test for a store’s supply chain management when Glenda shopped online there. Departure scan in Cleveland 11:15AM, arrival scan at sorting facility in Memphis 8:13PM, departure scan in Memphis 1:14PM, arrival scan in Atlanta 5:32AM, departure scan in Atlanta 8:14AM, arrival scan in Athens 11:15AM. “OMG it’s in Athens,” he’d say impatiently after checking it for 24-hours, “where the hell is the delivery guy!?” Yea, the more I think about it, it might be easier to blame my impatience on living with Glenda instead—just kidding.

To say that I had absolutely no teaching experience would be a lie. In December I taught an adult writing class, but that was a completely different experience. With adults you can hold them accountable, and discussions and essay topics are more interesting and controversial. With kids, I feel that there are limits to their attention span, and that most topics of interest are completely off-limits. Limits. That is the word that would best describe teaching children. I feel like teachers that teach from elementary through high school must possess two personalities: one for school and one for outside of school. Eve once told me she has a “teacher voice” (she refuses to demonstrate it to me to this day) when she speaks to children at school, and I imagine that it is a necessary skill that all educators possess. A “teacher voice,” I think, is when a person sounds powerful and controlling without sounding condescending—not an easy task. Speaking to these kids in my class, I can only sound condescending and disrespectful and I lack the ability to switch over to a “teacher voice.” Chris—just as I expected—had firm control of the class by demonstrating that she also had a split personality as well. During class discussions she would calmly talk and facilitate—prodding and encouraging the kids with a smile—but the minute the discussion went off topic she immediately switched to her “teacher voice.” “HEEEEEEEEEEY!” She’d yell out unexpectedly, and the entire class would instantly fall silent—jaws agape and eyes bulging—out of shock. The façade of the innocent, nice, and sincere Ms. Chris was gone, and a monster had suddenly emerged—albeit just for a second. It was like seeing a female Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in person, and I have to admit that I was also momentarily scared sh*tless. In my imagination I had violent images of Chris suddenly turning to me and ripping my head off, and when she turned around, smiled, and told me to go on with the lecture it took me a minute to remember where I had left off. Whether or not this is something that is taught during PST is unknown to me, but I can see how it could also be a Darwinian personality adaptation that all teachers eventually develop as a defense mechanism.

One of the hardest things about teaching non-English speakers, though, is simplifying—or “dumbing down”—your language and vocabulary. Colloquial phrases are absolutely out of the question, as well as most metaphors and analogies. Asked a simple question during class, I responded once by saying, “Well, that kind of rationalization would be contingent on a lot of factors—perhaps based on the synopsis of your outline—that a person may or may not have exposure to.” After a minute of silence and blank stares Chris cut in and said, “It just really depends,” she paused, “gaachnia (Georgian for it depends).” The frustrating part is that most people will not actually say that they don't understand something when I use difficult language or speak too fast. Maybe they are all embarrassed to tell me that I am a bad teacher, like the story about the King and his invisible clothes, no one wants to break the bad news first.

Regardless of all the challenges, I feel that Chris, myself, and the class had a lot of fun. We have had lively debates and discussions, and during the latter part of the writing class we even had some fun essay topics. One was based on early marriage, and it was an argumentative essay where the students utilized their knowledge on essay structure and logical arguments. One of our favorite essays from the class stated, “I think that people only get married early because of the sex,” and in the middle of the essay this daring writer even declared, “life is not only about love and the sex, and it is important to remember the institute of virginity.” Chris and I never found out where this “institute of virginity” was (though we are sure he meant institution of virginity), and instead we imagined that it was an abstract place like Heaven or Hell and was an interesting concept that we enjoyed both reading and thinking about.

By the end of the class, I felt that all the students somewhat improved. Whether it was through the discussion, handouts, lectures, examples, or something else I don’t know, but on our feedback and evaluation forms we got great reviews. I’m sure they were more impressed by Chris’s ability than mine, but it was nice to read glowing and positive reviews having struggled somewhat during the course of the class. To celebrate, Chris and I held a mini snack supra at the end to thank them, and during that time we were able to casually discuss things that were not brought up in class (hobbies, their families, etc.). If I learned anything at all, it was not so much from teaching as it was from the student who boldly claimed, “life is not just about love and the sex.” He is so right.

-Picture of Chris, myself, and the writing class:

Bebia

When I came back from the Ukraine I was expecting Bebia (or grandma) to be living at the house with the rest of the family. I had heard it through the grapevine from the day I arrived at the house that she was coming because it was apparently tradition that Bebia came down the mountain (perhaps on a donkey) and join the family during the harsh winter months. At 83, my host sister explained that the mountainous village life near Kazbegi was too difficult for the 83-year-old vixen. Bebia, however, has resisted my host mother’s persistent nagging and begging for about four months, but, just recently, she had a change of heart and decided to trek out of the mountains to join her family in Batumi.

When I first heard that Bebia was going to stay at the house until the ice and snow thawed from the moutain roads I was scared. I wasn’t sure exactly how long it took the ice to thaw from the mountain roads, but I imagined it would take just as long as a glacier or icecap to melt. Even with global warming rapidly raising sea levels, this was not fast enough for me and I secretly thought up of ways to sabotage her coming. It was not that I knew what Bebia was like—really, I had no idea—but it was merely the fact that I had heard horror stories from other PCVs about their Bebia experience. “Bebia yells at me to wear socks ALL THE TIME,” one PCV recounted one day while visiting in Batumi, “I swear sometimes I just want to throw that wrinkled face into the petchi!” Grandmothers in ROG were not like grandmothers that I had ever heard of or experienced. They were not sweet, smiling, or generous, but, rather, in ROG they were nagging, paranoid, and sometimes psychotic. Bebias were always over 80 sporting a prominent hunchback, and the majority of them were widowed from age 30 and wore black and mourned for their husband everyday since then. Some—like John’s “Grandma in the closet”—just waited for death and were often neglected by their families. There were also set things that Bebias just did not do, apparently. It was common knowledge among PCVs that Bebia a) never relinquished control of the kitchen; b) always knew best; c) could kill, pluck, and prep a chicken in a blink of an eye; d) had health treatments that are highly questionable but always better than any western method (hence a Bebia’s average life expectancy is approximately 110); e) may have a large vocabulary of Georgian and Russian, but “no” is not a word she knows; and f) had a scary amount of facial hair. I had been warned, and because I had months and months to contemplate what my Bebia would be like, I was frightened.

With seven people already living in a three-bedroom house, I was not sure where Bebia would sleep. Would she sleep in the shower stall? In the toilet? Maybe even in the cupboard? “Maybe,” I thought to myself, “grandma would sleep a shoe!” Luckily, my host family seems to have a talent for making space when there seems to be none available. Bebia, it seemed, would be sleeping in the same room with the youngest host brother and host sister, while the eldest son would be sleeping in the living room on the sofa and the middle son would be sleeping in what is known as the “didi matsivari,” or the big refrigerator. After finding this out I no longer had fears of opening the shower stall and finding Bebia curled up sleeping in the corner while I was stark naked in front of her, or going to put on my shoe and finding Bebia somehow contorting her body to fit my enormous boot.

The first day I saw Bebia it was very awkward. Bebia is hard of hearing, and upon seeing me she asked me my name and when I replied, “me Yuta var,” she seemed to draw a blank look that indicated that she was not all there in the head. As I looked into her milky eyes I wasn't sure what to make of her. Her eyes indicated that she had just gone unconscious, and for a minute I contemplated slapping her or splashing her face with water to bring her back to reality. Since then, though, Bebia and I have started to understand each other pretty well. There is a predictable script that we follow every morning that goes something like this (translated):

Me: Good morning
Bebai: Good afternoon
Me: How are you doing?
Bebia: How are you doing?
Me: Great, thanks!
Bebia: ::nods::

After a pause I will, as always, go to my water filter to fill up my water bottle and do my morning routine, and when I come back she is curled up on the sofa looking exhausted at 9AM. My host mom will usually talk to me about her as if she is not there, and when she criticizes Bebia while she is standing there I can’t help but look completely trapped—like a deer in headlights. Part of me wants to remind my host mom that it is her own mother that she is badmouthing. “You do realize that your mother is right there, right?” I want to ask, but seeing that she is criticizing Bebia about how she reads all day I am usually left staring at her in disbelief. As her children watch 12 hours of TV a day, Bebia studiously reads novel after novel and is knowledgeable in the most profound things. Bebia, for instance, can recite poems in Russian and Georgian without ever pausing, and I find this amazing at the old age of 83. “Oi!” my host mother says in disgust, “Bebia is always reading! She will lose her mind soon if she does just that!” “Yo mama,” I want to tell her, but seeing that this will have little affect on her I keep my mouth shut.

Sometimes when I just come home from work I sit down with Bebia to drink tea with her and talk. She has an inquisitive mind and is curious about the English language and will oftentimes pick up things and ask how it is said in English. “This one,” she says to me as she points, “how do you say this in English?” “That is called sugar,” I tell her. As she repeats it slowly over and over again to retain her one vocabulary word of the day I analyze her wrinkles on her face. There seem to be an endless amount of folds that amazingly make up her tiny face, and I can’t help but wonder if in those crevices lies bits of food or bugs that might be found in an old man’s beard. I am drawn to it like it’s one of those pictures that if you stare hard enough a 3D picture will appear, and so I look at it intensely focusing and unfocusing on her face with intense concentration. One day I had an intense desire to just grab her facial skin and stretch it sideways to see what she looked like when she is younger. “Don’t do it Yuta,” I have to tell myself, “that would just be, you know, rude.”

Bebia is growing on me more than anyone in the family, I think. The fact that she is clueless and knowledgeable at the same time amuses me, and I am actually sad at the thought of her returning to her mountain village near Kazbegi. I have even begun to share the same sentiments of my host family by wondering about how Bebia cope all alone in the rugged lands of the north? More than anything, though, I think it is a selfish desire to keep her close for my entertainment as well. She, like me, can pull off cluelessness and competence pretty well, and if she goes I am, again, alone in the jungle of ROG.

Where's me gold?

On St. Patrick’s Day John, Erin and I decided to get together to work on the PCV newsletter that we are editors of. Because Erin and John claim some irish heritage, I felt compelled to participate in the celebrations while we tried working at the same time. This, of course, was not very successful, but it was fun nonetheless. Erin explained how she tried to teach about the tradition of St. Patrick’s Day at her school earlier that day, but encountering lots of cultural barriers had little success. Leprechauns, rainbows with gold at the end, four leaf clovers, and green beer are all hard to explain, and I imagine that upon hearing these rumors of catching little ugly men and being granted three wishes, every child scoured the village to look for this mythic creature. Here is a picture summary of our festivities:

-We toast to catching leprechauns (I am wearing a glove for some reason):

-Group pic in front of the St. Patty's Day sign we made:

-In the spirit of St. Patty's Day i post the sign on my face (the leprechaun i drew is asking "where's me gold?!"):

Throw me in

It was exactly one year ago when I visited Yohei in New York for my spring break, and I remember being excited by the fact that he was now working full-time and that I would get to see his window office facing the Rockefeller Center and St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It was mid-March when Manhattan still had a biting wind and the occasional snow flurry, and as I rode from La Guardia to his apartment I looked out the taxi window and took in the dirty and sooty city that was glorified by so many. “Best city ever,” some people advertised confidently, “there is no world outside Manhattan.” I liked New York, but having flirted with it on my prior visit I no longer held romanticized views of the city. Things were different now from the last time I visited. During my previous visit my brother was still in law school, and though he was bogged down with his studies, he still found time to take me out to restaurants and listen to me prattle on about things that were of no particular importance.

My oldest brother—as I remember it—always entertained my brother and I even though we were 7 and 9 years younger. We had our ritual of watching the Simpsons every Sunday, and we would always find ourselves quoting Simpson episodes like it was some holy scripture. His toys became our toys, and although we lacked his artistic flare for Lego building, he was always kind enough not to break our lackluster blocky structures to pieces and place them back in the big box where they came from. My poor sister was even subject to ridicule from her older brother and two tiny tikes. My oldest brother in the lead, we loyally followed his chants of mock cheers as she practiced her cheerleading moves in front of the glass kitchen door—her eyes locked on her reflection—in a desperate attempt to tune out the ridicule. “W-H-S!” Yohei would lead, “We Hate Sumiko!” The acronyms for their high school became a hateful jeer that was both creative and hilarious to me at the time. Thinking back now, all my siblings were good at taking care of me without being condescending in an obvious way. Sure I was probably used by them sometimes (to persuade my parents to buy coca-cola), and maybe even guilt tripped (when I got coca-cola at restaurants while they all dutifully got water), but as a whole they always looked after me in a responsible way while insulating me from the outside world. It is no surprise, then, that whenever I see them they are always eager to share any knowledge they have based on their past experiences.

“I’ve figured out,” Yohei said with clarity, “that for me I just have to be thrown into a situation before I realize that it’s the right decision and I thrive.” My oldest brother—ever the logician—concluded that the uncertainty that we all feel before the unknowns and risky paths we face in life are best taken with a leap of faith—sometimes with an unexpected shove. I forget exactly what we were talking about—maybe it was about marriage or careers—but as we sat in his tiny and cluttered apartment at 11PM devouring the take-out Indian food that we belatedly ordered, it was hard to take him seriously. “What about planning?” I wanted to ask, “what if just being shoved into something doesn’t work out?” At that point in my life I had been plotting and planning my move after graduation, and having decided on Peace Corps I was going through withdrawal symptoms of turning down private sector jobs. Questions of whether or not it was the right career move for my future plans swirled around in my head daily, and during my shopping spree through SoHo earlier that day it hit me that in the third-world I would not get to keep my standard of living. For Yohei, the Spartan method that encouraged drastic and uncomfortable change in lifestyle worked for him, and his theory on life seemed to be justified with each success he encountered following his doctrine on life. As I dipped my Nan bread into the curry sauce I couldn’t help but think about whether his take on life planning—or lack there of—was for me. Is that all I needed, a strong jolt of electricity in my life? It’s true that I would be graduating from college and moving on to something different was a goal of mine, but I had a hard time gauging how different I wanted my life to be after college. Moving to a different state would be a start, but would moving to a third-world country seemed drastic when comparing my situation to others?

That weekend it was St. Patrick’s Day, and so we went out to drink and have some fun. Since Yohei was working everyday until at least 11PM (that’s what happens when you work for the Man), his friend Nick took me out instead and Yohei met us up 2 beers and 2 vodka gimlets later. When Yohei finally came and met up with us, I was talking to Nick’s friend who was a former PCV that was evacuated from Jordan. “Yea, it was crazy,” he said hesitantly, “the training was pretty rough so I decided not to go back after being evacuated.” Not sure what to say to his lukewarm words, I smiled and told him that was ecstatic to be going. “It’s hard to adjust to,” he said calmly swirling his drink in his hand, “very Spartan.” Hearing this I felt like it was a recap of the night before, and I came to the resolution that having already agreed to go to ROG I would be going by the Yohei theory of life—straight from Paradise to Hell. Unlike Dante’s character that traversed slowly through each circle of Hell and purgatory to reach Paradise, I would be going the other way at light speed. I would, in essence, be going from hero to zero, and the thought of that was daunting.

It is 6:30AM right now as I write this, and I have not slept well for the last week because my mind has been clouded with thoughts about why it is I’m here. I’ve jumped into this situation and I think that it is working pretty well, but part of me still finds it difficult to adjust and it is frustrating. After going through two months of grueling training and seven months at site, I feel that I should at least feel comfortable with my living situation, but that is not really the case. Is it the culture, the language, the food, the location, the weather? I can’t say for sure, but from the moment I arrived in DC for staging I knew it would be different—really different. Yohei would thrive in a situation like this, and maybe I feel that because he would thrive I should too. I don't know if I’m actually making a substantial difference, but like Yohei did in the past, I just told them to throw me in and I’m trying to make the best of it.

What Superheroes do

Many people in the states have recently asked me what it is that I do in ROG. “Save the world—duh!” I want to say, but I have just now—upon reflection—realized how vague this statement is. I’m sure that this statement leaves my friends wondering, “Do you save the world with your smoking hotness or with your witty humor?” Interesting question, really, because the response would be that I save the world using neither of those God-given talents. While some volunteers use their inherent skills (Polynesian hip-shaking hotness, goofy humor, Texan drawl, Midwestern innocence, hairy beard, or paternalistic tolerance) to help overcome obstacles and tackle evil, I find that I have not had the opportunity to flash that sexy look (think magnum in Zoolander) or crack that hilarious joke. Instead, I find that my high maintenance self helps me overcome certain obstacles here, and I have even had a multicultural exchange experience recently because of it. “What kind of jeans are those?” my counterpart asked me, “they’re really nice!” “7 for all mankind,” I told her, and as the last syllable of that great brand rolled off my tongue I felt as if I had just experienced a great moment that would make John F. Kennedy proud.

While one volunteer in the village nurtures children with her maternal instincts, I find myself using my materialistic instincts to spruce up the office and also add some flare to my presentations and consultations. Likewise, one would think that John helps fight crime in Batumi with his beard—perhaps as a Kevlar-like shield against bullets or random hand-to-beard knife attacks—but instead John uses his knowledge of Emily Dickinson to advance the knowledge of some students (I’d prefer to see John fight crime with his beard, though).

First, though, I think it’s important to clarify what kinds of volunteers are present in Peace Corps Georgia. Every Peace Corps country has different types of volunteers depending on what the host country requests, and ROG has requested NGO and TEFL volunteers to work here. I will not go into too much detail about the stories that I have heard from TEFL volunteers because, well, I could not even begin to tell you where to begin with their experiences. It sounds rougher, harder, and—quite frankly—a lot more difficult than the job that I am entrusted with. While I go to my heated (and air conditioned) office with electricity and computers, TEFL volunteers will go to schools without windows, a small wood burning stove, broken desks, horrendous toilets, dilapidating staircases and crumbling walls (among other things).

I think that John is the only exception to the TEFL experience, though, and his experience and placement is an anomaly because his university is immaculate and in great condition. As you walk through the university foyer (which, coincidentally, faces the Black sea), you walk into a space that is adorned with snow-white marble floors, columns, and golden chandeliers that elegantly hanging from the ceiling. The staircases are all marble, and as you walk down the massive hallways with ceilings that easily clear twelve feet—hearing every step echo down the long hollow corridors—it’s hard to imagine that he is, in fact, in the Peace Corps. On late working days, I imagine that John can look out a western window and see the pink and orange sun slowly sinking into the dark indigo waters while the silhouettes of dozens of seagulls dot the sky. The saying still holds true that the west is the best.

Most TEFL volunteers do not share John’s luxurious experience. I will now share—hopefully with some accuracy—some of the anecdotes I have heard from TEFL volunteers around Georgia who teach in villages at secondary schools. TEFL stories are filled with struggles: desks being lit on fire, firecrackers in wooding-burning stoves that explode and fill the entire school with smoke, PCVs being kicked by students (perhaps by accident), winter classes that last five-minutes because of the unbearable cold, and parents who rush into the classroom and hit their child (talk about awkward, right?). The TEFL volunteers of the villages are stronger, tougher, and more adventurous than myself, and I would not be surprised if they all possessed coarse and itchy chest hair as a badge of honor by now. One particular story that I found highly entertaining was from a PCV who found a surprise before one particular class.

“My counterpart and I were walking to the class right after lunch,” she began peacefully, “and as we were walking up to the classroom you could hear this loud banging.” As she demonstrated the noise she heard by pounding her callused village fist on the table she continued. “And we were wondering, ‘what’s up? What is that noise?’ and as we walked in we saw the kids kicking and tearing the teachers desk to pieces as they shoved it inside the wood-burning stove!” I couldn’t help but burst out laughing at this point because, well, how often does this really happen, right? “I’m serious!” she quipped, but as I looked into her eyes I searched for a sense of hyperbolic storytelling because this was a girl who once confessed to me that she brought her Coach shoes and dreamt about Manolos during the lonely and cold nights without electricity or heat—surely she was prone to being dramatic. When I found no sense of exaggeration I fell silent. “So as we walked in—my counterpart obviously hysterical and yelling obscenities in Georgian—we hurriedly pulled out the pieces of the desk in hopes of salvaging it.” As if the story wasn't tragic enough, she went on, “so you know I need a desk for when I’m teaching, right? Well, we had the janitor put back together the charred pieces adding plywood to make up for the lost parts.” As she sighed and showed resignation, she finished, “so for a desk, I now have a splintered, uneven, Picasso-like table.”

Mind you this is not the typical story of a TEFL volunteer, but it gives a general idea of the struggle a TEFL volunteer might experience out in the sticks. The main goal for TEFL volunteers in ROG, though, is to teach English here at the university and secondary school level to help introduce new teaching methods, ideas, and help the students improve their level of English. Aside from that, many volunteers have secondary projects such as English clubs, but some are ambitious enough to develop projects to rebuild school gyms, provide English books, computers, and other items.

NGO volunteers have it better—way better. Most are placed in regional centers or larger towns and cities, so for the most part we are spared the village life. The general mission for NGO volunteers is to help with organizational capacity, improve networking among NGOs, and also increase English language capacity. Our work hours are very sporadic, but that is also dependent on the host organization’s organizational capacity. Some NGOs are hardly active while some are bustling, and this provides NGO volunteers with a completely different set of experiences with no continuity or comparison between volunteers. One thing that is unavoidable is that an NGO volunteer will inevitably deal with international organizations or embassies in hopes of obtaining a grant or other necessary assets, and this is the reason why many volunteers frequently go to Tbilisi for meetings.

So do I teach? Not really (more on that in the next entry). Do I write grants? No, not really. I do co-teach an essay writing class right now that is a minor project, but my main tasks have to do with organizational capacity and project writing. Right now I’m developing numerous projects (an internship program, career assistance program, Student mentorship program, teacher training, soccer tournament, local fundraising training, university structure consultation and presentation, and economic curriculum development) and also organizational structure and capacity work (business development plan; analysis and development of strategic, long-range, and operational plans; plan for management structure; and other things). Projects that I have successfully implemented are the national outreach program and redesigning the content and layout of the organization website (which looks amazing by the way).

It’s obvious that TEFL and NGO volunteer experiences differ greatly, and although volunteers work together on some projects this is, of course, not their primary projects that they came for. For me, though, I have no funny stories or exciting happenings to report about in my mundane office life, but maybe it’s a good thing that my desk isn’t being lit on fire or dismantled and sacrificed to the gods by pyromaniac children. I am the first to confess that children are not my forte—rather, they are my kryptonite—and to have minimal exposure to children is probably good for me. And although I may never develop chest hair, hairy knuckles, or thick and callused skin that will be the badge of honor for many village volunteers, I am not too disappointed by that prospect. Sure I have the occasional quirky meeting or frustrating event, but its nothing a superhero can’t handle.

Splat

This isn't worthy of a blog entry, but on my ride back from Tbilisi yesterday the train that I was on hit a man that was on the train tracks. As Chris, Emily, and I sat together and were talking while stuffing ourselves with Twizzlers, the train abruptly stopped and as I mouthed, "wtf?" we patiently sat waiting for the train to leave again. When, after a moment, the train didn't leave, we got up and stuck our heads out the window wondering what in the world happened. As people crowded around the train car in front of ours, we realized that someone had been hit. I think shock would have been the appropriate expression to show, but as I had been holding in an incredible urge to go to the bathroom I felt a hard time feeling anything but the urgency to get the train going. "What the hell is taking so long?!" I asked Chris, "don't they know I have to pee?!" As Chris sat in front of me looking at me incredulously, I realized how insensitive my comments were, and I quickly quipped, "I hope he's ok...poor guy." Finally, after about 45 minutes the train set off to Batumi, and as soon as I hopped of the train I took a taxi to my house because had I taken a marshutka I would have died of an exploding bladder.

I'm alive, folks, but I'm not sure how the man under the train is doing.

Standards Deviation

One dollar will buy you happiness in here in ROG. One dollar is approximately 1.82 lari, roughly 117 yen, and something like .90 euro, and I know that it is obvious that one dollar will go a lot further in ROG than any developed country, but a recent event has changed my perspective of the purchasing power of a dollar. You may be wondering if I recently experienced living through an economic depression, or perhaps you are wondering that having experienced severe gas shortages in the middle of winter, an earthquake, and recent bird flu scare (none of which has directly affected me) that I have reevaluated my American way of life to appreciate the value of a dollar. Not so, my friends. I have recently stumbled upon a burgeoning and happening store in Tbilisi called—what else—the Dollar Store. This store has made me appreciate the purchasing power of a dollar, and also to realize that expired food is not, really, expired at all!

The Dollar Store has been a Georgian urban legend, a myth, a store that people whispered and gossiped about but never revealed of its surreptitious location. This was, of course, until a fortuitous turn of events happened when a couple of months ago a G5 volunteer stumbled upon its brilliant billboard that seemed to shine brighter than the sun. Like a fluorescent light attracts moths at night, the Dollar Store’s sign seemed to be subtly wooing the exploring volunteer, beckoning him to “come closer…yes…come find comfort in my affordable bosom.” As he slowly found his way around an indoor shopping center, past a row of cell phone carrier offices, utility stores, and vegetable stands, he finally reached the golden gates of the affordable kingdom. The volunteer, I’m sure, felt like he had won the lottery, and as he cruised through the aisles of the Dollar Store he found items made by mysterious manufacturers that a person probably can’t even find at a Wal-Mart in America. Still, though, they were marked with familiar titles like frosting, tostadas, popcorn, cereal, brown sugar, iced tea, and others, so he was able to hide this slight distraction. Gone were the name brand items that lined the grocers back home, and present were the ones that I imagined you could find at Big-Lots or a backwoods general store. I didn’t understand how these items that donned Nutrition Fact labels came from, but I was not going to question how this miraculous store arrived in Tbilisi.

The news spread fast from the volunteer who discovered this mecca of cheap and affordable Americana, and when, one day, I finally decided it was time to seek out the location of the Dollar Store with my friends Mike, Eve, Nash, and Margo, it was a mesmerizing experience with a touch of disappointment. As we walked inside the store it seemed—at first glance—to be a normal Dollar Store, but as we saw the security personnel waiting for us to check our bags in (presumably so we don’t shop lift) I immediately felt like I was back in ROG. The staff working there also didn’t help with this feeling. As we looked at the off brand food products that had titles such as “BakerGirl,” “Malt-o-Meal,” and “Los Pericos,” the staff followed us like flies on a pile of very seductive manure. Still, though, it was a relief to see things that were familiar. It’s strange because I feel that so many people are against branding, seeing the connection between branding a product to the spread of an evil empire, but at the same time they fail to see the connection between branding and comfort. In a brand, I personally find comfort and security in buying the product, and while I picked up a can of Alidoro vanilla frosting, I looked at it with suspicion because the packaging and name was unfamiliar and ugly. I couldn’t help asking myself why anyone would buy Alidoro frosting as opposed to Duncan Hines frosting in America, and upon inspection of the manufacture location I found that it was made in Uruguay. It was an odd sensation to see these products neatly organized out in front of us, and the question was raised at exactly how these products that were sold in America arrived here. It didn’t make sense that this would be the only store that had these products, and selling at exactly $1 per item I didn’t understand how they could make a profit when including shipping costs. Soon, though, we discovered the explanation for the stores cheap prices and mysterious selection of food: all the food was expired.

The funny thing, though, is that I find that the more time I spend living in ROG the lower my expectations of goods goes down. Just 3 months ago, if I stumbled upon a product whose brand I didn’t recognize or whose product was expired, I would have shunned it with disgust—throwing it to the corner of the store—declaring the store unfit for shopping. Now, though, the words vanilla frosting or Fun Tarts (fake Pop Tarts) pop out at me more than made in Uruguay or Expired October 2005, and so I suck it up and buy the product hoping not to get some kind of food poisoning. So far I have been ok, but it’s an embarrassing and sometimes degrading feeling looking through the shelves trying to find the least expired food. I confessed to Glenda recently about my new thrifty and disgusting ways of grocery shopping, and he was, quite literally, amazed on how much I had changed. “Yuta!” Glenda screamed, “What’s happening to you?” “I don’t know!” I wanted to scream, “I just don’t know anymore!” Was I turning into a smart consumer like my friend Rebecca or was I slowly chipping away at my standards? I explained to Glenda that I felt like I was shopping with food stamps now, and it hit me that I did not want to be a person who lowers standards just for the sake of getting a nostalgic product.

Later that night after talking to Glenda on the phone, I had a bizarre dream about my changing habits and standards. In the dream, I was standing alone in a dark and dreary alley insatiably hungry and desperate for a meal, and as I reached deep into my pockets to see how much money I had, I found that all I had there were balls of lint. The hunger I felt bordered on pain that I imagine a person might feel if he or she was having their nails pulled out of their hands, and I desperately looked around for anything edible. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a dark blue dumpster that, for some reason or another, I knew belonged to a restaurant. I quickly rushed over to the foul dumpster to look for any kind of food, and, for some reason, I pulled out rotten vegetables and day old lo mein. As I held the lo mein in my hands I thought about how vile and horrid the lo mein looked and smelled, but in my dream I somehow justified that it was ok if it was a little expired and so I ate it. As I jerked back away in a cold sweat disgusted at myself, I couldn’t help but feel that this dream had a message to it: stop buying expired food. This goal is not a New Year’s resolution or flakey affirmation, and I have, as of now, promised myself that I will stop buying expired food forever because I refuse to lower my standards anymore. I am willing to change some things, I admit, but this is one thing I am not willing to change, and even though the Dollar Store can sometimes be tantalizing with its endless rows of foreignly manufactured and expired Americana, I will stand fast and not give in.

All about the money

Last week I decided to meet up with one of my Georgian friends, Tengo, who is a former student in my writing class. He had been text messaging and calling me for about 2 months to hang out with him, but because my schedule has been a little hectic, and also because I’m always afraid that by hanging out with a Georgian I would be ambushed by a surprise supra, I have also been making excuses to not hang out with him. Finally, though, I gave in and decided to fully immerse myself with Georgians and text messaged him and asked if he would like to meet me for dinner at the local Turkish restaurant, and when he responded that he’d love to I started to have qualms about my proactive decision to hang out with one of my former students. That day before I left the office to meet Tengo everything was going normal. John came in to use the internet and hang out as usual, and as he was wearing his Mountain Hardwear jacket and hat that he bought in Russia, he did the typical John greeting. “Hello,” John said as he waved his right arm in a Karate Kid worthy “wax-on” movement, and as I looked up from my laptop and hesitantly smiled at him I blurted, “I’m meeting with Tengo, the student, today after work.” “Cool,” John said smiling, “he’s a nice guy.” John seemed completely at ease with my situation as if he would have no problem with walking on broken shards of glass or hot burning coals. “The surprise supras!” I wanted to yell out in anguish, “WHAT ABOUT THE SURPRISE SUPRAS!?” As my face contorted in a painful position while thinking about the possibility of sitting at a table for countless hours while being told to eat and drink, John finally realized something was wrong. “You avoid Georgians like the plague,” he disdainfully said, “they aren’t that bad.”

The sad thing was that I knew John was right. Georgians aren’t bad, but their hospitality can sometimes be suffocating. As John sat in front of me text messaging, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was getting worked up and stressed out over nothing. Was it possible that John was just better at buffering Georgians than I was? It wasn’t that I didn’t like Tengo—really, it’s not that at all—but rather it was the fact that he had mentioned during a previous hang out session that he’d love to take me to his house to meet his one year old, wife, father, mother, and brother. This, I assure you, is Georgian code for surprise supra, and I knew that being invited to his house—which was, in fact, a large apartment block—meant that I would also be introduced and invited to see his neighbor’s and relation’s apartments, and therefore forced to eat and drink until the butt crack of dawn. In my mind, wild fantasies of me sitting in a dimly lit and smoky apartment while being hugged, kissed, and toasted to race through my mind, and as I looked down at my sweaty palms and stared off into space I felt my heart beating rapidly with panic. John may have accused me of avoiding Georgians like the plague, but the more I thought about it I felt justified in my hesitation. Still, though, I had agreed to meet up with him, and so I went to the Turkish restaurant.

First, though, I think it’s important to define what exactly a surprise supra is. A surprise supra is, put simply, when you go to a location for any other purpose besides dining and drinking for hours on end. An example might be when a volunteer from a mountain village went with his counterpart to get his car fixed, and as this would normally take 30 minutes instead it took him 6 hours because of a surprise supra. Upon arrival to the garage, a group of Georgian men ambushed, pounced, and dragged him into their lair, and as he sat on a long table surrounded by smoke and body odor he realized that he had sucked into a surprise supra.

As I sat waiting in the Turkish restaurant picking at a big piece of stringy beef soaking in tangy and spicy sauce, Tengo walked through the door smiling widely showing that he was truly enthusiastic to see me. As we did the typical Georgian greeting (a violent hand shake followed by a kiss on the left cheek), he sat down and pulled out his English dictionary ready to be fully engaged in the conversation. “How have you been?” I eagerly asked him, and after he reassured me that he was doing well he told me about his latest way to make money. Tengo—like many young men in ROG—had a dream of becoming wealthy in a short span of time. As he enthusiastically told me about his latest money scheme, I imagined Tengo living in America stretched out and wide awake every night fanatically watching infomercials that promise vast fortunes by reading a book on real estate or free government grant giveaways. He currently works at a bank as a loan officer, though, and as he divulged to me exactly why he needed more money (I mean, don't we all need more money?) Tengo sighed and asked nonchalantly, “In Batumi, see, it is expensive but I make good money, but how much do you make?” Apparently, Tengo made approximately 450 lari a month, and if his accounts were late in their payments it would be deducted from his salary, and after one too many of his clients defaulted on their loans Tengo was tired of being responsible for being the harassing credit officer—also known in Georgian as Satan. His clients were small business owners who owned barely profitable stands in bazaars, and he confessed to me that he felt uncomfortable hounding them for their payment—sometimes as small as 30 lari a month—and being the “bad” guy.

“I want to partner with Turks,” he said, “to import flowers to sell to Georgians.” I didn’t know what to say about this brilliant business plan, but perhaps I should have started by saying, “bad idea.” In a country where people’s priorities are confusing and oftentimes backwards, I empathized a little bit with his business plan, but at the same time it hurt me to see him so enthusiastically talk about his dream of being a floral conglomerate. Flower power may have been popular in the 60s, but in country that is currently facing bird flu and high unemployment I had a hard time listening to him divulge how a floral business could blossom into a fledging multinational corporation. “I want to move out,” Tengo said with a tinge of sadness in his voice, “I want to be independent, but I need more money and it is hard to support my family.” “I understand,” I told him, but it was an odd feeling saying those words because in reality I didn’t understand. What was it like have to worry about supporting a family while having to also think about supporting your in-laws? What was it like to be strapped down at the age of 22? Would I feel trapped by all my obligations? I live a selfish lifestyle where I can do as I please, and to have to think about supporting others is daunting and stressful. Perhaps if I had to worry about that, I too might result in ideas such as becoming a flower conglomerate. I guess in the end no matter where you are or whom you’re with, it’s just all about the money.