A Short Story: A moment that lasted minutes, but left me thinking about it for days after

I slowed to a walk, breathless and sweaty under my layers of clothing. I turned around the corner to my small, paved street where my house sits second on the right, situated between a tiny, stucco house with long grapevines out front that swallow the building, and a massive two storey house that sits abandoned, only visited by the large colony of pigeons that nest in the tin roof. I took out one of my headphones and turned down the blasting music, my self-defense against the catcalls of the farmers along my running route. Squatting down, with his rear end hovering millimeters above the dirty street in a position that I know I will never be able to comfortably perch in, was one of my students. He was calmly talking to a young stray dog, trying to coax her over to him. At a young age, puppies learn not to trust humans, and they cower and run away with a slight raise of your arm. Very young puppies will look you in the eye and their tails wag as they scurry towards you. They are naïve and still trust that you won’t hurt them. When full grown, the dogs are either constantly terrified and scatter at any noise or quick movement, or are ferocious and want to attack anything that moves. My student understood that he had to be very gentle and calm for the puppy to come towards him. He continued to make little noises and saying “good dog,” but the puppy remained seated on her haunches and didn’t seem fooled. His back was facing me, so he didn’t know that I was watching him. Whenever he would stand up the dog would skitter backwards and he would squat down again, and the puppy would mirror him and sit back, too. I could tell that he didn’t know what to do next. I circled around and squatted down next to him, in my clumsy, wobbly squat that immediately gives away that I grew up in a culture that often uses chairs and couches. He looked over at me and said, “Annie teacher, can you help me get this dog because my dog died and I want to take this puppy home.” He stared up at me, his eyes, pleading eyes of a boy much younger than his age, looked at me searching for answers. His dirty, baggy black hat was much too big for him and it touched the top of the scar that runs along his cheekbone and up to his temple. From working along side his father in the fields, his skin is dark and tough. His tiny frame is consumed by the frayed and stained coat that has been rolled up at the sleeves but still occasionally slips down to cover his hands. I pat my hand against my shin, in my attempt to call the puppy over and she notices. He pulls back his coat sleeve and mimics my movement. In English I say, “come here girl” over and over in a singsong voice. Her ears perk up, her tail begins to wag, and shyly she starts to make her way over to me. She rolls onto her back to let us pet her soft, but dirty belly. I gently pick her up in my arms and she clings to me being so far from the ground suddenly. I tell him to hold his hands out, but instead he looks at me and says, “Annie teacher, I don’t know how to hold her. Can you take her for me?” I tell him that it isn’t hard and that he can try for a minute to hold her. “Meh,” is what I say next. There is no translation for this word, but it can mean something like here. “Meh,” I mumble again as I put her in his arms. He awkwardly holds her with two legs sticking out that he forgot to include. He looks down at the puppy and then looks up at me with a wide smile that makes his scar curve into a crescent shape. “Annie teacher, we did it!” he beams. I tell him to hold her tight until he gets home and I watch him as he walks slowly up the road a ways and then squats down to readjust his holding position. He takes a quick glance over his shoulder to check if I am still there and I wave back. He jiggles his head back and forth as he laughs, and continues on his way, leaning back to offset the weight of his new puppy.

The transition back from vacation is a practice of patience in readjustment. The evening after returning from Thailand I forced myself to leave my house and be social. I started walking in the direction of a friend’s house. The sun had just dropped below the horizon, making everything awash in an orange glow—my favorite time of day. I greeted some students and other people along the way. Even a brief walk in my town always involves many hellos and inquiries about health and work, even salaries sometimes. By now I know most people in my community, and on this particular day I had the energy to smile and greet everyone I passed (not all days are like this).

As I approached my friend’s house, my student and her family shouted the usual “come drink tea with us.” They have extended this invitation about every time I walk by their house, and this time I decided to accept. Not all “come drink tea” invitations are in actuality an invitation. It acts as an addendum to “hello, how are you?” At first I felt obligated to go drink tea, but that would turn out to be a cup of tea at each house along the road I was walking. My Turkmen friend told me that it is acceptable to reply with, “Inshallah, when I have more time.” This time I felt like I knew the family well enough to have an enjoyable cup of tea, and I was feeling extra gregarious, just having returned from 10 days relaxing in Thailand. I should have known that tea was not just going to be tea. I walked into their living room where a huge tablecloth was laid out with sitting mats all around. They were celebrating the completion of their renovation, and were having some friends over, now including me. I sat with the two sons and watched a DVD of Bollywood actors’ children singing their parents famous songs. The two boys had already memorized the words and were singing along. I had to smile at this. I ate the soup, wondering how my body would handle the oily food again, and managed to remember my Turkmen enough to pull off a decent toast. I ducked out early to go to my friend’s house, my original mission. My student’s mother rushed to the kitchen and came out with a plastic bag with two breads, an apple and candy for me. In the end my friend wasn’t home, but the whole evening had been even better than expected.

The constant attention that I get here, whether it’s positive or negative, is one of the hardest things for me to deal with. I can never blend in here, and people will always be curious about me. Sometimes I want to only look at the ground so that I don’t see people’s stares. Sometimes I want to be invisible so that people will stop whispering about me the moment I come into sight. I have less than a year here, if that, and I don’t want people to remember me for my coldness, I want people to remember me for my friendship and effort that I made to integrate into my community. As I was leaving, my student’s mother said that they are now renovating the other two rooms, and that one room can be my room. I told her that I already have a host-family, but that I will come back to visit soon. And I really did mean it when I said, “we will drink tea together again soon.”

Story Time: The Very Hungry Caterpillar

Twelve sets of attentive eyes were glued to the book that I held in my hand.  “And then the very hungry caterpillar age through three plums.  But he was still hungry,” I read upside down.  After a few pages they knew that the little caterpillar would be looking at them from the backside of the page after he had eaten through the apple or the four oranges or the five strawberries, but their outbursts of anticipation made it seem like it was the biggest surprise in the world.  When the caterpillar “wasn’t so little anymore” after eating through cakes, sweets and sausages, they giggled and said in Turkmen, “now he’s a fat caterpillar.”  I was translating only a few words, but a full comprehension of one of my favorite children’s books wasn’t my goal.  I wanted my students to enjoy the experience of having a book read to them.

As a child my room was filled with books and by a young age I could already tell any interested party about my favorite books.  I liked books.  I enjoyed getting lost in a book and letting myself be consumed by the story.  My parents always read to me, and when my sister was born I would read to her whether she liked it or not.  I was instilled with a respect for books and with an understanding that books were fun.

My first encounter with a book in Turkmenistan was in the toilet.  I am not talking about a magazine rack with a leisurely selection to be enjoyed while pondering life on the pot.  No, this book had been destroyed.  What had been a Russian novel in a former life currently had half of its pages missing.  The missing pages could be found in the waste bucket, crumpled up after past toilet goers had used them and disposed of them.  This book was my toilet paper.  Looking at the destroyed book I felt an internal dilemma begin on an almost moral level.  I had been brought up to appreciate literature, and here were the remains of Soviet books staring at me while I squatted on the toilet. What kind of culture rips up a book for toilet paper?  My first encounter with a toilet paper book was only the beginning of me trying to comprehend how little most Turkmen value books.

Most houses I have been in have no book shelves or books at all.  There is always a satellite dish and a television.  Most of my students admit to never read more than their school textbooks, if they even bother to read those.  Parents don’t read to their children and there is a lack of books in the Turkmen language.  I remember how much I enjoyed being read to as a child, and it makes me sad to think about all the children in this country who will never be read to.  Those stories gave me creative inspiration.  I got to glimpse into a various worlds.  I was so full of different stories that I intuitively understood that there was always a unique way to look at life.  As a result of growing up in a culture that doesn’t value creative expression and literature, my students have a hard time thinking multilaterally.  They find it difficult to approach something abstractly, without being dictated each step.  I have realized that reading to children begins as a bonding experience between child and parent yet the effects of it continue to influence you for the rest of your life.  I read stories to my students, all of my students, and with out fail they are always more attentive during story time than any other time in class.  If they don’t understand the words, they are fixated on the pictures.  If they understand the story, I can hear them translate it to themselves in whispers as I read.  I walk around the classroom to each desk so that the students can get a close look at the pictures.  Reading can be fun, I hint at them, sometimes subtly and other times not so much.  Sit back and listen to me read.  “Let me tell you the story of The Very Hungry Caterpillar,” I say, and story time begins.

The T-18s Make the News

I know that I am a month behind, but I wanted to see if the T-18s had made the news and because Turkmenistan isn't such a hotspot for news stories, they actually did make national news!

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2009/10/09/ap/asia/main5373489.shtml

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20091009/ap_on_re_as/as_turkmenistan_peace_corps

We are now hearing all kinds of rumors about why the T-18s weren't allowed to come and about when the next group will arrive. I am just hoping for the best, but trying to prepare myself to never get a site-mate, and to have to deal with isolation for another year. The T-16s start leaving in two weeks, and Turkmenistan is already beginning to feel emptier as we begin to say goodbyes. I am burying myself in work and running around trying to start a youth development project in my town. No matter if another group comes or if we are the last Peace Corps group in Turkmenistan, I am determined to do all that I can here until my last day of service. The T-16s have told me that time will speed up again after the new year and that the second year goes by even faster than the first. This is hard to believe, but considering that the past year has flown by, I can forsee that the count down until closing of service will speed it all up even more!

Pumpkins and hedgehogs

I guess that I should backtrack to Turkmenistan’s Independence Day (Happy 18 years Tstan), which I spent in Ashgabat.  While our apple carrot muffins were baking, the apartment walls shook before we heard the bangs of the fireworks.  We bundled ourselves and went out to the street to watch.  The Turkmen driving by and walking with friends didn’t seem at all interested in the fireworks. As for me, there was a moment when it felt just like the Fourth of July.  My favorite fireworks are the big white kind that explode and then trickle down until they fade.  They remind me of the fairy dust I once had for a Halloween costume.  As I gazed up at the sky, and gasped and applauded at the ones I liked, I felt like I was home.  It is amazing how something familiar can trigger so many memories and make you feel transported elsewhere.  It only lasted a moment, but for that brief instant it was me, fireworks and the feeling of home.

Back in the classroom after my trip to Ashgabat made me remember how unpredictable and hilarious my teaching experience can be.  I was teaching one of my sixth grade classes a Halloween song.  I was singing the song and pointing to the lyrics on the board.  The song went like this: “Halloween is coming soon, coming soon, coming soon.  Halloween is…Oh my god, what is that?”  The last sentence isn’t part of the song, but my reaction to a tiny critter that I saw scurry across the back of the classroom.  One of my students had decided to pack his hedgehog in his backpack and bring him to school.  The student scooped up the hedgehog and plopped him on his desk, where the little animal politely remained for the rest of the class and didn’t attempt to escape again.

Most of my students are familiar with Halloween from seeing it in movies.  They know about pumpkins and scary costumes, but I promised them a Halloween party to show them more of the holiday traditions.  I asked each student to bring a little pumpkin and I had parents come to ask me why their children needed a pumpkin for English club.  We played pin the eyes on the jack o’ lantern and decorated pumpkins.  I taught them about trick or treating and they went around the school to knock on a few doors where I had teachers stationed with candy.  They brought lots of candy, cakes and cookies and I completely underestimated how much junk food 22 young children could devour in a short amount of time.  When all of the little ones were out the door, leaving behind a mess of feathers and crumbs, my older students arrived for their Halloween party. 

I haven’t tried bobbing for apples in over ten years, but I got it in my head that this was a worthwhile American tradition to teach.  Their first attempts at feebly poking at the apples, trying not to get wet, were not successful.  I decided that I should demonstrate, and quickly dunked my head in the water and came up with an apple.  I was soaking wet, dripping all over my floor but my students had got the idea.  In the end each student got at least one apple and we took a photo of all of us triumphantly soaking wet.  Teaching about this American tradition and some others of equal absurdity make me wonder what people would think if that is all they were exposed to of American culture.  A people who catch apples in tubs of water, dress up in weird costumes and demand candy from strangers…really?  Take it all out of context and it starts to sound bizarre; I suspect that is true of many traditions.  Bobbing for apples was definitely something that took my students out of their comfort zone, but in class I often ask them to try to think outside the box and to take risks.  Practicing this odd tradition was another opportunity for them to see that there isn’t only one way of doing things and that acceptance and tolerance are important parts of learning about anything new.  Teaching about my culture is an opportunity to teach my students about a different way of life.  Even if it is silly to them, they are being exposed to a new culture and I believe learning about cultures is invaluable on an individual level and salubrious to the overall development of a country.

How to be a Turkmen bridesmaid

Everything happened so fast. The entire day was hectic and I barely had time to breath. I ushered the bride here and there, lifting up her dress so that she did not fall, trying to be one step ahead of everything, but not understanding half of what was being said. The day started off with a much-needed cup of coffee to get me up and out of the house. I put on my Turkmen housedress and my headscarf and I walked to Jennet’s house where all of the wedding preparations were well underway. Several women from her family and from her fiancé’s family were seated on the floor with huge bowls of vegetables and meat in front of them. They talked to me while chopping and slicing, never glancing down at their hands. The only thing more numerous than vegetables in that room were the flies that swarmed around as the children lightly waved scarves over the bowls to keep them from landing in the food. Jennet and I went to the ‘toy salon,’ an all in one locally run business that organizes everything from wedding dresses to wedding cake and makeup. Through the hairspray haze I could see maybe ten other brides and bridesmaids already in the hair salon. Every bride is told to bring three cans of hairspray, and from the smell of the room it seemed to me like every ounce of hairspray was being used. Jennet had her hair done first in an up-do with a fake ponytail attached to supplement her own hair. She had fake nails put on which left her unable to do anything with her hands, and therefore put me in charge of answering her phone, lifting up her dress, and doing any other action that would involve using her hands. I took a chance and also had my hair done. What started out looking like a beehive ended up as a French twist, kept in place with a bottle of hairspray. Despite feeling like I was wearing a helmet, the hairdo looked good from afar and went well with my dress. I escaped to the dressing room after dodging the makeup artist who insisted that I needed my eyebrows penciled in. A group of women ever so gently slipped on Jennet’s wedding dress and the hairstylist attached her veil. Her fiancé arrived with flowers and so began the daylong photo shoot. They filmed me gingerly laughing while pretending to fix her veil. Then she had to look longingly into the mirror and smile coyly, because Turkmen brides are supposed to be shy, but really nothing about Jennet says timid. The cameraman announced me to be a “super model” and so beautiful that he forever wanted to film me, and he continued to be that creepy though out the day. The cameraman wanted more photos, but Jennet demanded that we go because we were already so late after spending almost four hours in the salon. The bride, groom, bridesmaid and best man traveled in a decorated new model Toyota to the café where the wedding ceremony would take place. The woman from the wedding registration office recited a little speech about “independent and eternally neutral Turkmenistan and the respected president, Gurbanguly Berdimuhammedov declaring” the bride and groom married on October 19, 2009 and they exchanged wedding bands. I got to sign the wedding certificate as Jennet’s witness, and they opened a bottle of champagne and cut the cake to celebrate. It is tradition to drive in a long line of decorated cars to various monuments and parks to take photographs. We drove to the neighboring district to take photographs on the “catamaran” as it was beforehand described to me. The “lake” turned out to be more like a puddle and the “catamaran” broke down while we were on it. The boat captain pushed us back to shore with a piece of wood. It would have all been very funny except for that at the same time the wedding singer canceled without any notice. This left us sitting on the inoperative boat as Jennet furiously dictating to me how to use her cell phone to call another singer to see if they were free to come immediately. I held the phone to her ear as she arranged for the new singer to go straight to her house where the wedding would start in less than an hour. Except for a few of us in the wedding party, nobody noticed that anything went wrong and the singer was setting up the stage as we arrived back at Jennet’s house. The best man and I held a fringed piece of fabric over the bride and groom’s heads as we walked out of the house and onto the street. The bride and groom walked out from under the protective fabric hand in hand to go dance. It was still early and there were only a few people standing on the street. In village and town weddings on the street people come and stand on the side of the road to watch, and go to the center when they want to dance. In less than an hour it felt like the entire town had shown up and was staring at us. The four of us were seated on a little stage decorated with frilly ribbons and gauze. Being the bridesmaid, I had to say my toast first and I struggled to remember my trilingual toast as I started to tear up and get emotional. Jennet had dared me to say a toast in three languages and half way through the Russian portion I started to cry and had to abandon the rest of it. I made Jennet cry too, but we were both wearing waterproof mascara so it was not too serious. When I got to the part about Jennet being my Turkmen sister, I couldn’t hold back the tears and I think the Turkmen are still confused as to why I was crying. Everyone except the bride is supposed to be really happy at the wedding and I broke tradition by crying. Maybe they will blame it on an unknown American wedding tradition. Throughout the evening the music was interrupted by guests making toasts to the couple and presenting gifts. A total of eleven Peace Corps volunteers attended the wedding. As a group we made a big toast to the couple and this time I didn’t cry. We danced with Jennet’s family and found out that her mom can shake it better than Shakira. It was quite the spectacle for my town to have eleven Americans there. Hundreds of students and teachers came and it was by far the most people I have ever seen at a Turkmen wedding. Jennet’s sister handed out the little sachets of two sugars wrapped in lace, which symbolize a sweet life together. Whenever Jennet and her husband, Tolkun, got up to dance people would give them money and wish them prosperity. One of Tolkun’s sisters followed them around with a bag to collect the money. The wedding at Jennet’s house ended with a Turkmen tradition that consists of covering the bride in a large shawl so that her face and arms are covered. The groom is dressed in a Turkmen robe and traditional Muslim hat. The groom’s friends throw him up into the air three times and then he leads the bride into her house to say her goodbyes to her family. Like most Turkmen young women, Jennet has lived with her parents for her entire life and will be leaving her parents’ house forever. The Turkmen verb ‘to get married’ for women literally translates to ‘go out for life.’ It refers to the tradition that the new bride will move into her husband’s parents’ house, and take on the demanding role of a new bride that includes housework, cooking and cleaning. This final moment of the wedding is really emotional for the bride and her family. The couple stands in a room as a group of older women sing and pray for them and a final prayer is said before the daughter leaves the house forever. The veiled bride kisses her parents goodbye and is ushered to the waiting wedding car that will take her to her new home, and to another wedding party that will last long into the night. Two of her sister in laws and I accompanied Jennet to the neighboring district where her husband lives. A smaller, more intimate wedding party was already set up and the singer and dancer were already entertaining when we arrived. At this point we were exhausted and it was beginning to get cold. We had kept ourselves warm dancing, but were now too tired to get up much. We listened to toasts and accepted presents much like the first wedding party. Around eleven thirty I ushered Jennet into the house to prepare her for the wedding night. All of her possessions and new bedding and linens her mother prepared were already set up in their room. We were not allowed to be alone in the room and somebody from each side of the family had to be present at all times, but we finally got a little time to relax and eat something. I opened up the back of Jennet’s dress and took down her hair. We were both so tired, but still giddy because it had all gone so well in the end. I waited with Jennet until it was time for her and her husband to be alone. I had been so preoccupied with the wedding for the past few weeks and all of a sudden I had nothing else I had to do. It was all over. Up until this point I had done everything with Jennet, but now she was living in a different town with a different family—it is going to take some getting used to. This entire wedding experience was a once in a lifetime chance and I was involved in every aspect of the wedding. This was my first time as a bridesmaid and it was possibly the most unique first experience I could have. I was honored to be her bridesmaid and I have already invited her to be one of my bridesmaids in my wedding. Luckily for me, I can have more than one bridesmaid because I couldn’t pick just one of my friends to do the job. I am sure of two things after this wedding—1.) I will definitely have all of my best friends at my wedding and 2.) I will definitely not be wearing fake nails.

Big things and differences in values: Families

What is family for you?

I believe that the answer to this question will vary drastically according to your culture and heritage. Recently I discussed family with my advanced students. We are reading a book about an American family, and while pre-reading it, I realized that the family in the book is very different from what a family consists of in Turkmenistan. I asked my students to do a fifteen-minute creative writing assignment about what family is for them. One student wrote, “Family is such a difficult word to write about because it is the most important thing in our lives.” Family is everything in Turkmenistan. Sons may live with their parents their entire lives, raising a family under the same roof where they grew up. Daughters typically live at home until they marry and then move to their husband’s house and become part of a new family unit there.

My students were shocked to hear that I hadn’t lived at home for longer than a three-month period since I was eighteen. And more importantly, that this was my choice. Many families want their daughters to stay at home rather than to enroll in university because they need help with the domestic work. I told my students that my parents supported my decision to do Peace Corps, but if they hadn’t, I could have defied them and come anyways. Disobeying parents is viewed as a huge loss of face in this culture. There is a huge amount of respect for elders, and rebelling is rarely heard of. A friend of mine got married recently because her parents had decided it was time and quickly arranged a husband for her. She told me that it was her parents’ wish and that she could not confront her parents because then the entire community would gossip about her parents’, especially her father’s, lack of authority in the house.

Another of my students wrote, “I think that family is my mother, father, sisters, brothers, grandparents, aunts and uncles. My cousins are also my brothers and sisters.” Typical families in Turkmenistan are very large compared to the average American. My host-father has nine brothers and one sister. Family in Turkmenistan means extended family members and not just the nuclear family. When I speak about my family I will list my mom, dad, sister and my dog. My entire family consists of many more people, but my instinct is to talk only about the family members with whom I lived. When I ask my students about their families, they will attempt to list out every single family member they can remember (and most often they can’t remember all of them because the families are so large). One student wrote, “Family for me are the people I can’t live a day without seeing. If I don’t see my mother for one day, I am very sad.” Turkmen families tend to live in the same community, so they see each other often. My students couldn’t believe that I hadn’t seen my mother’s side of the family for seven years, because they are constantly seeing family members float in and out of their houses.

My student, Chynar, wrote that she believes “family is more than just a mother, father, sister or brother. Family can be friends or, I know this may sound silly, animals too. Family is anyone or anything that you love very much.” What Chynar wrote was controversial in our class. Most of my students believed family consisted of only people you were related to. Chynar argued that it was how much you loved someone or something that should deem it family. I mentioned that I considered my friends at college as family because we lived together and were each other’s family when we were all away from home. I also argued that my fellow volunteers here are like family because we are all in this situation together and have to support and help each other so much. More than friends being considered family, it was animals being included that sparked some heated discussion. Animals in Turkmenistan are mostly kept outside and dogs are abused so much that they are either scared of everything that moves or want to bite everything that moves. Some students said they had pets they loved, but thought they were too dirty to be in the house and part of the family. I told my students that my dog is the best listener in the family because she will listen to you forever and snuggle if you pet her. They thought this was funny. But I have seen children kick dogs way more often than pet a dog. All in all, animals are not considered part of the family, or even close to it.

I believe that a distinction in family values is one of the biggest cultural differences between America and Turkmenistan. The family unit in both cultures is important, but defining exactly what family is unveils cultural values that run much deeper than just family. We value individuality, independence and personal success much more than Turkmen. Whereas Turkmen prefer to do things in a group, among family, Americans are more likely to want to distinguish themselves individually. If we fail, then it is our personal responsibility, but in Turkmenistan, if you are a disappointment to the family, then this will reflect poorly on your entire family in the community at large. But I believe that family here is less likely to allow something bad happen to one of their own than in America. The extended family is the social support network in Turkmenistan and if you need something, family will be there for you. I think that many families in America do not help support each other emotionally and financially like Turkmen families.

For me, a traditional Turkmen family meal is the perfect expression of the communal and family centered life-style. Sitting on the floor around a rectangular shaped mat, families will often share food off of the same plate. The entire family will sit down to eat together and the meal will last one or two hours until the teapots runs dry. There are so many families in America who don’t eat together, and this daily act of coming together as a family has been replaced by each individual’s hectic schedule that make family meals too inconvenient. Sometimes I think that American families would benefit from just sitting down together and drinking some tea. We focus so much on our individual pursuits and the fastest way to do things, that the need for a strong family foundation based around communal meals and conversation is more and more being seen as a waste of time. It might be wise to learn a little from Turkmen about family. With stronger families, there are more connected communities and a system of support and assistance when you need it. In Turkmen culture, the beginning of a relationship always starts with a cup of tea. Slow down and drink some tea!