Culture Shocks

It’s amazing how quickly a person acclimates to a new place. I’m being hit with wave after wave of culture shock since I entered Scandinavia three days ago. King-size beds? Drinkable tap water? I found a bookstore in Helsinki that sells English language magazines and thought I was in heaven. When a restaurant server asked if I wanted ice in my Diet Coke, I nearly swooned. I keep thanking people with “Spasiba” and asking for help with “Pajalsta.” What was normal to me three months ago is now abnormal. I feel like I’ve been catapulted back into the Earth’s atmosphere from outer space.

***

I read an article in this weekend’s Herald Tribune that talks about the challenges of capitalism and generating venture capital in Russia. It was of particular interest to me because the other volunteers and I found ourselves making similar observations. We were very surprised to gradually realize that, although the Soviet system of government is defunct, its remnants and vestiges are alive and well in the collective psyche. As volunteers from the West, we naturally celebrate and value individualism, but Russian society still sees individualism as far second to the collective whole. I entered Russia expecting to see a society reveling in its newfound opportunities for entrepreneurship and capitalism, but I left there with the realization that the residual Soviet mindsets and norms present staggering challenges to the country’s ability to take full advantage of a free economy.

Realizing that most Russians still operate with a Soviet-style mindset — one that values the community over the individual — was a natural source of frustration for the volunteers. For example, one day an 11-year-old girl named Luba showed me a beautiful drawing of a fruit tree she made. It was really terrific and I was wildly impressed. I gushed over it and hung it on the wall of our classroom. The next day, I came into the classroom to find it removed from the wall. I asked Luba where her drawing was. “They took it down,” she told me, without much emotion. It was an individual project rather than part of a group project that everybody worked on, so the orphanage officials didn’t think it merited a place on the wall. Luba didn’t seem to mind and accepted this as perfectly normal.

We encountered this type of thinking perhaps more from the translators we worked with than anywhere else. Even though they are young and progressive, they’ve been raised by parents and teachers who were firmly inculcated in socialist thinking. This emphasis on the community over the individual is closely accompanied by a seemingly rigid perception of “the right way” and “the wrong way.” Here’s an example: on my last day at the orphanage — in fact, during the last 30 minutes — Dasha and I were playing volleyball with some of the kids. We were on opposite teams. Throughout the game, various kids were wandering onto the court to tell me goodbye. “You need to leave the playing field if you are not going to play!” Dascha snapped at me in exasperation. Two months ago, that remark would have bothered me and made me feel terrible, but by my last day, I understood her perspective and intention. In her mind, the game was being interrupted for all the players as I paused to say goodbyes. In my mind, it was a light-hearted game of pick-up volleyball that won’t suffer from the occasional interruption. Russian society doesn’t really comprehend a lighthearted game: it’s the task at hand, and we should put all of our attention at the task at hand. Anyway, it was my last 30 minutes of working with the kids, so I pretty much allowed myself to go with my American sensibilities. I wasn’t about to tell a child that I couldn’t say goodbye because I was playing volleyball. I replied by telling Dascha that, in fact, I was playing volleyball, just not as seriously as she was, so I wasn’t leaving the field of play. They’d just have to deal with the interruptions. It might be my imagination, but I thought I saw a little light go on in her face, like maybe she got what I was saying.

Other volunteers had similar experiences. One was working with a Down’s Syndrome child on a rather complicated project. The child was enjoying herself but not doing the project correctly. “It’s OK if it’s not right. She feels a sense of accomplishment and is proud of what she’s making,” the volunteer said to her translator. “No. She will feel a sense of accomplishment and be proud of her work when she does it correctly,” the translator replied. The volunteer responded like most of us learned to respond after a few weeks of dealing with the Russians’ sense of right and wrong: She said, “Oh. Okay,” to the translator, then let the child go ahead and do exactly what she was doing.

These little examples illustrate the differences between American thinking and Russian thinking. I never realized so vividly how much American culture is oriented toward fostering individuality. We’re willing to focus on the ends rather than the means if the result is an individual accomplishment. Although the Soviet system is defunct, the culture is still very much about everybody rowing in unison so that together we guide the boat to the desired port. Observing the contrast was incredibly eye-ópening.

This realization explains a lot to me about why Russia has its orphanage system. It’s an answer to individuals (usually alcoholics) who aren’t “on the playing field” when it comes to parenting. When I first came to Russia, my individual-centric American mind was agog that a society would go to such extremes to accommodate and enable negligent and irresponsible parents rather than hold them accountable. I don’t really look at it the same way anymore.

As Americans, we view parental rights as practically inalienable. It’s nearly impossible for parental rights to be severed. How often do we read about abused American children repeatedly returned to abusive American parents? In Russia, parental rights are quite fragile. You screw up as a parent, you lose your kid. You’re messing up the game for everybody and need to leave the playing field.

In retrospect, I don’t know that either society has the answer for handling neglected children. Russian orphanages aren’t good places to spend a childhood, but at least the kids have their biological needs met. They’re fed and warm and have a bed to sleep in. I read one study that shows most kids in Yaroslavl orphanages actually like living at their orphanages because they’re not cold and hungry, but they don’t like the rules. They want to go visit their families at will, then come back to the orphanage for mealtime and bedtime. I don’t think the Russian orphanage system is the answer to child neglect, but this experience left me questioning whether the American sensibility of the inalienable right to parent is on the mark too. I hope the world keeps looking for a better answer than both societies currently offer.

***

One thing I’ve come to realize about my own society is that Americans seem to be the only people in the world who laugh so freely. In Russia, whenever I heard a group of people laughing, I knew they were Americans. Now in Scandinavia, I’m finding that observation to be equally accurate. Nadia and the translators told us that in Russia, a person is perceived as foolish or dim-witted if he or she goes around smiling or laughing. In America, you’re perceived as glum and sour if you don’t smile. We’re a happy bunch of people.

***

Keep checking back for a link to new pix. I had a near-disaster with my memory card at a St. Petersburg photo shop when I tried to have them put on to disk and decided to avoid putting my memory card in any more Russian computers. I am now trying to find a place here in Stockholm to upload my latest batch. They’ll include my goodbye party in Yaroslavl, some more orphanage pix, St. Petersburg and Scandinavia.

Par Angleeski, Pajalsta!

Ismylova Market – Moscow

I don’t miss many things from home. I haven’t missed my car or my cell phone for a second. But I desperately miss being literate. It’s an incredibly helpless feeling being unable to read even the simplest signs on the street. Being illiterate is awful.

My ability to communicate and to be understood in this country is terrible, but it’s significantly improved in the last eight weeks. Surprisingly, the most helpful things I’ve learned are colors and numbers. They’ve made a huge difference in my ability to communicate with the children, and the usefulness is transferrable. If you can ask for green paper and a black marker, you can ask for green tea or black coffee.

The Cyrillic alphabet is difficult. It has more letters than the Roman alphabet, includes sounds that English-speaking tongues can’t really enunciate, and has lots of letters that look alike. I’m afraid of any Cyrillic letter that looks like a Roman “b.” It seems like there are 20 of them, and they’re always associated with a vowel sound that I can’t make. But many of the words are similar to English words, so if you can sound the letters out, you’ll often understand the word: кафе is “cafe”; интернет is “internet”; ресторан is “restaran” (restaurant). It also helps if you know the Greek and Hebrew alphabets; they share some letters with the Cyrillic alphabet.

People here know English better than Americans know Russian, but few of them know a lot of English. Most can say “thank you very much” and count to 10, including the kids I work with. One girl can count at least into the 20s. English is a required subject in Russian schools for young kids for a semester or so. If kids decide they want to take more English, they can when they’re older. I was surprised to learn from the translators that if you choose to major in English in college, you have to choose between “American English” and “British English.” All of our translators studied “American English” except for Dascha, and Dascha actually speaks with an impeccable British accent.

It’s a huge relief to get together with other volunteers at the end of the day and have a conversation that doesn’t require anybody to point and grunt. My fellow volunteers and I have developed our own language that we affectionately call “Rushlish.” We want to use what little Russian we know, even with each other. When we speak Rushlish, we understand each other just as well as if we were speaking English but we get to use our Russian. The conversations go something like this:

“What are you doing after zaftrak?”
“Going to the poschta. Need anything?”
“Yes! Could you get me dva marki?”
“Sure.”
“It’ll be dvatset piat rublay but I only have a piat sto.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just pick me up a bottle of vudduh next time you’re at the Magnet and we’ll call it even.”
“Cool. Spasiba.”
“Pajalsta.”

Translation:
“What are you doing after breakfast?”
“Going to the post office. Need anything?”
“Yes! Could you get me two stamps?”
“Sure.”
“It’ll be 25 rubles, but I only have a $500 ruble bill.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just pick me up a bottle of water next time you’re at the Magnet supermarket and we’ll call it even.”
“Cool. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome – No problem.”

One night a French guy started trying to talk to us in the restaurant. A few of us know a little French, and he knew a little English and a little Russian. That conversation was really weird. I guess we were speaking Frushlish.

The Russian Home

Kruschev Condominiums

The buildings in this photo are what I call “Khruschev Condominiums.” Kruschev and Breshnev carpeted Russia with these dwellings on a massive scale. When we first arrived, they reminded us of housing projects. They’re everywhere, and from the outside, there’s little difference among them except for their degree of massiveness. Some of them seem to stretch on for blocks. You can’t drive far here without seeing Kruschev Condominiums. But they’re typical Russian homes. The buildings in this picture are across the street from my hotel in Yaroslavl.

I’ve been a guest in two homes since I’ve been here. One was the home of a retired bricklayer who does incredible woodcarving for a hobby. He’s paneling his apartment with detailed and intricate hand-carved panels that he makes himself from wood he finds in the forest. His name is Avant Garde Petrovich. He attends one of the senior centers where we volunteer, and he lives in a Kruschev Condominium. Mr. Petrovich hopes to donate his apartment and its intricate paneling to the city of Yaroslavl for its 1,000th anniversary in 2010, but he can’t seem to get the city to accept it. The woodwork is amazing. He’s been working on these panels for years. (For pictures, click here.)

Visiting Mr. Petrovich’s apartment in one of these “Kruschev Condominiums” was enlightening. I was surprised to learn that these buildings generally don’t have elevators. “If they do have elevators, they probably don’t work,” Julia told me. I met a 60-something-year-old architect who was one of the first female architects in Russia. She told me that in her early professional life, she loved her work, but she grew to hate it once Kruschev decided to blanket the country with these buildings in post-war rebuilding. “They’re all just big boxes,” she said. “There was no opportunity to be creative as an architect.”

Building these structures probably made a certain amount of sense at the time. They enabled many families to have their own apartments rather than community apartments, where multiple families shared a kitchen and bathroom (although many Kruschev Condominiums do have such communal homes). They also were more durable than wood structures. For an ancient country, you don’t really see many ancient buildings in Russia, because most were built of wood until the 1700s, so they burned or rotted.

I don’t think we realize how big our homes are in America. A small home in America is a large home here. Mr. Petrovich’s home had a small mud room/entry area, a kitchen, a bathroom and a combination bedroom/living room. The whole thing was maybe the size of two nice hotel rooms.

I was in the guest of an upper middle-class professional in a building that wasn’t a Kruschev condominium too. The furnishings were more upscale, but the layout was basically the same except that she had two bedrooms instead of one. No living room. No elevator in the building. A typical college apartment in America is bigger, and this was the home of a three-person family.

It’s rare in Russia for a family to have more than one child. I guess the size of the homes here is one of the reasons why, and it’s really understandable when you think about the people living in communal homes where the entire family lives in a single room and shares a bathroom and kitchen with other families. The Russian government is really concerned about the population decline. If a woman has more than one child, she receives $9,000 after the birth of the second child and for each child thereafter from the government (with certain conditions on how the money must be used – it has to go to the support or education of the child).

In America, it’s common to have multiple bathrooms, powder rooms, a den and a living room – not to mention five bedrooms, a two- or three-car garage, and a back yard. The two homes I visited in Russia were lovely, but they really illustrated to me what an amazing standard of living we have in America.

The Gloves, Machinka Love, And Other Stories

I am constantly haunted by machinkas. “Machinka” is the Russian word for toy cars — any toy car. These kids are mad about machinkas. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be dreaming about machinkas for the rest of my life.

We have a chronic shortage of machinkas. Three and a half weeks ago, all of our machinkas were broken and we had none for the kids to play with. A few days later, we were up to nine working machinkas. Today, we still have nine working machinkas. I sleep well at night knowing that we haven’t had a major machinka casualty in three weeks.

I’ve learned a lot from machinkas. One thing I’ve learned that when you have nine machinkas and 25 kids who want to play with a machinka, there are no good choices. You can either tell nine kids that they can only play with their machinkas for 30 minutes because other kids are waiting to play with the machinkas too, or you can tell
16 kids that they can’t play with a machinka at all today. I hate both choices.

Machinkas make a really cool sound when you spin their wheels — a neat clicking noise like a roulette wheel having a good spin. The kids love to spin the wheels and hold the car to your ear so you can hear the cool noise.

Another thing I’ve learned from machinkas is that when an uncoordinated child holds one too close to your “ear” with the wheels spinning, the machinka will hopelessly entangle itself in the hair between your ear and the back of your head. An orphanage caregiver will valiantly try to untangle the machinka from your hair, but in the end, you will beg her to get a pair of scissors and cut the damn thing out.

Another thing I’ve learned from machinkas is that the best salon in Yaroslavl charges $20 for a haircut. Certainly a bargain by U.S. standards.

***

I think I’ve mentioned before that a lot of the children at the Hospital for Kids don’t have gloves to wear outside. We chipped in and bought a few pairs of kids gloves to take with us, along with balls and other outside toys. We can’t give them the gloves to keep, but we can let them borrow them when we play outside with them. We added three new pairs of gloves to the collection last weekend but were told on Monday that the kids couldn’t go outside until Thursday and not to bring the outside supplies until then.

We should have known better. On Wednesday, they decided we could take the kids outside after all, but we hadn’t brought the outside supplies with us. We all had fun anyway, and I let one of the kids wear my gloves.

Thursday, as promised, we could take them outside again. This time we had the outside supplies with us. The kid who’d worn my gloves the day before saw me waiting at the door in my coat & gloves and asked to wear my gloves again. Instead, I pulled out a pair of the new gloves and handed them to him.

I didn’t understand his Russian words, but I understood what he said: “Hey! These are NEW gloves! WOW!”

The facility had arranged for relay races and games outside, but this kid wasn’t interested. Revelling in the joy of being the first person ever to wear those gloves was the only thing on his mind. He burrowed through snow with his hands. He scooped up piles of snow with his hands. He knocked icicles off the monkey bars with his hands, then twirled himself around on the monkey bars with his hands. If there was a snowy surface he could touch with his hands, he touched it — to heck with the sack races!

An hour later, he came to me and the translator: “My hands are cold!” We laughed. “Of course your hands are cold! Even new gloves won’t keep your hands warm if you cover them in snow for an hour,” the translator replied. I think this news came as a surprise to him.

If you ever have the chance to give a new pair of gloves to a kid who’s only worn hand-me-downs, take it. Watching that kid enjoy those new gloves might just be the best time I’ve ever had.

***

On my way to the salon on Friday, I was struck by the sight of water in the street. I haven’t seen water in the street since I arrived.

Yes, the temperature rose above freezing on Friday and has held steady ever since. Two days later, walking through town is like walking through a dirty melted Icee. I didn’t mind the snow, but this half-melted, half-frozen witch’s brew is nasty. The puddles are calf-deep, just like the snow used to be. Thank heavens (and Dale!) that I have great boots, so my tootsies aren’t getting wet!

***
Saw my first professional hockey game last night. The Yaroslavl Locomotives won 6-2!

And yes, they play Queen’s “We Will Rock You” and that song “Na Na Na Na, Goodbye” at sports events even in Russia.