Last week, I telephoned a career counselor whom I had seen a couple times in New York to set up a time to speak again. Having been floundering--I might even say foundering--in my career since college, I decided it was time to seek advice from a competent and, I hoped, objective professional. Mostly, I wanted help sorting out the various options I am presently considering for What To Do With the Rest of My Life--the question that nags at me persistently and almost constantly.
We had exchanged a couple of e-mails, and the counselor had asked me to call to discuss when we could have a fuller conversation. I suggested today, forgetting completely that it would be Thanksgiving in America. So far am I from life back home that Turkey Day had totally slipped my mind.
I do have a lot to be thankful for this year. I know this because, when I find myself anxious (which is fairly often), I try to think of things for which I grateful as a way of calming down. At the head of the list is having a job that gives me the appreciation of my students and, occasionally, the opportunity to learn interesting things myself. I am grateful to be in a far better situation than I was in Taiwan. And I am grateful for the insight that so many of my problems since graduation have been caused by needless fear and anxiety.
Nonetheless, there is still a lot to be anxious about. The current economic crisis has everyone anxious, and I am no exception. My job may not be as secure as I had hoped, not because of any failure on my part in the classroom--I actually got good marks on my first and so far only classroom observation--but because of the economic storm engulfing the world. Someone high up in my school's administration has told me not to worry, that during Russia's last crisis in the late 1990s, the school had kept every one of its teachers and simply divided the reduced teaching load amongst them. But having had so many things go belly-up or just fail to come together over the last few years, it's hard to avoid the thought that this too many not last.
There's also the matter of my graduate school admissions--though here I also have some cause for cheer. I have completed applications to two programs in Jewish education and am finally close to having an admissions interview at one of them, to which I sent my application before leaving home this spring. My chances of getting into this program are pretty good. But whether this is really the best field for me, I am less certain than I was in April.s
I had hoped that my time in Russia would enable me to sort out graduate programs and find a clear direction. So far, this has not happened. I have looked into Jewish education, teacher training programs, library science programs, and, more recently, master's programs in higher education. But I still feel unable to make up my mind--a major reason for my decision to seek the advice of a professional. My indecision has been due partly to my recurrent anxiety, partly to having to adjust to life in Russia, and partly to knowing that all of these options are major commitments.
But on the thankful side, I can at least be thankful that, unlike during my time in New York, I am not going head-on into something for which I am neither qualified nor suited, and that I have learned at least to seek out and even occasionally take the advice of people older and wiser--or at least wiser--than I. And I am blessed to have so many such people in my life.
To all of them, I say thank you, and wish a joyous and happy Thanksgiving.
28 November 2008
Das Vadanya, Volodya
Yesterday, I was waiting for my evening class to begin when I received a text message from someone in my school's in-company department. She wanted to know how many times I have taught Volodya in the past months and whether there had been any cancellations.
I immediately called her, wanting to know why she needed this information so urgently. She said the person in charge of English instruction at Volodya's company needed to settle the bill. Apparently, my lessons with Volodya are now a casualty of the world economic crisis; the company has to retrench, and lessons like these are the first thing to go. My last lesson with Volodya will be next Tuesday.
I have learned so much from him, about not just how this country works, but how it worked in the recent, Communist past. I got to hear about strategies for obtaining "deficit" goods (goods the government could not or would not produce in sufficient quantities), dealing with interminable lines to buy basic groceries (which apparently existed as recently as the mid-1990s), and protecting your savings in a country that lacks a sound banking system and that, for several years after Communism's downfall, lacked a stable currency.
Alas, my Tuesday and Thursday mornings with Volodya are to be no more. Das Vadanya, Volodya. From me, you got practice with the third conditional and discussions of Jennifer Wilbanks and Andrea Yates. From you, I got a peek into another world.
I immediately called her, wanting to know why she needed this information so urgently. She said the person in charge of English instruction at Volodya's company needed to settle the bill. Apparently, my lessons with Volodya are now a casualty of the world economic crisis; the company has to retrench, and lessons like these are the first thing to go. My last lesson with Volodya will be next Tuesday.
I have learned so much from him, about not just how this country works, but how it worked in the recent, Communist past. I got to hear about strategies for obtaining "deficit" goods (goods the government could not or would not produce in sufficient quantities), dealing with interminable lines to buy basic groceries (which apparently existed as recently as the mid-1990s), and protecting your savings in a country that lacks a sound banking system and that, for several years after Communism's downfall, lacked a stable currency.
Alas, my Tuesday and Thursday mornings with Volodya are to be no more. Das Vadanya, Volodya. From me, you got practice with the third conditional and discussions of Jennifer Wilbanks and Andrea Yates. From you, I got a peek into another world.
The Wardrobe
To all the regular readers of my blog, I must offer an apology. I have been a very infrequent blogger of late, largely because my schedule has become hectic and busy, and my adventures have been few and far between. Winter is really the busy season for EFL teachers in Russia; my school has had me teaching close to the maximum number of hours my contract allows, and between teaching, lesson preparation, and travel, I have had little time to sit and blog.
Nonetheless, I do have some news to report from Moscow. We have had snow most of this week, a fact which, in my opinion, marks the beginning in earnest of the Russian winter. The temperature has been at about the freezing point, and I go out each day in a warm coat and scarf, but I cannot say I have been much colder than I would be at home this time of year.
I suppose I ought to feel some marvel at being in Russia in the snow, and indeed, last weekend, when a fellow teacher and I ended up walking through Red Square while flurries came down, there was a certain magic about it. But I cannot help knowing that the winter in Russia is long and likely to get far colder. A British administrator at my school who studied in Russia during her time at university remarked that it's not uncommon for the temperature to reach -20 Celsius in January. I dread that extremity of cold, but I imagine I will find some way to make do, as I managed for several months to make do without a washing machine and as I managed, until very recently, to make do without a proper wardrobe for my clothes.
Regarding the lack of a wardrobe: it was corrected last weekend. Sunday afternoon, I was sitting at home when the doorbell rang. As I was not expecting anyone, I had no idea who it could be.
It turned out to be too men delivering a wardrobe my school had promised me. And, it turned out, not just any wardrobe, but a big honking thing that takes up an amazing amount of space in my room. One thing I have learned, having had several experiences teaching Russians in their homes, is that Russians seem to take the same philosophy toward furniture that many New Yorkers take toward their dogs: the smaller the apartment, the bigger the furniture.
My school had been promising me a wardrobe ever since September, when, a new roommate having moved into my flat, the administrator in charge of housing came round for an inspection. When she expressed how appalled she was at seeing my dirty clothes in a massive pile on my bedroom floor (I fully expect to find Jimmy Hoffa in this pile any day now), I explained with a fair amount of exasperation that, lacking both a washing machine and a proper wardrobe, I had not much choice but to have a never-disappearing pile of clothes on the floor. The administrator promised me a washer and a wardrobe.
As I have already recounted, the washer was delivered in short order. Getting the wardrobe, however, became a much more dragged-out affair. Every time I came into my school's central office, I made inquiries about it and was told that negotations with my landlady over this wardrobe were in progress. I had expressed a wish to have one of the two massive bookcases in my room removed. This the landlady apparently proved unwilling to agree to. And so I assumed that the wardrobe was never to come.
I was quite surprised, then, when the men with the wardrobe showed up last Sunday. With all deliberate speed--and by this I do mean speed worthy of a court desegregation order--they brought in the wardrobe. I tried to explain to them, with my limited Russian, that I thought they were to remove a bookcase, and that they should probably do this before they brought in the wardrobe, but I failed to get this idea across. The wardrobe was dumped in what passes for our front hall, as there was no room for it in my bedroom.
Monday evening, I returned home from my evening class to find the wardrobe had been installed in my bedroom, but no furniture had been removed.
Ah, well. At least I have space enough to hang all of my wet clothes after I have taken them out of the washer. With any luck, the pile on my bedroom floor will finally disappear.
Nonetheless, I do have some news to report from Moscow. We have had snow most of this week, a fact which, in my opinion, marks the beginning in earnest of the Russian winter. The temperature has been at about the freezing point, and I go out each day in a warm coat and scarf, but I cannot say I have been much colder than I would be at home this time of year.
I suppose I ought to feel some marvel at being in Russia in the snow, and indeed, last weekend, when a fellow teacher and I ended up walking through Red Square while flurries came down, there was a certain magic about it. But I cannot help knowing that the winter in Russia is long and likely to get far colder. A British administrator at my school who studied in Russia during her time at university remarked that it's not uncommon for the temperature to reach -20 Celsius in January. I dread that extremity of cold, but I imagine I will find some way to make do, as I managed for several months to make do without a washing machine and as I managed, until very recently, to make do without a proper wardrobe for my clothes.
Regarding the lack of a wardrobe: it was corrected last weekend. Sunday afternoon, I was sitting at home when the doorbell rang. As I was not expecting anyone, I had no idea who it could be.
It turned out to be too men delivering a wardrobe my school had promised me. And, it turned out, not just any wardrobe, but a big honking thing that takes up an amazing amount of space in my room. One thing I have learned, having had several experiences teaching Russians in their homes, is that Russians seem to take the same philosophy toward furniture that many New Yorkers take toward their dogs: the smaller the apartment, the bigger the furniture.
My school had been promising me a wardrobe ever since September, when, a new roommate having moved into my flat, the administrator in charge of housing came round for an inspection. When she expressed how appalled she was at seeing my dirty clothes in a massive pile on my bedroom floor (I fully expect to find Jimmy Hoffa in this pile any day now), I explained with a fair amount of exasperation that, lacking both a washing machine and a proper wardrobe, I had not much choice but to have a never-disappearing pile of clothes on the floor. The administrator promised me a washer and a wardrobe.
As I have already recounted, the washer was delivered in short order. Getting the wardrobe, however, became a much more dragged-out affair. Every time I came into my school's central office, I made inquiries about it and was told that negotations with my landlady over this wardrobe were in progress. I had expressed a wish to have one of the two massive bookcases in my room removed. This the landlady apparently proved unwilling to agree to. And so I assumed that the wardrobe was never to come.
I was quite surprised, then, when the men with the wardrobe showed up last Sunday. With all deliberate speed--and by this I do mean speed worthy of a court desegregation order--they brought in the wardrobe. I tried to explain to them, with my limited Russian, that I thought they were to remove a bookcase, and that they should probably do this before they brought in the wardrobe, but I failed to get this idea across. The wardrobe was dumped in what passes for our front hall, as there was no room for it in my bedroom.
Monday evening, I returned home from my evening class to find the wardrobe had been installed in my bedroom, but no furniture had been removed.
Ah, well. At least I have space enough to hang all of my wet clothes after I have taken them out of the washer. With any luck, the pile on my bedroom floor will finally disappear.
09 November 2008
The World Turned Right Side Up
When I began this blog, a bit more than a year ago, I made a vow that, come what may, the one thing I was not going to talk about was politics. There are already far too many political blogs out there. I myself am generally not horribly interested in the topic, preferring to focus my energies on smaller-scale things than who becomes president of the United States. But in the aftermath of last Tuesday's national election, I suppose I cannot help adding my two cents to the political conversation.
An African-American man has been elected president of the United States. For the past week, as I have called up family and old friends in the United States, I have repeatedly quipped that there must be pigs flying past their windows. But the more I think about that joke, the more I realize how wrong that joke is. For in fact, it does not surprise me that such a thing could happen--has now happened--in America.
In my heart, I have never believed that most white Americans are racists. Were they at one time? Definitely. But not any more. I never felt any need to examine the "Bradley effect"--the supposed propensity of white voters to tell pollsters they would vote for a black candidate, but then not do it in the actual voting booth. I had faith in the goodness of the American people, and that faith has proven justified.
Even more so, I had faith in my generation--the generation raised on Sesame Street and Bill Cosby, a generation of unparalleled ethnic and racial diversity. By all accounts, my generation voted overwhelmingly for Obama. And this does not, in fact, surprise me. We have sat side by side in college lecture halls, worked together in the same companies, and never once thought this was anything remarkable, anything other than the way things ought to be.
Maybe now we can all grow up. Maybe race finally is truly a thing of the past in America. White people in urban America can stop being afraid of people whose skin happens to be the same shade as the president-elect; black people can stop feeling as though the deck is stacked against them.
Like Michelle Obama, I am now really proud of my country; unlike her, I can only wish I were there to see firsthand where her husband will us.
An African-American man has been elected president of the United States. For the past week, as I have called up family and old friends in the United States, I have repeatedly quipped that there must be pigs flying past their windows. But the more I think about that joke, the more I realize how wrong that joke is. For in fact, it does not surprise me that such a thing could happen--has now happened--in America.
In my heart, I have never believed that most white Americans are racists. Were they at one time? Definitely. But not any more. I never felt any need to examine the "Bradley effect"--the supposed propensity of white voters to tell pollsters they would vote for a black candidate, but then not do it in the actual voting booth. I had faith in the goodness of the American people, and that faith has proven justified.
Even more so, I had faith in my generation--the generation raised on Sesame Street and Bill Cosby, a generation of unparalleled ethnic and racial diversity. By all accounts, my generation voted overwhelmingly for Obama. And this does not, in fact, surprise me. We have sat side by side in college lecture halls, worked together in the same companies, and never once thought this was anything remarkable, anything other than the way things ought to be.
Maybe now we can all grow up. Maybe race finally is truly a thing of the past in America. White people in urban America can stop being afraid of people whose skin happens to be the same shade as the president-elect; black people can stop feeling as though the deck is stacked against them.
Like Michelle Obama, I am now really proud of my country; unlike her, I can only wish I were there to see firsthand where her husband will us.
Homesick...But Still Here
I suppose I ought to have some really good excuse for failing to blog much in the past month. The frequency of my blogging has gone down quite a bit; in Taiwan, I would blog so frequently in part because there just was nothing else to do where I was, and my class load did not consume as much of my time as it does here. In Moscow, however, my class load has increased, my social life is fuller, and I find I have less time to report everything of even minor interest said by my students.
Moreover, I have had more than a touch of homesickness of late. The realization, early last month, that I had been away from New York a full year sparked off a bit of depression. To think of it, a full year had passed since I had last wandered through Park Slope at sunset, eaten an oversized sandwich at Fine & Shapiro's, or approached Brooklyn from the pedestrian promenade of the Brooklyn Bridge. And ever since, my mind has turned back there, again and again, wondering if I would ever make it home.
This weekend, however, I spoke to someone who gave me the verbal kick in the pants I needed to get out of this. I've come to see some advantages to my situation here I had not noticed before in my sea of homesickness.
For one, I actually have a job where I seem to be appreciated for my mind, not just as a warm body. This week, I won my school's recently-inaugurated lesson planning contest after I submitted my Charleston Contest lesson plan (I was, however, disappointed to learn that the prize was the equivalent of $50 in rubles, and not one genuine loving cup). I may not have as many students as a "real teacher" back home, but the students who are able to come regularly to my classes seem to like me, and have no complaints about me as their teacher. In short, I feel as if I am actually succeeding here, in a way I never succeeded at any job back home.
So with that more positive attitude, I will attempt to be in more regular correspondence.
Moreover, I have had more than a touch of homesickness of late. The realization, early last month, that I had been away from New York a full year sparked off a bit of depression. To think of it, a full year had passed since I had last wandered through Park Slope at sunset, eaten an oversized sandwich at Fine & Shapiro's, or approached Brooklyn from the pedestrian promenade of the Brooklyn Bridge. And ever since, my mind has turned back there, again and again, wondering if I would ever make it home.
This weekend, however, I spoke to someone who gave me the verbal kick in the pants I needed to get out of this. I've come to see some advantages to my situation here I had not noticed before in my sea of homesickness.
For one, I actually have a job where I seem to be appreciated for my mind, not just as a warm body. This week, I won my school's recently-inaugurated lesson planning contest after I submitted my Charleston Contest lesson plan (I was, however, disappointed to learn that the prize was the equivalent of $50 in rubles, and not one genuine loving cup). I may not have as many students as a "real teacher" back home, but the students who are able to come regularly to my classes seem to like me, and have no complaints about me as their teacher. In short, I feel as if I am actually succeeding here, in a way I never succeeded at any job back home.
So with that more positive attitude, I will attempt to be in more regular correspondence.
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