Prabusire a Limbii

There are some classroom moments when you realize that your understanding of the language is just not up to snuff.

I'm talking about my English.

On Thursday, a girl in my seventh grade class was reading her homework out loud. The assignment had been to describe a friend's bedroom, using vocabulary that we had learned in the last lesson. During her reading, she said something like, "There is a desk, a cassette player and a video." I asked her to clarify what she meant by "video". She made the gestures of putting a videotape into a machine. I understood what she meant, and moved toward the board to write the correct word.

But what was the correct word?

I had forgotten. Five seconds passed.

"What is it?" I asked out loud. 10 seconds passed. My children began laughing.

"We use DVD players more in America, so I've forgotten the word," I said, trying to cover. 20 seconds.

"I know this," I said, tapping my foot and looking out the window in a desperate attempt to find the word written on the hills outside. 30 seconds.

Absolutely stumped. 40 seconds.

"A VCR!" I got it! I wrote the word on the board and had the students pronounce it.

"I'm really embarrassed about that," I told them. Hopefully, not too many of them know what "embarrassed" means.

My sense of accomplishment was bittersweet. I had found my answer, but it was if at age 22, I had been stumped by "What is two plus two?" It took me 45 seconds to remember the name of a basic electronic item that I have had in my living room for my entire life.

This loss of native language is widespread among anyone who lives abroad for a long period of time. I no longer use the word "to pour" in English; my first instinct is to say, "Can I turn you some wine?" since the Romanian verb "a turna" means "to pour".

A fellow volunteer who has been in Moldova for nearly two years and lived in the Czech Republic before that often has lapses in her English. I used to tease her about it. But now my language is declining like Charlie in the second half of Flowers for Algernon. I don't laugh anymore.

Threatdown-ul: Canalul Rus

I warned Russian state television that they were on notice, but they keep acting up. The latest offense of theirs to come across the airwaves; court television shows.

It seems that Russian TV has borrowed from the American daytime tradition of The People's Court, Judge Mills Lane, and Judge Judy. At first glance, their version seems a dead ringer for the American shows; a sparse set, witnesses with apparently little understanding of court decorum, and the Russian equivalent of rednecks.

American court shows are entertaining because of their frivolity; random small-claims civil suits for which both parties sign away their right to a lawyer in order to be on television. I thought that the Russian show was conducted with the same frivolity, and I once joked to my family that, just like in America, the Russian show only had "the best and smartest people." Although I couldn't understand the petty claims that the people on TV were making, I was sure that they were inconsequential items fitting for daytime television; maybe a restraining order against a guy with bizarre sexual preferences or a $1,000 settlement for the wrongful rent termination of a tenant whose dog didn't actually bite the landlord. I thought that until my host father translated the case for me one evening.

"There was a party, and somebody died," Dumitru said. "All the witnesses say that that man was seen around the person's drink, and a police search of his house found the same drug that killed the woman at the party."

What? There's a normal guy getting tried on television for murder? I was suddenly not very comfortable watching the show.

This afternoon, the show was on again. After the opening video montage, my host mother said, "That man killed his mother."

"It's saidВ that he killed his mother," I corrected her, reminding her that he should be considered innocent until proven guilty.

"Well, sure," Maria said. "They'll have a trial, but that's what they're trying him for."

After seeing the show this second time, I was offended. The concept of televising a murder trial in a 30-minute block seems fundamentally wrong to me. Unlike on our American court programs, these are serious cases that determine the rest of people's lives; no matter what crime they may have committed, they deserve the dignity of not having evidence brought up against them on public television. Do you think that these alleged murderers signed agreements to allow cameras into their trials? Do you think that the victims' families lobbied the prosecutor to publicize their tragedies across the country? This is the state-run media charging money for commercials during a murder trial.

I gave Maria a shortened version of the above speech. But later, in my room, I began thinking. Is making murder trials into questionably compelling television programmingВ thatВ much worse than the American media's gushing over the trials of Jeffrey Dahmer, O.J. Simpson, Michael Jackson and Scott Peterson? It's a complicated equation, based on the public's right to know, a celebrity's entitlement to privacy, the oddity of a case and how the media conducts itself.

In terms of the public's right to know, every trial is worthy of being reported, because the information is public. The public has a right to to know what is occurring in their neighborhood, their state and their country. By thisВ criterion alone, the televising of any trial is acceptable, since trials are intended to be open affairs. And in the case of O.J. Simpson's case, one can argue that watching a murder trial served the secondary purpose of educating the public on court processes, although Judge Lance Ito's move to allow cameras may have been serving himself more than the American public.

In the American media, we tend to give celebrity privacy little regard. Every scintilla of information is known about the love triangle of Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, so of course a celebrity accused of a crime should expect a deluge of media attention. However, in the Russian cases, the people tried are not celebrities, and might deserve more privacy, especially if wrongly accused.

Cases with fascinating circumstances—or, as evidenced in the Scott Peterson trial, well-to-do and good-looking victims—capture our attention more in America. But what makes these Russian court cases so special that they merit television coverage?

Up until now in my argument, there is little difference between the American and Russian cultural approaches. Trials are meant to be in the public forum, and whether or not they involve a celebrity or extraordinary circumstances, they can be covered in the media. In fact, a democracy is arguably better served by televising such trials. But media conduct is the major difference between the cultural approaches.

The American judicial system, with the noteworthy exception of Ito in the O.J. trial, has little tolerance for televised court proceedings. American murder cases similar to those televised in Russia—involving no celebrity and having only local importance—are usually covered only by local news. The only footage shown on the news is random footage of the accused, and anyone who is willing to talk to the press outside the courthouse. This contrasts with the Russian approach of showing the entire courtroom proceedings.

Why is this offensive to me, but evidently not to Russians or watchers in other CIS nations? Perhaps because the concept of court television in America is one of light-hearted frivolity; regardless of the trial's outcome, no one is sinking into financial ruin or going to jail for 25 years. An American, therefore, cannot take televised court proceedings seriously. Attaching such a glib process to something as important as a murder trial offends me, but maybe for a Russian who has never seen the circus atmosphere associated with Judge Judy, a televised trial doesn't necessarily seem less serious. I prefer to have this theory rather than think that every Russian who watches that show has no respect for the sanctity of life and wants quick justice doled out in 30-minute slices.

The Russian (and in this case, Moldovan) culture is similar to American culture, however, in one regard; the desire to be entertained. After I had told Maria that I was against showing such a serious trial on television, she said, "I agree with you. I don't like it either."

"But," I said, "you watch it every day."

Addendum: Wednesday, our neighbor at lunch with us. Maria, Dumitru and Gioric all watched the show intently. My host sister, Diana, sat in the corner reading a magazine and snickering when the older adults got excited at something said in the case. A promising sign for the future?

Ma Vind

Yes, I've sold out.

I am beginning to place Google Ads spaces on this blog. I am doing this for purely selfish and financial reasons. If these ads bring in a few dozen dollars per month, that would be more than my host mother makes in a month of working every day at one of the village stores, so why not? With the cumulated money from the next 18 months, this blog could bring me enough revenue to buy a bed and desk when I get back home. After seeing that I receive visitors on this blog who are obviously not just friends and family (I don't have friends in China), I believe that there may be some money to be made without exclusively pimping my nearest and dearest to the advertising johns.

I will do my best in the next months to make these advertisements noticeable but unobtrusive. This is an experiment, and I will be doing this for at least three months to see if it's worth it. If my readers turn out to not be the advertisement-clicking type and I'm not bringing in any money, I'll drop the ads in the summer. Until then, enjoy the new Sold-Out Adventures in Moldova.

Rezultatele Mele de Proba de Evaluare de Limba Romana

After exactly 255 days in Moldova (with 545 days remaining in
service, but who's counting?) we had our second official Language
Proficiency Interviews. The levels of proficiency, adapted from the
American Council for the Teaching of Foreign Languages and listed
below from top to bottom, are:

Superior - A spectacular speaker, able to speak with accuracy and
fluency for a long period of time on any topic. This is nearly the
level of a native speaker with a couple grammatical hang-ups.
Advanced High - Between Superior and Advanced Mid.
Advanced Mid - A speaker able to easily discuss "a large number of
communicative tasks." Able to describe events and stories with good
command of time frames. The speaker is very comfortable with a large
vocabulary, but suffers from linguistic breakdowns when confronted
with a situation where he does not know the vocabulary.
Advanced Low - A speaker who can usually get his point across in a
wide range of situations, but can have difficulty formulating more
complicated grammatical structures. When outside of his comfort
bubble in grammar of vocabulary, he speaks tentatively. The speaker
usually doesn't speak for longer than a paragraph.
Intermediate High - Intermediate High speakers perform similarly to
Advanced Low speakers, but experience breakdowns in vocabulary or
grammar more often.
Intermediate Mid - A speaker who knows enough to go shopping, discuss
food, perform in his work environment and answer typical questions
about his life. Discussing more complicated subjects results in
linguistic problems.
Intermediate Low - A speaker who is able to communicate only on a
survival level.
Novice High - A speaker able to respond to basic, immediate
questions, and able to ask some formulaic questions.
Novice Mid - A Novice Mid speaker communicates only with a few stock
phrases.
Novice Low - Equivalent to Tommy and Helen Keller as far as language
is concerned.

A speaker's ranking on this scale is based on a 30-minute interview.
The interviewer begins with questions to estimate your comfort level
and sets a "ceiling," the level at which you have a language
breakdown. The interviewer then returns the level of conversation
down a notch, and you continue to speak for the next 30 minutes. Also
included is a written scenario, where you read a situation from a
deck of cards and are told to perform in that situation. In my
language test in August, my scenario was to pretend to call my
counterpart, tell her that I was sick and ask her to teach my classes
for the day. This was a relatively difficult task for me back then,
since I didn't have that vocabulary. This time, my scenario was to
discuss with one of my superiors in the village about a secondary
project. This was simple for me, since I had been in the exact
situation only a few weeks beforehand, and new all the vocabulary
with which to discuss gas lines and new furnace rooms.

Last August, I received an Intermediate High ranking. I was matched
by several volunteers then, and bested by one volunteer from the Life
Skills and Health program. Sunday, I tested at the Advanced Mid
level, which is what I had expected to receive, barring some luck
that might have taken me to Advanced High. This keeps me just short
of the level necessary for Peace Corps to fund my Russian lessons
this summer, but I'm sure I can work around it and learn a good
amount this summer, anyway.

I finally am going to start tutoring; I will be writing a Romanian
journal so that I can write about more complicated topics and expand
my vocabulary, while having it checked by a tutor. My goal is to get
Advanced High or even Superior by the time my two years are over, and
the fact that I have gotten this far without a tutor is a hopeful
sign that I can achieve that goal before my time here is over. After
all, if I raised my level from nonexistent to Intermediate High in
three months and improved my speaking another two levels over the
course of six months, I can certainly move up one or two levels in
the next 543 days. But again, who's counting?

Muzica New Age

The "Info Box" entitled "New Age Music," on page 61 of the 8th grade English manual in Moldova:

Listening to the music can really change your mood! Sometimes, if you're feeling low, it's tempting to play slow, sad music, but this will probably make you feel worse! An uplifting tune or a cheerful song can instantly improve your energy levels and emotional well-being.

Combining the musical styles of different cultures and playing them on electronic instruments, such as a synthesizer, producces a kind of music known as "New Age". The rhythm is usually quite slow, so that it has a relaxing effect on the person listening to it. Some musicians also add natural sounds, such as whalesong, birdsong, waves, or gentle rain, to help to produce a feeling of calm and relaxations. New Age music is often played in healing centers to help relax the patients.

According to official state textbooks, New Age is good music. Poor Moldovan students; their government is lying to them in a language that they don't even understand.

Boris Ieltin, Cecenia si Canalul Rus

My television reception in Mereseni is limited to three channels: Romanian state television, Russian state television and Moldovan state television. The Moldovan station broadcasts only in the evening and rarely shows anything interesting—Telebingo being the closest thing to entertainment. Romanian TV can be interesting from time to time, but usually the best programming is on the Russian station. So I've got one interesting channel, right? Wait; I don't speak Russian.

Nevertheless, my host family and I often eat dinner together while watching the Russian 8 p.m. news and whatever program follows it. I don't begrudge my family the fact that I don't speak Russian yet, because we will also sometimes watch an American movie with Romanian subtitles that my family can't read fast enough. Anyway, I can still learn about Russian culture just from watching the images on TV, and my host father, Dumitru, translates into Romanian any bit that he thinks I need to know.

Something that Russian television does much more than Romanian or Moldovan TV is only present one side of the story. This contradicts my belief in an independent press—whoever the Danish visitor was to this page, I support your country in this ridiculous cartoon debate—and I feel obligated to point out biased news to my host family. The ability to pick apart possible media biases and separate fact from opinion is a cornerstone of Western thinking, although America is increasingly becoming a media-stupid nation. After so many decades of reading Pravda, the Soviet newspaper (literally meaning "Truth" in Russian), Moldovans don't have as much practice as Westerners at analyzing the news and evaluating multiple sources of information. A couple instances from the past two weeks are good examples:

1) One evening newscast in early February featured an uninterrupted 20-minute interview with former president Boris Yeltsin. To start with, I impressed my host parents by saying, "He was the mayor of Moscow, right? He was always on TV and became very popular, right? Then Gorbachev went on vacation and Yeltsin staged a takeover of the government, right?" The answers were yes, yes and yes. Thanks to Professor Connors for those Soviet Politics lectures in the Fall 2004 semester.

Twenty minutes of softball questions with a former president is not anything particularly despicable; if Clinton wanted to give an exclusive interview next week, all three networks would be climbing over one another for it. My host parents enjoyed the interview, telling me, "Just the other day, we were saying that we hadn't seen Yeltsin for a long time." The questions about his health (much better than in the mid-90s) and how he enjoys spending more time with family didn't interest me very much, but I started listening more attentively when I started hearing the word "America" repeated, without the happiest look on Yeltsin's face. He didn't just say "America". He also threw in "Iraq," "Afghanistan" and "Iran".

I turned to Maria and Dumitru and said, "I don't want to know what he's saying about America, do I?"

"He's saying that he doesn't like how America went into Iraq without a reason and that now they want to go into Iran alone," Dumitru said.

"Iran?" I said. "America is working with England, France, Germany, China /and Russia/ to talk to Iran. America doesn't want to go into Iran, and we don't have the army to go there now. If he says that America wants to go into Iran and wants to do it alone, he's lying."

No more was said on the subject, since when I make claims like that and can only back it up with English-language news clippings, my host mom just shrugs and speaks for the whole family: "Maybe you're right. I don't know."

I wasn't vindicated until the next night, when we watched the Romanian news and they talked about the multilateral talks among all the different countries trying to deter Iran.

"See?" I said. "America is working alone, just like Yeltsin said."

They laughed and said I was right. My point was accepted.

2) Tuesday night after the news, Russian TV broadcasted an action movie showing Russian soldiers in Chechnya. Mr. Myers the Journalist showed up at the dinner table again.

"If it's a film on the state channel about Chechnya, it'll probably only have good things to say about the soldiers and nothing good to say about the Muslims," I predicted. "You have to always be careful about /who/ is talking."

I watched 20 minutes of the movie. The scenes I saw were centered on soldiers posted on a hill-top, talking and even snapping photos of each other until a rebel sniper suddenly attacked and shot the photo subject in the face and the chest. The soldiers reacted by firing into the woods around the hill, routing out the sniper. Later, there were several conversations among the soldiers in a casual setting, and one soldier had a flashback to when he once came home and found his wife and child gunned down in a huge rebel slaughter of innocent victims. The entire time I watched, the only characters who talked were the soldiers. No Chechen was shown closer than a full shot (with the entire body in the frame), or if the shot was tighter, the rebel's face was obscured by a sniper rifle as he aimed at a Russian. The effect was to present a one-sided view of the current conflict, sympathetic to the soldiers and unwilling to see these rebels as people. As the film broke for a commercial, I once again turned to my family.

"You see? Not a single Muslim spoke the entire time," I said. "They're just the enemy. They're not people."

I'm not saying that this Chechnya film is endemic of all Russian (it was more than a Freudian slip that I started to type "Soviet") war films. But this is the only Russian war film I've seen other than the classic Soviet film dramatizing the war between the Reds and the Whites that features the baby carriage rolling down the stairs while the battle takes place (someone, please e-mail me the name of the film and the director). And since it is only the second Russian war film I've seen, it informs my opinions more than a single movie probably should. My initial observation is that Russia still treats war films as a sort of propaganda, continuing from the Soviet tradition. The sense of propaganda is increased because it is describing a war that is currently taking place and because it is villifying the enemy. Absent is a sense of introspection and doubt in the justification of the war, as well as a willingness to view the enemy as people; these are vital characteristics of the great Western war films, such as All Quiet on the Western Front, Saving Private Ryan, Full Metal Jacket and Three Kings. I would love to be more informed and possibly proven wrong on the subject of Russian war films, if any readers have information to share.

In the meantime, to paraphrase truth icon Stephen Colbert, "Russian state television, you're on notice."

Ce se Intimpla pe Drum la Sat

Every day on my way home from school, I walk past an elderly lady's house. She knows who I am, but evidently another old lady who was visiting at the front gate the other day had no idea. After I said, "Buna ziua," and passed the two old ladies (you don't pass anyone by in a village of 2,500 without greeting them, even if you have no idea who they are), I heard the following conversation snippets being spoken rather loudly behind me:

Baba 1: Who's that?
Baba 2: That's the foreign boy from America. He teaches at the school.
Baba 1: Where's he staying?
Baba 2: At Miter's house, over there.

It wasn't a long walk the rest of the way home, but I laughed the whole way there. In a village, everyone knows the entire family tree of everyone else, and if they don't know who you are, they won't blush about asking you. Sometimes elderly folks ask me upfront on the road, "Who are you?" with a sense that they had every right to cut the nonsense and find out who the hell this new person was. I gladly tell them.

A Moldovan village is a lot like Cheers; everybody knows your name, and if they don't, they'll ask you for it and then serve you a drink on the house.

Speaking of drinks, my simplest and most astounding cross-cultural experience happened last weekend as I was waiting on the side of the road in Mereseni for a rutiera. Two middle-aged women came walking down the road toward me with wine in a plastic water bottle (this used to be strange), a small glass and a bag of candy. They approached me and asked me if I'd like a glass of wine. I accepted, since I could afford to spend a leu on wine. They poured me a glass, I downed it in one swallow (this also used to be strange), thanked them, and told them that it was good wine. The lady with the bag grabbed three pieces of candy and a cookie and put them in my hand. Then they left. No money exchanged. They were just giving out shots of wine on the side of the road.

I bit off part of the cookie and thought to myself, "I like this country."

De ce Scoala Noastra este Friga

The prospect of grant money for a new heating system in the school has been a hot conversation item with my school director and mayor this week, including an initial meeting on Tuesday. On Wednesday, my director took me to the school's cazangerie, or boiler room, to see the conditions. On Thursday, I came back with my digital camera. The results are here.

Cuvintul Meu Preferat

My favorite new word: lingusitor

Pronounced "lean-goosh-ee-tour," its meaning happens to coincide with my current favorite English word: toady, a.k.a. brown-noser. I may use this word the next time little Andrian in 6b spends half of his energy on test day pointing out possible cheaters in the classroom.

Ziua Absolventiilor

As I stood in the middle of a circle of dancers and sang with liveВ accompaniment to a crowd of over 100 people from my village, one thought kept coming to mind: "This is better than any five-year reunion my high school could have had."

For those who dread the American high school reunion, a gathering of the 20 people you hung out with and another 200 whom you never talked to, Moldova offers a slightly different solution. Every year, on the first Saturday of February, the current graduating class puts on a reunion dinner for the graduates of five years ago, 10 years ago, 15 years ago, etc. In my village, the graduating class is usually fewer than 20 students, and the students become close after sitting in the same classroom together for 30 hours a week for 11 years—select members of my inner circle may remember that this stifling social situation is what I despise most about my elementary Catholic schooling, but it seems to work fine in Moldova, and it bypasses the whole "I have no idea who that person is" problem.

The dinner was scheduled to start at 6 p.m. I came at 7 p.m. and was the fourth teacher to show up; as far as timing goes, I'm on my way toward being Moldovan, but I'm not there yet. The 11th graders opened the ceremony with some poems and songs, which is the only way to start any ceremony in this country. Then the students took the microphone to each group of graduates and asked them a few questions, such as what they remembered most about school, what advice they had for the current graduating class, and other questions. The question to one of the 15-year graduates was "What was the first poem you learned in school, and could you please recite it?" The woman thought for a moment, then looked in my direction from across the cafeteria and recited the English poem that every Moldovan knows:

"Good morning. Good morning.

Good morning to you.

Good morning, dear teacher.

It's nice to see you."

Cue the applause and laughter. I made a gesture to her that was half a tip of the hat and half telling her that she was now permitted to take her seat for class. For the record, I have admonished students in my eighth grade class for using the phrase "dear teacher," and I will immediately fail any student of mine who recites this poem in class.

Another graduate was of great interest to me. He was a 30 year old named Sergiu, and is an economist and translator who routinely works in France and England. When asked by the 11th graders to say a few words, he spoke inspirationally on the virtues of coming from the countryside. Because of the comparative weakness of the education system in the villages and because of the increasing status of living in Chisinau as Moldova develops, villagers who move to the city can develop quite an inferiority complex. Although he was addressing the 11th graders, I think Sergiu spoke to everyone in the room when he told them to never be ashamed to come from the village. He quoted a Frenchman who said that the best wine and the best people come from the countryside. "Be proud to be from the village," he told his audience. "You have an experience that others will never have."

There is some truth to this. I already feel different after just eight months living in a village; I barely do any of the manual labor associated with village life, but there are plenty of other village experiences that people who stay in America or Chisinau will never experience. Waiting 30 minutes on the side of the road for transportation in the freezing cold just so I can pick up a package and buy a bucket and pens, as I did this morning, builds patience. Teaching for more than a month with temperatures in my classroom hovering between 3Вє and 10Вє C (37-50Вє F) makes me appreciate the things that city-dwellers take for granted. I think that Sergiu is correct; village life here is an important part of many people's "roots," just as life in the projects is a vital formative experience for the Americans who are able to attend college, find good work and move on to a better life. What Sergiu didn't say in his short speech is that only the best achievers and the luckiest people are able to escape the village. The majority of villagers seem to alternate between working locally for less than $60 a month and performing menial labor while living abroad illegally.

When I talked with Sergriu later—he spoke English perfectly with a slight mix of Moldovan and Scottish accents—he admitted that the opportunities are fewer here. What I gathered from his tone is that while it is difficult to come out of the village and have success, that is not the message that young people need to hear. There is enough negativity in their lives, and they need encouragement. As I write this, I realize that I should get his phone number from his family so that I can have him speak to my students. His number won't be difficult to find, since giving my host dad a brief physical description and his first name got me Sergiu's last name and the location of the house where his parents live.

As for the people who had already graduated and were currently eating dinner and dancing, they were partying like mad Moldovans. I was asked to dance many times by members of the 2001 class, and so I joined them.В  It was fitting, since I had also graduated high school five years ago. We danced to all sorts of music, including the Chicken Dance, which is inexplicably popular at parties in Moldova and has its own Romanian lyrics.

At about midnight, my director and assistant director both came to me, begging me to sing. It didn't take too much prodding, although IВ feignedВ resistance. I was escorted toward the keyboard player and was told to sing the melody for him. He learned it quickly, and we were ready to go.

My introduction was brief, and I was handed the microphone. I sang "Buna seara, mandro buna," the same song I sang with the other Costesti men at our swearing-in ceremony. I nailed it, and the surrealness of it all was completed with about 25 people dancing the hora around me, stepping gingerly over my microphone cable. I have now been recruited to sing in some sort of faculty talent show later in the semester, and I think I will renew my effort to learn some more Moldovan songs. Soon, I'll be like Bill Murray at the piano at the end of Groundhog Day, able to crank out a classic crowd-pleaser with only a moment's thought.

I left the party at 1:15 a.m. so that I could wake up and go to Chisinau the next morning. I was one of the first to leave; the party lasted until after 5 a.m. I'll have to see if I can repeat my traditional Moldovan singing at my own high school class's 10-year reunion.