I've been in Tbilisi all this week, and everywhere you look there's numbers. If this were because the local government had finally decided it would be a good idea to number the streets instead of giving them five-syllable names of dead writers and then not labeling them, that'd be great, but it's not the case. What's actually going on, and what I've avoided mentioning thus far in my blog (but then I saw other volunteers were doing it, so I'm now moving to sit at the cool-kid table), is a snap election.
Without saying anything remotely political, it's bare-bones enough to know that snap elections were called after opposition protests in November, and on January 5th the next president will be chosen. Candidates include members from various opposition parties, as well as Mr Saakashvili himself, who is eligible to engage in his current ultra-mega-populist campaign because he resigned from the presidency last month.
For a student of international relations, this is a delightful and exciting time to be in Georgia. Why international? Well, Russia and the US both have a stake in the outcome of this election. But I'm sure neither will try to interfere.
However, as a Peace Corps volunteer, it's mostly an exercise in smiling and nodding, coupled with feigned ignorance of anything and everything political. I turn around and head for home every time I see a giant 5 for Misha Saakashvili (the candidates are numbered, by the way) or a Gachechiladze 1, or a Gamkrelidze 3. Here in Tbilisi, there's no hiding from the numbers. Have you seen The Number 23? That's what it feels like. On the government building, 5. On the doner stand, 5. On the city buses, 5.
You start to make mental connections. The election is on the 5th. The highest score in the Georgian school system used to be 5. It costs 5 lari to see a movie at the English-language theater-- AMERICANS speak English. There's a 5-hour time difference between Georgia and London-- where people outside the Georgian government's good graces like to hide out. There are five paragraphs so far in this blog entry. As of this sentence, I've used the word Georgia five times.
So clearly, they've gotten into my head, and the only cure is a trip to Armenia. While I'm doing that, you can read this tale of Soviet-esque political deceit that one of the candidates dreamed up. If I tell you that it involves murder, will you read it? Well, it does.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
A Merry Little Shoba
My Christmas post from last year was fairly negative, in hindsight. Maybe it's because I'm not really going anywhere for winter break, though, that leaves me with a better impression of the holiday season in Georgia. Maybe it's the prospect of eight months left in my service, as opposed to twenty.
There's quite a few things to be happy about during the Georgian Christmas season. The key to everything is to realize that even though the Georgian Christmas falls on January 7th, the holiday that they get all excited about-- with the trees and the presents and what have you-- is New Year's. Naturally, I still pine for Christmas 2005, when I passed the Macy's Christmas windows on my way to work every day, but until Macy's Tbilisi opens, here's what to look out for next time you find yourself in Georgia in late December...
1) You can still find the Coca-Cola polar bears on TV, watching brightly lit Coca-Cola trucks speeding yuletide cavities to children throughout the world. Last year these commercials were only on the Russian channels, but the proudest pronouncement of Georgia's entry on to the world stage is that they're showing the commercials in Georgian this year.
2) Your school's Christmas carnival will be an exhibition of singing and dancing, though not like the exhibitions of singing in dancing that you sat through in the US, where the littl'uns adorably forget their lines and sing out of tune, or step with the wrong foot. Their singing and dancing teachers have long since taught them that mistakes are not cute. Nothing warms the heart like carols and folk dances juxtaposed with razor-sharp Soviet precision.
3) Your host sister might receive a free CD full of Christmas music from cellular provider Geocell when she buys a new SIM card. She might play the songs over and over again, referring to her 10th and 11th grade textbooks for the words from "White Christmas," "Silent Night," and "So This is Christmas (War is Over)." She might ask you to help her with the pronunciation of the lyrics to "Jingle Bell Rock," which she'll be singing at the aforementioned Christmas carnival. You might explain to her that she should say "swingin'" instead of "swinging," and that the A doesn't mean anything in "a-mingle."
4) You can watch a new set of mysterious commercials that has appeared this year, where a bunch of Santas read letters from children and announce in English that they're from Georgia. There's Georgian subtitles, so at first I thought it was an international commercial dubbed in Georgian, but then the Santas are shown walking around Georgian stores-- it's not like anyone else uses this alphabet-- so apparently the commercials were made under the assumption that Santa speaks English. I guess that makes sense; it is the international language.
5) In case you start to get depressed about the impending passing of December 25th as a day without celebration, take advantage of the smattering of saint's days that fill the time before New Year's. Monday was St. Barbara's Day, when one eats pumpkin, bean pastries, and fish. Wednesday was St. Nicholas' Day, when one goes (or intends to go) to church.
Bear in mind that there's plenty of American volunteers scattered around the country who'll celebrate with you, too. If the camaraderie of a bunch of tree-hugging, organic-farming hippies doesn't make your holiday merry and bright, then perhaps there's nothing left for you here. Go back to America, where they play the Christmas carols 24 hours a day for six weeks, and where the Christmas aisles at Wal-Mart are set up before you've eaten the last of your Halloween candy. Go buy presents for your friends, and then wonder at what point you should draw the line between "friend" and "Christmas present friend." Go take advantage of the one day off your job offers you, knowing that they could call you back into the office at any second. Go stuff the used wrapping paper into a giant trash bag and wonder if it was worth all the effort.
Yes, I miss it anyway.
There's quite a few things to be happy about during the Georgian Christmas season. The key to everything is to realize that even though the Georgian Christmas falls on January 7th, the holiday that they get all excited about-- with the trees and the presents and what have you-- is New Year's. Naturally, I still pine for Christmas 2005, when I passed the Macy's Christmas windows on my way to work every day, but until Macy's Tbilisi opens, here's what to look out for next time you find yourself in Georgia in late December...
1) You can still find the Coca-Cola polar bears on TV, watching brightly lit Coca-Cola trucks speeding yuletide cavities to children throughout the world. Last year these commercials were only on the Russian channels, but the proudest pronouncement of Georgia's entry on to the world stage is that they're showing the commercials in Georgian this year.
2) Your school's Christmas carnival will be an exhibition of singing and dancing, though not like the exhibitions of singing in dancing that you sat through in the US, where the littl'uns adorably forget their lines and sing out of tune, or step with the wrong foot. Their singing and dancing teachers have long since taught them that mistakes are not cute. Nothing warms the heart like carols and folk dances juxtaposed with razor-sharp Soviet precision.
3) Your host sister might receive a free CD full of Christmas music from cellular provider Geocell when she buys a new SIM card. She might play the songs over and over again, referring to her 10th and 11th grade textbooks for the words from "White Christmas," "Silent Night," and "So This is Christmas (War is Over)." She might ask you to help her with the pronunciation of the lyrics to "Jingle Bell Rock," which she'll be singing at the aforementioned Christmas carnival. You might explain to her that she should say "swingin'" instead of "swinging," and that the A doesn't mean anything in "a-mingle."
4) You can watch a new set of mysterious commercials that has appeared this year, where a bunch of Santas read letters from children and announce in English that they're from Georgia. There's Georgian subtitles, so at first I thought it was an international commercial dubbed in Georgian, but then the Santas are shown walking around Georgian stores-- it's not like anyone else uses this alphabet-- so apparently the commercials were made under the assumption that Santa speaks English. I guess that makes sense; it is the international language.
5) In case you start to get depressed about the impending passing of December 25th as a day without celebration, take advantage of the smattering of saint's days that fill the time before New Year's. Monday was St. Barbara's Day, when one eats pumpkin, bean pastries, and fish. Wednesday was St. Nicholas' Day, when one goes (or intends to go) to church.
Bear in mind that there's plenty of American volunteers scattered around the country who'll celebrate with you, too. If the camaraderie of a bunch of tree-hugging, organic-farming hippies doesn't make your holiday merry and bright, then perhaps there's nothing left for you here. Go back to America, where they play the Christmas carols 24 hours a day for six weeks, and where the Christmas aisles at Wal-Mart are set up before you've eaten the last of your Halloween candy. Go buy presents for your friends, and then wonder at what point you should draw the line between "friend" and "Christmas present friend." Go take advantage of the one day off your job offers you, knowing that they could call you back into the office at any second. Go stuff the used wrapping paper into a giant trash bag and wonder if it was worth all the effort.
Yes, I miss it anyway.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Making Atchma!
Is American food too free of butter for you? Do you scowl at the artificial transfat goo they layer on your movie popcorn? Check out this Georgian dish, fit to satisfy all your butter, cheese, and carb needs-- ATCHMA.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Underemployment for All!
in your notebooks:
How will you deal with finding a job after you graduate? Who will hire you?
That was the question my 11th-graders had to write answers to at the lesson yesterday. Mostly, it was to practice the unit 5-8 vocabulary of "to graduate," "to hire," and "to deal with," but it also seemed at least a little relevant. But then...
student 1: Do you mean after we graduate from school, or after we graduate from university?
me: If you're going to university, then after university. If you're not, then after school.
student 1: Okay.
student 2: Who's not going to university?
student teacher: Jeni, in our country, you cannot get a job if you do not go to university. Especially not in Samtredia.
me: I mean, you could be a waitress--
student teacher: You must go to university to get a job.
student 3: "When I finish university, I will be a professional and I think companies will easily want to hire me, and that is how I will deal with finding a job."
me: That's very optimi--
student 4: "I will study psychology at university because I want to be a famous psychologist. There are many people in Georgia who need help."
me: That's interesting, you're the first student I've seen here who wants to be a psychologist.
student 4: (points at student 5) She is the second student you've seen.
me: You want to be a psychologist, too?
student 5: (nods)
me: Well, read your response.
student 5: (shrugs, lowers head)
me: What have you been doing for the last ten minutes?
student 5: (shrugs)
me: Thanks.
The entire exchange got me to thinking about a trait endemic to those who walk upon American soil, namely the ability to resign oneself to a lesser, possibly crappy job if no others are available. That doesn't come up a lot here (granted, there aren't a ton of jobs in either category to begin with). Someone who has a degree from Tbilisi State U, 1984 in economics is therefore an "economist" and will not work in a restaurant. No self-respecting 11th-grader would ever be caught dead cleaning dishes for money. University students are loathe to deliver flyers or clean floors. It's a matter of pride in oneself, I think, but pride really has no place in the heart of a broke university student. If I ate canned corn for dinner, you can. If I'm currently wearing the same pair of $9 brown pants that I got on clearance at Old Navy five years ago, you can.
Aside from the millions of exploited immigrants and overseas sweatshop workers who take the jobs that broke American college students won't take, selling oneself short is what makes our economy tick. Maybe, in exchange, you have no Japan-esque job security, or Sweden-esque benefits. Maybe it's taking it one step too far for immigrants with post-graduate degrees to have no options other than to run grocery stores. But at least I know that somewhere out there is a job for me, as long as I'm not too stuck-up to take it.
This issue is a pertinent one for second-year Peace Corps volunteers. With a mere eight months left to go, the younger and less-experienced among us may find ourselves wondering what kind of magical resume we'll have to come up with to avoid the drifting unemployment we watched our fellow bachelor's-degree-holders bob through for months after we left. Now, they've all found their footing, and we're the ones with no two-year plan. I wish I had the faith in my degree that my students have in their future ones. As I don't, I'm going to have to use the power of my 20-hits-per-day blog and throw this out there...
PLEASE HIRE ME!!!
Jennifer McFann, age 23
willing to relocate to Washington, DC or New York City
availability: September 2008
languages: Georgian, Spanish, minimal and practically useless levels of Russian and French
education: B.A. international relations, NYU
publications: "Laveidem," Scholastic 2004
publications that sold non-negligible number of copies: none
advantageous personal traits: love of writing, willingness to agree with anything that's eloquently articulated, in favor of in world peace, minimal social life to interfere with weekend working hours, sometimes able to keep running sarcastic commentary to self and not blurt it out, blue belt in taekwondo
work experience: Peace Corps volunteer (teacher, projects, etc), NYC City Council intern, software review analyst (that is, analyst of reviews and not of software itself, which would be cooler), tutor, administrative assistant, server at mid-range family restaurant
looking for: global NGO, esp working with East Asia or Caucasus; political thinktank (I can make coffee); mid-range family restaurant
contact info: leave a comment on this blog with your organization's name and email, and I'll trip over both feet in my desperate rush to get in touch with you
P.S. If you are a citizen or resident of any other country and you object to my classification of taking lesser jobs as a distinctly American quality, then I urge you to leave comments on this post correcting me for my blatant ethnocentricism. If I see no comments, then I'm right forever.
How will you deal with finding a job after you graduate? Who will hire you?
That was the question my 11th-graders had to write answers to at the lesson yesterday. Mostly, it was to practice the unit 5-8 vocabulary of "to graduate," "to hire," and "to deal with," but it also seemed at least a little relevant. But then...
student 1: Do you mean after we graduate from school, or after we graduate from university?
me: If you're going to university, then after university. If you're not, then after school.
student 1: Okay.
student 2: Who's not going to university?
student teacher: Jeni, in our country, you cannot get a job if you do not go to university. Especially not in Samtredia.
me: I mean, you could be a waitress--
student teacher: You must go to university to get a job.
student 3: "When I finish university, I will be a professional and I think companies will easily want to hire me, and that is how I will deal with finding a job."
me: That's very optimi--
student 4: "I will study psychology at university because I want to be a famous psychologist. There are many people in Georgia who need help."
me: That's interesting, you're the first student I've seen here who wants to be a psychologist.
student 4: (points at student 5) She is the second student you've seen.
me: You want to be a psychologist, too?
student 5: (nods)
me: Well, read your response.
student 5: (shrugs, lowers head)
me: What have you been doing for the last ten minutes?
student 5: (shrugs)
me: Thanks.
The entire exchange got me to thinking about a trait endemic to those who walk upon American soil, namely the ability to resign oneself to a lesser, possibly crappy job if no others are available. That doesn't come up a lot here (granted, there aren't a ton of jobs in either category to begin with). Someone who has a degree from Tbilisi State U, 1984 in economics is therefore an "economist" and will not work in a restaurant. No self-respecting 11th-grader would ever be caught dead cleaning dishes for money. University students are loathe to deliver flyers or clean floors. It's a matter of pride in oneself, I think, but pride really has no place in the heart of a broke university student. If I ate canned corn for dinner, you can. If I'm currently wearing the same pair of $9 brown pants that I got on clearance at Old Navy five years ago, you can.
Aside from the millions of exploited immigrants and overseas sweatshop workers who take the jobs that broke American college students won't take, selling oneself short is what makes our economy tick. Maybe, in exchange, you have no Japan-esque job security, or Sweden-esque benefits. Maybe it's taking it one step too far for immigrants with post-graduate degrees to have no options other than to run grocery stores. But at least I know that somewhere out there is a job for me, as long as I'm not too stuck-up to take it.
This issue is a pertinent one for second-year Peace Corps volunteers. With a mere eight months left to go, the younger and less-experienced among us may find ourselves wondering what kind of magical resume we'll have to come up with to avoid the drifting unemployment we watched our fellow bachelor's-degree-holders bob through for months after we left. Now, they've all found their footing, and we're the ones with no two-year plan. I wish I had the faith in my degree that my students have in their future ones. As I don't, I'm going to have to use the power of my 20-hits-per-day blog and throw this out there...
PLEASE HIRE ME!!!
Jennifer McFann, age 23
willing to relocate to Washington, DC or New York City
availability: September 2008
languages: Georgian, Spanish, minimal and practically useless levels of Russian and French
education: B.A. international relations, NYU
publications: "Laveidem," Scholastic 2004
publications that sold non-negligible number of copies: none
advantageous personal traits: love of writing, willingness to agree with anything that's eloquently articulated, in favor of in world peace, minimal social life to interfere with weekend working hours, sometimes able to keep running sarcastic commentary to self and not blurt it out, blue belt in taekwondo
work experience: Peace Corps volunteer (teacher, projects, etc), NYC City Council intern, software review analyst (that is, analyst of reviews and not of software itself, which would be cooler), tutor, administrative assistant, server at mid-range family restaurant
looking for: global NGO, esp working with East Asia or Caucasus; political thinktank (I can make coffee); mid-range family restaurant
contact info: leave a comment on this blog with your organization's name and email, and I'll trip over both feet in my desperate rush to get in touch with you
P.S. If you are a citizen or resident of any other country and you object to my classification of taking lesser jobs as a distinctly American quality, then I urge you to leave comments on this post correcting me for my blatant ethnocentricism. If I see no comments, then I'm right forever.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
How a Thought Becomes a Blog
Sometimes I go a while without writing anything in this blog, as you may have noticed. It's not that ideas don't abound-- they definitely abound-- but there's a certain weeding-out process that any blog inspiration has to go through before it becomes a post. Let's follow a sample idea through the blog post-writing system, a la School House Rock.
Example inspiration: I just ate an overripe persimmon.
Obstacle one: Who will it offend?
This obstacle stops most blog post inspirations dead in its tracks, for I am not merely offending people by my own cynicism and apathy, I'm offending them in the name of the US government. It's my contention that some people will be offended by anything-- and that they should have the sense to read the disclaimer at the top of the page before they blame all 300 million Americans for something I carp about-- but nonetheless I won't write anything without scanning it thoroughly for possibly offensive clauses or sentence fragments. Exceptions include posts that are offensive to other Peace Corps volunteers named Heidi and Ryan.
Will my story about an overripe persimmon aversely affect my standing with the persimmon benefactors, the teachers at the 12th school of Samtredia who gifted it to me three days ago? Probably not, since they don't have internet. Is it offensive to say that they don't have internet? No. Because they don't. Is it offensive to say that it's not offensive to say that they don't have internet, implying that it's a given fact? Et cetera.
Obstacle two: Is it substantial enough to warrant an entire post?
Rarely are the thoughts that pass through my head coherent enough to congeal into a post. Rarely are the coherent thoughts remembered long enough to congeal into a post. It takes a special thought to blossom into a blog post, one that occupies my mind while I should be teaching, or one that comes to me while I'm within arms' reach of my laptop. I've wanted to write a blog post about the bazaar for a long time, and yet nothing. Here I am, writing this instead.
The persimmon story is rather short. It consists of: I was given a persimmon by the teachers at the 12th school because every time I go there, they feel obligated to gift me with food. They've also offered to put a plaque on the wall with my name if I can help them get funding for an English language laboratory. I took the persimmon home and let it ripen for two more excessive days, then sliced/mushed it into pieces with the help of a dull butterknife that I keep in my room for the purpose of eating straight peanut butter. The inside of the persimmon was translucent and gooey, either like a glazed sashimi if you're sophisticated, or like the alien cadavers from the Texas morgue in X-Files: Fight the Future if you're me ("Mulder, it's completely edematous.")
Obstacle three: What does it say about Georgian culture?
The only thing that stops this blog from completely dissolving into a self-indulgent diary is that it's supposed to be edifying, dispensing occasional tidbits about the trials and tribulations of living in Georgian society. Of course, once we start discussing "Georgian society" as a whole, a bunch of ambulance-chasing disclaimers come into play, just to drive the point home that I know that not every Georgian behaves the same way, not every Georgian compliments my looks by telling me I'm going to be bridenapped, not every Georgian has a two-degree range of temperatures that they find comfortable and relegate all else to "freezing" or "very hot," not all Georgians think Chinese people are being sent by the government of China to take their jobs, and so on.
The persimmon story is absolutely without value in this regard and would not even suffice as a blog post on a normal blog. Perhaps I could take the example of the gift persimmon and use it to talk about the selfless generosity and hospitality of Georgian society as shown by the broker-than-broke teachers at the 12th school who make $60 a month and insist on spending what little they have on their American "guest," much to that guest's shame and burden of gratitude... but that's depressing without an uplifting note about how karma resolved itself and they won the lottery the next day. But they didn't.
Obstacle four: Who will read it?
I don't put much thought into this last obstacle. If the inspiration has made it past my short term memory lapses and the first three obstacles, then it's time to give it a break and turn it into a post. Somehow, despite their own best interests, people end up reading the post anyway. You, for example, have just read a post about someone describing the way they wrote a post about eating a piece of fruit. I applaud you for it.
Congratulations! The mushy, oversweet persimmon I just ate has become a full-fledged blog post. The only thing it lacks now is a hard-hitting and overarching conclusion, which I can't quite come up with. Just a SLICE of life, I guess! Ha, ha! No. Life's kinda FRUITY like that! Oh... definitely not. Perhaps I'll just end it here.
And that's how the persimmon crumbles!
Example inspiration: I just ate an overripe persimmon.
Obstacle one: Who will it offend?
This obstacle stops most blog post inspirations dead in its tracks, for I am not merely offending people by my own cynicism and apathy, I'm offending them in the name of the US government. It's my contention that some people will be offended by anything-- and that they should have the sense to read the disclaimer at the top of the page before they blame all 300 million Americans for something I carp about-- but nonetheless I won't write anything without scanning it thoroughly for possibly offensive clauses or sentence fragments. Exceptions include posts that are offensive to other Peace Corps volunteers named Heidi and Ryan.
Will my story about an overripe persimmon aversely affect my standing with the persimmon benefactors, the teachers at the 12th school of Samtredia who gifted it to me three days ago? Probably not, since they don't have internet. Is it offensive to say that they don't have internet? No. Because they don't. Is it offensive to say that it's not offensive to say that they don't have internet, implying that it's a given fact? Et cetera.
Obstacle two: Is it substantial enough to warrant an entire post?
Rarely are the thoughts that pass through my head coherent enough to congeal into a post. Rarely are the coherent thoughts remembered long enough to congeal into a post. It takes a special thought to blossom into a blog post, one that occupies my mind while I should be teaching, or one that comes to me while I'm within arms' reach of my laptop. I've wanted to write a blog post about the bazaar for a long time, and yet nothing. Here I am, writing this instead.
The persimmon story is rather short. It consists of: I was given a persimmon by the teachers at the 12th school because every time I go there, they feel obligated to gift me with food. They've also offered to put a plaque on the wall with my name if I can help them get funding for an English language laboratory. I took the persimmon home and let it ripen for two more excessive days, then sliced/mushed it into pieces with the help of a dull butterknife that I keep in my room for the purpose of eating straight peanut butter. The inside of the persimmon was translucent and gooey, either like a glazed sashimi if you're sophisticated, or like the alien cadavers from the Texas morgue in X-Files: Fight the Future if you're me ("Mulder, it's completely edematous.")
Obstacle three: What does it say about Georgian culture?
The only thing that stops this blog from completely dissolving into a self-indulgent diary is that it's supposed to be edifying, dispensing occasional tidbits about the trials and tribulations of living in Georgian society. Of course, once we start discussing "Georgian society" as a whole, a bunch of ambulance-chasing disclaimers come into play, just to drive the point home that I know that not every Georgian behaves the same way, not every Georgian compliments my looks by telling me I'm going to be bridenapped, not every Georgian has a two-degree range of temperatures that they find comfortable and relegate all else to "freezing" or "very hot," not all Georgians think Chinese people are being sent by the government of China to take their jobs, and so on.
The persimmon story is absolutely without value in this regard and would not even suffice as a blog post on a normal blog. Perhaps I could take the example of the gift persimmon and use it to talk about the selfless generosity and hospitality of Georgian society as shown by the broker-than-broke teachers at the 12th school who make $60 a month and insist on spending what little they have on their American "guest," much to that guest's shame and burden of gratitude... but that's depressing without an uplifting note about how karma resolved itself and they won the lottery the next day. But they didn't.
Obstacle four: Who will read it?
I don't put much thought into this last obstacle. If the inspiration has made it past my short term memory lapses and the first three obstacles, then it's time to give it a break and turn it into a post. Somehow, despite their own best interests, people end up reading the post anyway. You, for example, have just read a post about someone describing the way they wrote a post about eating a piece of fruit. I applaud you for it.
Congratulations! The mushy, oversweet persimmon I just ate has become a full-fledged blog post. The only thing it lacks now is a hard-hitting and overarching conclusion, which I can't quite come up with. Just a SLICE of life, I guess! Ha, ha! No. Life's kinda FRUITY like that! Oh... definitely not. Perhaps I'll just end it here.
And that's how the persimmon crumbles!
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