In Pieces

I expected waves of depression – interspersed moments of tears – for the first few days when I got back. I expected discontent, sadness, and despondency for at least a week. I expected that life wouldn’t return to normal immediately. 

I was prepared for my emotions; I had mentally analyzed the situations so that I felt I was as ready as I could be. I thought I had overestimated the amount of reverse culture shock I’d experience, and I was anxious to see if I was right. 

What I didn’t expect, however, was that my sadness would not come crashing down on me; rather, it comes when I least expect it. It comes when I am standing at work and say “yup” the same way my host brother and I joked in. It comes when I am visiting a friend and remind myself to ask before I throw the cherry pits into the yard. It comes when I am sitting at home and wait for my host mom’s voice to fill the porch. It comes when I am waking up in the morning and hear none of the familiar “village” sounds. It comes when I am shopping at Walmart and look at the apricots that are nowhere near Georgian standards.

I never expect it, which makes the feeling worse. The longing for Georgia rushes in, overwhelms me, and leaves just as quickly as it came. Instead of uncontrollable sobs, I am left with the feeling of holding myself together – like the memories threaten to break me apart. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and I’m left reeling. 

In the first few days, these moments were the hardest to understand and accept. It’s been a week now, and while they haven’t decreased in number or intensity, I am better able to anticipate their presence. When my mind moves to a certain train of thought, I know a sharp stab reminding how much I miss Georgia won’t be far behind. I wait for a moment while the ache for my second home washes over me, knowing that it will subdue soon, and I will be able to unclench my arms from their instinctive position around my stomach as I try to hold myself together for that one second.

I realize I’ll be back in two months, so it may seem a bit dramatic. Honestly, I don’t care. I’m away from my new normal. I’m away from my Georgian friends. I’m away from my Georgian church. I’m away from my Georgian family. And it sucks. Please don’t misunderstand me; I love being home. I love being around my family, my American friends, and McDonalds breakfast. But a piece of me is missing…a piece of me is still in Georgian.

Glass Dishes and Plastic Swords: An Excursion to the Zoo

To me, the zoo has always been a magical place. I didn’t get to visit very often when I was a child, however, as it was at least an hour’s drive away and expensive, which means that I enjoy it even more as an adult. So when my co-teacher mentioned her thought of taking some of our students to the zoo, I fully supported the plan.

Because one marshutka cannot take everyone, my co-teachers decided to select the upper level students from the 3rd, 4th, and 5th classes. Given my past experiences with Georgian start times, I just smiled when my teacher said we would leave at 9:00. However, I haven’t been able to part with all my American idiosyncrasies, and I arrived on Saturday morning about 10 minutes early. Imagine my surprise, then, upon finding the marshutka already there, students waiting excitedly, and only one person missing. Within a few minutes, he arrived, and we left the school at exactly 9:00.

After stopping halfway through our two-hour drive to Tbilisi so students could use the bathroom and buy ice cream, we stopped 20 minutes later to eat lunch. Carrying their backpacks and bags to the table, I watched in amazement as students pulled out glass cups and dishes, silverware, pots of chicken, bags of cucumbers, bottles of limonati, and plates of cake. The leftovers were eventually gathered up, the trash was discarded, and the students made their way back to the marshutka.

Upon reaching the zoo at last, we bought our tickets and herded our group of 21 toward the porcupines, wolves, and wild dogs. I don’t know what the plan was, or if there was one to begin with, but students quickly dispersed without a meeting time, rendezvous point, or time limit. We were able to keep them together until we reached the middle of the zoo, which houses the amusement rides and carnival games. After twenty minutes of spinning rides, ice cream stands, toys for siblings, and cotton candy sticks, we began collecting all the students again. However, they had not all stayed in the same area, and each teacher went looking while a group of students waited. Whether we found the original missing students or not was irrelevant since we came back to an empty bench where the group was supposed to be. After a few rounds of this cycling in and out, we were finally able to collect everyone together.

Taking another ice cream and soda break on the corner while an elephant tried to free its leg from a tire, we continued down the path to see the zebras, ostriches, yaks, various cranes, and a small antelope. Walking toward the exit, one student caught a glimpse of the reptile house, so we piled into the confined area to look at deadly snakes, weird-shaped fish, and camouflaged lizards. We continued to the our exit destination but were again deterred when students needed to use the bathroom, buy a last minute bag of chips, or spend the last 60 tetri of the money their mothers gave them for the excursion. It was the amusement ride situation all over again; students coming and going and running toward animals and being sent to find their classmates. After 30 minutes, we managed to gather everyone together. With a teacher leading the way, one keeping students together in the middle, and one in the back keeping on an eye on those prone to wander, we were finally able to leave the zoo.

Thinking he would gain some extra points with the children, the marshutka driver offered to take everyone to Peace Bridge to wander around for a while. The students begged my co-teacher, and she eventually was persuaded to say yes, with a time limit of 30 minutes. Unfortunately (for our students), she gave in too late and the driver did not want to turn around. We continued out of Tbilisi, where we stopped for gas. In Georgia, for those not familiar with the gas system, we all vacated the marshutka and waited off to the side where we found a one-stall bathroom, meaning the 2-minute gas stop turned into a 15-minute bathroom break.

Finally on the road again, the students broke into choruses of Georgian traditional songs and simple English poems and alternated between Selena Gomez’s Love Song and Maroon 5’s Move’s Like Jagger. After only 45 minutes on the road and even though they had snacked on chips, ice cream, and crackers all day, we stopped for dinner at a gas station with a table. Upon learning that the table was not free, we piled back into the marshutka, drove a few kilometers more, and stopped at an abandoned restaurant. Once we had wiped the ants and bugs off the rusty table, students pulled out their dishes, leftover meat, bread, and cheese, and bottles of half-full limonati. When we were finished, we wrapped everything up again, climbed back into the marshutka, and headed toward the village again, arriving only two hours later than the original estimate.

Eventually, we will use the pictures of the animals and English/Georgian text for a student presentation on the excursion. The younger students are putting together posters of what they saw and the older students are making books with the animals’ pictures and descriptions. It was a day where students we able to practice their conversational English and listening skills. All in all, it was a great trip.

From this experience, I have learned a few things about Georgian excursions that will possibly help prepare the next person who attempts this feat.

1. Eating is a top priority.
   
2. Students will bring backpacks and various other forms of carriers; they contain food, silverware, dishes, and drinks for the impromptu supras.
   
3. Rather than in response to a need, preventative bathroom breaks will happen, and they will happen frequently.
   
4. Children will call their parents at every milestone they reach. If they don’t, parents will call their children to see that they’ve reached the next milestone.
   
5. Although I couldn’t bring myself to do it, “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” may just be the time killer, English-teaching song that your group needs. Granted, you’re in Georgia, so it may be better to turn it into “99 Bottles of Wine on the Wall.”
   
6. The over-achieving students of the group will bring notebooks and pens in case there is something educational to be had from the trip; they will quickly realize the extra baggage is unnecessary and ask you to carry it in your over-sized, black, Georgian purse.
   
7. It’s assumed that students will eventually come back to the group if they get separated; however, in reality, they won’t.
   
8. Parents will give their children money for snacks and entertainment; students know they will have to give the excess back when the get home, so factor in time at the end for them to spend their spare change.
   
9. Students want to buy their siblings a souvenir. Whether it is a plastic sword, handcuffs and police baton set, small doll, or bottle of bubbles, they will not come home empty-handed.
   
10. Upon arriving home two hours late, my family expressed their surprise at being home before dark; my family explained that if parents come on the excursion, the group will not come back until 9pm. If parents are not on the trip, students will be home by 6pm or 7pm so that parents do not worry.

Barefoot in Strawberry Fields

Standing with my Georgian brother, Nika, in the middle of a neighborhood bebo’s strawberry field, picking strawberries barefoot in the mud, as a toothless woman empties a handful of the red fruit into my palms, surrounded by the Caucus Mountains and peach orchards while the clouds allow a few raindrops to escape, and I know I’m experiencing yet another one of those moments. It’s a moment when I look around and all I can say is “Wow.” 

I can’t speak for the rest of Georgia, but in Kakheti, strawberry season has begun. I pass buckets of strawberries for sale on my way to school; the refrigerator is full of various forms of the fruit. The backgammon table has been replaced by marshutkas and tables full of fresh strawberries, and tired women walk past my house every night on their way home from the fields. 

For our most recent holiday – Victory Day – my family and I climbed into the jeep, which lacks many parts one would think are necessary to drive, and headed to boloze (“at the end”). Turning into a field that only one with the experience of generations could know, we follow a path that has been covered in a week’s worth of rain and mud. However, the jeep can drive in anything, and we make it through without hesitation. Jumping out of the back and grabbing a straw hat, I follow my family to our six long rows of grapes, under which we find the strawberries. 

I took a basket and began the tedious process of picking strawberries. I quickly realized that the experiences I have had in this area are completely different when you are in your own fields. Nika quickly explained that I should eat the best strawberries and put the leftovers into my basket. 

Although this principle significant decreased the number of strawberries we picked, it was worth it.  

Eventually, we decided it was time to leave as the rain threatened to spill out over the mountains. Trudging through the mud to get back to the jeep, we piled everything in the back and made it home, where my Georgian mother and I took off strawberry tops and filled jars with strawberries and sugar. She talked excitedly about strawberry cake, juice, and cream, and while the strawberries and sugar cooled in the refrigerator, we compared American and Georgian strawberry preparations.

I don’t know how long strawberry season lasts, and I don’t know if I’ll get to go back to the fields before I leave. For now, though, I’ll content myself with the bowl of cold strawberries and homemade cream that my Georgian mother just handed me, and if more neighbors offer me handfuls of strawberries from the fields, I will gladly blow off the excess dirt, shoo away the ants, and let my fingers turn red.

98.6: A Fever

Yesterday, I was sick; I had a chill-inducing fever, a lingering cough, an undiagnosed sinus infection, three forms of medication, a doctor-approved – aka, my Georgian doctor/mom – sick day from school, and a headache that made it seem like my head would be better off exploding.

Today, while not sick enough to merit another day off school, I still feel the lingering effects of my cold, or as I nicknamed it, “my 3-packs-a-day habit.” (Don’t worry, mom; I’m talking about Kleenexes, or in Georgia, Selpaki.) Having a clear enough head to think today, I began to think about how it feels to be sick in another country. After considering it for a good five minutes, I’ve decided…I don’t like it. And here’s why.

•   There’s no one to bring me soup. I mean, I have soup every day for lunch, but when I’m sick, I just want some chicken noodle – from a can – soup drowning in crackers.

•   No one believes I’m sick until I sneeze more than twice in a day, cough for a significant period of time, or have a fever, which means that if I don’t have any of those symptoms, I’m fully expected to complete the regular daily activities of teaching classes, playing with children, dancing at dance lesson, and staying up to watch a two-hour dance show that doesn’t start until 10.

•   Sickness doesn’t have the same origins in Georgia as it does in America. In America, if I’m sick, it’s probably because someone else was sick, and they didn’t wash their hands or because the weather is switching rapidly and my body can’t keep up. In Georgia, however, it’s probably because I wore a short-sleeved shirt outside two weeks ago or my feet were cold or my room isn’t warm enough. And this is coming from my host mom, who’s a doctor.

•   Selpaki – aka Kleenexes – aren’t soft.

•   Medicine isn’t the same. Having a doctor as my Georgian mom has its advantages; I said I was sick, and she grabbed a piece of scrap paper and wrote a prescription for me. However, upon going to the pharmacy, I realized that I have no idea what I’ve been given. Therefore, I have no idea what I can and cannot take with it.

•   In America, when I’m up all night due to incessant coughing, I sleep in the recliner chair to sit upright and still be comfortable or eat ice chips. In Georgia, I fluff my pillows up as much as possible and chew a couple cough drops.

•   The remedy for sickness changes with the border. For example, today I was told that I should definitely wear a coat if I want to get better, which may or may not have merit. The problem was that it was approximately 20˚C (70˚F) today on my way to school, so it was all I could do to wear a thin sweater and scarf, let alone a coat. In America, I just need to sleep and drink lots of fluids.

•   98.6 isn’t a consistent body temperature. My host sister insisted on me taking my temperature the last time I was sick. I was sure I didn’t have a fever; it was just a headache, intensified by her screaming as my Georgian dad tickled her. I took my temperature and read it, “37˚C.” After doing a quick conversion on my phone, I assured her it was fine: 98.6. However, she refused to drop it until I let her see the reading, at which point she declared I had a fever. I explained many times that 37˚ is NOT a fever; it’s normal. After failing to convince her, and my doctor/host mom who had walked in, I said, “37˚ is normal in America.” My host mom thought for a moment and responded, “Here…it is not.” Since when did body temperatures vary by country?

New Uses for Old Things

In the past seven months, I have been confused by many occurrences. Interestingly enough, cultural differences are typically not the main culprit. Sure, I’ve had my share of surprises in terms of what I’m eating, where I’m going, and how I’m getting there, but overall, I’ve kept up. It’s in the comfort of my own home, where I feel the most relaxed and “off guard” that I’m taken aback most often, which has triggered the not-always-silent question, “You do what with that?” Perhaps you’ve encountered a few of these surprises yourself.

Cotton, bought in small bags like stuffing, can be rolled around matches to create Q-tips; it’s how the family cleans their ears.

A propane tank lit with a burning piece of paper taken from the pechi is an acceptable way to start a burner.

Cupboards are not only for storing plates, cups, and utensils; they also store the dinner leftovers, cheese, and extra fruit.

The refrigerator, which is unplugged during the winter, stores the pots and pans as well as small appliances.

The refrigerator can be unplugged during the winter because it’s so cold outside that the windowsill does a perfectly good job of keeping things cool.

An old door handle can be jimmy-rigged into a razor, which also happens to entertain 12-year-old girls as their uncles show it off by cutting their arm hair.

Bundled bird feathers are the best way to sweep out the cracks in the floor and the corners near the wall.

The string used to hold nuts for churchqkhela can also be used as floss.

Tiny scissors are not for cutting paper or thread; they’re for clipping fingernails.

Filling water bottles with hot water and setting them in between the blankets before bed is a legitimate way to keep warm at night in the winter.
 

One of Those Nights

Have you ever seen one of those movies that has kids running around on a street in their neighborhood in the summer? Women are usually sitting on chairs as they look on to the activities around them. The men are barbequing or throwing out comments about the games. It slowly turns to dusk, but no one cares because it’s just one of those nights. 

I thought they didn’t exist anymore; I thought it was reminiscent of a time when life was slower and kids liked playing outside more than sitting indoors watching TV or playing on the computer. I realize that even in my childhood, these were few and far between, and it was still never exactly like this.

And then I came to Georgia. 

My night could have been shown in those movies. The neighbor kids and I played Hide and Seek on the gravel road in the summer air while the women sat on a bench, gossiping about the week’s events. At times, they would take pity on me, and soon became the reason I continued playing. They motioned to the kids’ hiding spots when I was the seeker. When I was hiding, they let me crouch behind them or motioned to stand inside their gates. They told me when it was safe to come out and run to the wall, and they laughed with me when I could no longer use the excuse of not understanding the game for losing so many times. 

On the other side of the street, the men gathered and, although at first seemingly uninterested, they quickly found themselves sucked in to the movements around them. Playing antagonists, they threw the seeker off the hider’s trail and pointed out hiding spots. 

Slowly, it turned to dusk, but no one noticed. The cows had long gone through and the last of the horses were returning home from the fields. But none of it mattered. We were too busy running, hiding, yelling, laughing, and seeking to care what time it was, whether dinner was ready, or if the chickens had been fed. How can I ever leave?

Headscarves and Candlesticks

This past weekend, I had the opportunity to travel to Mtskheta, which used to be the capital of Georgia, until it was moved to Tbilisi hundreds of years ago. The most important thing about “tourism” in Georgia is that it centers on the religious traditions of Georgian Orthodoxy. For example, I visited Samtavro, a church where, according to legend, St. Nino lived and prayed. One of the churches dates from the 4^th century while the second was built in the 11^th century and contains the graves of Mirian, the Georgian king who adopted Christianity, and his wife. I also walked through the Sveti tskhoveli complex, which is one of the most sacred places in Georgia as it is built on the site of Georgia’s first church and contains the graves of various Georgian kings, including one who is said to be buried holding Christ’s robe. These sites, too numerous to count, are considered holy.

As people poured into these churches to worship, I was struck by the tradition of it all. Georgian Orthodoxy, from what I have gathered, is primarily based on the acts one can do to gain closeness to God. Through prayer, fasting, attending church, taking communion, lighting candles, and kissing the pictures of saints, amongst other actions, one performs his or her duty to God. 

Almost every person in Georgia is Georgian Orthodox; it’s a part of the culture. For many, it is a very real part. For a large portion, however, it is part of who they are but not part of what they do; beliefs do not connect with the rituals. Women wear scarves and skirts to church; an entire bus of people crosses themselves when driving past a church; children do not play cards the day they take communion. They are a religious people, but most cannot explain the justification of their actions.

Traditions – in connection with a belief system – can be healthy. If it didn’t mean something to those around me, I wouldn’t have a problem lighting a candle when I pray. I like the outward symbolism of my beliefs. However, as I walked out of these churches, women, covered in black from head to toe, put out flames and removed candles where there were too many. They washed the kisses off the glass. Headscarves were removed outside the doors. And herein lies the problem; they are empty symbols – temporary actions – meant to fulfill some obligation to God.

In Protestantism – which is the distinction I have to make to my Georgian friends as they consider themselves Christian – there is very little that is so physical. Sure, I go to church every week, but I can pray whenever I want. I can read my Bible, which is not typically allowed in Georgian Orthodoxy – in the morning or at night or whenever I remember. No one is keeping tabs; no one can judge the level of “Christian” that I am. In Georgia, however, everything is physically done. I know when my host mom is praying because she gets a hat to cover her head, reads from a book of prayers in the kitchen, and crosses herself throughout the process. I know that my family is more religious than the neighbors because Nana is not eating meat during “Lent”, and Ani goes to church three times every weekend.  And maybe that makes it easier to understand the emptiness that comes from this religion, from a belief system rooted in ancient ideology. Everything is literal and very physical. 

I know she is finished praying when the headscarf comes off, and I know religion won’t be thought of again until we walk to school and my students cross themselves as they walk past the church or until the next night when prayers are repeated. 

But, according to my faith, what’s supposed to be different between this and my relationship with Christ? I have these rituals, and I have things that I do to try and be closer to God. What makes me different? Maybe a better question is “What is supposed to make me different?” 

I’ve mulled it over a bit, and I keep coming back to the idea that my faith should be a part of my daily life. I act differently because I love with Christ’s love. My purpose is secure because I am following where God leads. I am motivated to do what Jesus has commanded me to do because I love him, and I want to be like him. I worship with everything I am, in every part of my life. My headscarf – the symbol that represents the attempt to be closer to God – should never be removed.