Beer, Borsht; Writing, Peeing – Why Stress Matters – 03/10
Yesterday I was with a couple of friends from the program, including one who was at Middlebury with me over the summer, at a place called Zoom Cafe. We had decided that we wanted to stay in the center of the city until we went home later at night, since it takes us all fairly long to get home and then back into town. We ordered some drinks, talked for a while, and generally just enjoyed the atmosphere of the place. It’s only a three minute walk from the dorm. When I got around to ordering my second drink – I decided on beer since I had been in a girly mood and my first drink reflected that – I ran into an interesting situation. The type of beer I wanted to order is called Бочкарев (Bochkarev). In Russian, if the letter O isn’t stressed, it is usually pronounced like an A. So I ask for a Bochkarev, putting the stress on the O, and the lady nods her head and mumbles back to me what I thought I had ordered. Before she runs away, I tell her “ноль пять” which means 0.5 liter. Then she looked at me in confusion, eyes practically popping out of her head, and asked, “A big one?” Then I realized what she had repeated back to me – борщ (borscht, the soup). At that moment I had a flashback to what one of my teachers said in class – “In principle, if you drown out the sounds of all the other letters in a word but correctly put the stress on the word, it can be understood.” The first few letters of Bochkarev, and the sound of borscht, are somewhat similar; the сч in Bochkarev kind of sounds like the щ in borsht in fast conversational speech. To double-check my order, I quickly added the word пиво – beer – and then she understood me correctly and said Bochkarev – which sounds more like Bach-ka-RОV. Whoops. It also didn’t help that most Russians no longer write the letter ё – which is pronounced “yo” – and instead write the normal е, which is more of an “ee” or “yeh” sound. That is to say, Бочкарев is actually Бочкарёв. At least I know how to pronounce and order one of the cheapest beers now. Another example of stress being important is in the verb to write, писать, pronounced “pee-SAT”. The verb is a little strange and first year students often mess up conjugating it. To say “I write”, you say “Я пишу”, or “ya pish-OO.” There’s a bit of a spelling change from the verb here, and some students might say “Я пису”, or “ya PEES-oo” – which is also from the verb писать, except that this particular verb is pronounced “PEE-sat”. It also means “I pee”, so sometimes you have first year students running around saying “I’m peeing” instead of “I’m writing”. Our resident director made sure to give us this tip at one of our first weekly meetings. So yeah, stress in words is important. There are lots of other examples of people thinking they’re pronouncing words correctly – and they are – but they often say something completely different than what they wanted to say. Watch your stress!
Christopher Ingaciola
George Washington University, St. Petersburg, 2010
Feminism in Russia? – 03/10
On Thursdays, ACTR holds a 90-minute Russian-American student conversation group. My current strategy of latching onto my tutor is not exactly working out – as in, I’m not successfully leeching her friends – so I saw this group as a window of opportunity to find out more potential Russians to ambush. The topic of the first meeting was Love, in honor of good ol’ St. Valentine’s Day. Discussion was split into 2 parts – 1st 45 minutes in English, and the 2nd half in Russian. For the English- speaking portion, it was mainly the American students politely discussing the general trend of marriage, how many marriages dissolve into divorce, tradition, etc. When it became our turn to ask about Russian custom, two opposing factions quickly emerged. First off, there were people there who definitely were not students and must have been well into their 50’s (at least, that’s how old they looked. For all I know, they could just be really leathery grad students.) The question of “are there stay-at-home fathers in Russia?” came up and one particularly scrappy, weathered old curmudgeon looked around indignantly at the preposterous idea, scoffed, and said that he only saw stay-at-home-fathers in American movies…basically implying that in America, men are obviously wimps and that Russian men are robust, strapping bucks. The younger girls, who I’m assuming were more around my age, were simply not having it and vehemently disagreed, claiming that because women were getting more and more successful, it was not so strange to see a man helping out around the house. Scrappy old man seemed quite offended at the idea that women could be as successful or even more so than men, and said something along the lines of, “Men are strong in Russia,” or at least, that’s what I think he muttered under his breath. This somewhat heated discussion in broken English forces me to ask why feminism, or at least a stronger sense of self among women, isn’t stronger in Russia. Surprisingly, the women’s movement in Russia has a longer history than the western feminist movement, with the first wave appearing right after the abolition of serfdom in 1861. The Soviet era squashed things for a bit (60 years), but feminism came back after Glasnost and Perestroika. And now, there are nearly 600 women’s organizations, with human rights, reproductive rights, and access to education as their goals, just to name a few. Unfortunately, as witnessed in the small debate at Discussion group, stereotype and tradition are difficult to overcome, not to mention the fact that gender equality officially disappeared in early 2000 (no more formal government structure to protect women’s rights). While more people might be aware of what rights there are among women, this awareness remains mainly in the educated, upper class.
I have no conclusion, and I am not terribly optimistic either. What brought about the western feminist movement won’t necessarily work here, because, not to be obvious, Russia isn’t the west. However, things are improving, albeit at a snail-slow pace…kind of fits into the general pattern of Russian life that I am beginning to notice: everything here takes much longer than it normally would.
Grace Tran
University of Wisconsin, St. Petersburg, 2010
Babyshkas of Vladimir – 03/10
After nearly six months in Russia, I would like to use this blog entry to record a few noteworthy encounters with everyone’s favorite group of citizens – Babyshkas (grandmothers/old women). Of course, I heard some joking about this group of women before I came to Russia, but they are so much more vivid (and often outrageous) when you experience them for yourself. And so, I offer the reader of this blog a glimpse into my personal, unaltered and unexaggerated memories of the many faces of babyshka (BAH-bysh-ka). Face #1: Babyshka the Thief I remember how sunny and warm it was in Vladimir during my first week here in September. The rich shades of green, the deep blue sky with puffy white clouds and the ice cream stands helped to ease the anxiety that comes with not understanding anything. I hopped on a bus with my American flip-flops (totally impractical in Russia, by the way) and rummaged for my wallet with a desperation that only a fear of having to speak to the conductor can inspire. I yanked out my ten ruble note and fumbled for something to hold on to as the bus screeched its brakes and pulled up to the next stop. My wallet plopped back into my purse, which bulged from my dictionary and thus, refused to zip as I struggled to clutch the pole with one hand, hold my crinkled rubles in the other, and simultaneously dart my eyes up and down the bus in search of the conductor. My thought was ‘if I could just get rid of my rubles and free up this hand, then I’ll worry about the purse’. This thought was interrupted by a tap on my arm. Oh no, what have I done that requires talking?!?! I look over to see an elderly women sitting in her seat and obviously distraught at what is taking place with my disheveled self. She starts animatedly dishing out Russian so fast that her words were making a break for the finish line while I, the out of shape foreigner, was huffing and puffing just trying to keep them in sight. Luckily, a good babyshka knows that show is always more effective than tell, and she then extended a pale arm, reached into my still unzipped purse, and pulls out my wallet. (More Russian chatter ensues and I nod along blankly.) She then gently places my wallet back into the black abyss of my purse and stares at my face expectantly. I do a few more reassuring head gestures and scan the bus for the conductor, only to find that she is now standing next to me, also with an expectant (but more annoyed) expression. I hand her my ten rubles. With my now liberated digits, I continue my wrestling with the purse and manage to overpower it with brute force by squishing it between my body and the pole. Babyshka is still staring, but in the way that only babyshkas can, that is, she appears to be turned the other way, but I can still feel her eyes on my every move. Standing awkwardly and waiting for my stop, I was pondering only one question “Why did this old woman just touch my wallet?” And then it hit me. Even on a bus that was relatively void of people, she was trying to explain to me that to leave your wallet on top of your open purse is just asking for it to be stolen. Even a babyshka can lift documents and wallets like a pro… So thank you, unknown babyshka on bus # 25, for bringing to light the ineffectiveness of my plan when paying for the bus. Face #2: Babyshka the Enforcer I hesitate to call my own host mother a babyshka, since I do not know her age, but she is like a Russian grandmother to me, so I have included her in this list. This run-in with my babyshka/host mother occurred on one of those mornings when you wake up dreading the day. Let’s be honest for a second, not every day in Russia is filled with rainbows and butterflies, but neither is every day in the U.S. Well, on this particular day, my Russian skills were feeling worn out, my linguistic ears – half deaf, and my tongue flopped from side to side like a piece of limp taffy. Things were not looking good. Outside, rain from the day before had left puddles and mud strewn about the streets. Slightly relieved that I had at least made it through breakfast, I brushed my teeth, grabbed my books, and headed toward the door. I debated which pair of shoes to wear. My high heel black boots (which I had never worn in the US) has tortured the ball of my foot for the previous 2 weeks and the thought of suffering through another day with them contorting my feet in unnatural ways made my language problems look like a walk in the park. And honestly, what makes you feel better about life than lacing up your favorite pair of comfy sneakers when things aren’t going your way? Needless to say, I opted for my pink Gola brand sneakers, which are old and tattered from traipsing around the globe with me for the past 5 years. Oh yeah, these shoes and I have a history, a history that makes them slide on to my feet with an ease that would make you weep with envy (but don’t, the story isn’t over yet). Spirits uplifted, feet snug as a bug, I piled on my jacket and reached for the handle of the front door. Peering into the kitchen mid-motion, I said good-bye to my host mom and almost, ALMOST made it out that door. “WHAT DO YOU HAVE ON YOUR FEET?!?” came babyshka’s reply to my farewell. Oh bozhe. Not today. “You can’t go out like that! You’re feet will get wet and then you’ll get sick. I know where your boots are!” She bustled out of the kitchen, still mumbling to herself, storms the door to my room and snatches my loathed pair of black boots out of the corner. Forgive my inappropriate nature, but I believe my exact thought at this moment was, “oh for f***’s sake”. Incessantly jabbering to me about the ills of my decision, I managed to explain to her that those boots were making my feet hurt, so I was taking the day off from wearing them. I should have known better than to think that pain from high heels could generate any kind of sympathy in this particular culture (if you’ve ever lived here, then you understand what I mean). But, Babyshka did not waste any more time arguing with me. Ignoring my slightly loud protests, she picks up each of my feet and rips of my sneakers. Defeat acknowledged, but still not accepting it, I angrily listen to the crunch of my toes (which may have just been a psychological addition) as I cram my feet into those God-forsaken excuses for footwear. Silently cursing out the world, I grab my stuff and make a dash for it, not bothering to respond to my host mother’s now cooing and satisfied tone as she smiles and says, “Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. Bye!” That morning, we ended up walking 1.5 miles (I timed it) from our meeting place at the school, to a kindergarten for our excursion. And another 1.5 back. Nonetheless, thank you, babyshka a.k.a. host mom, for being the first to instill in me the value of warm (not comfortable) feet in staving off illness. Face #3: Babyshka the Enigma Yesterday, after our group trip to Moscow for a long holiday weekend, the nine of us plopped down into our seats on the 6 p.m. express back to Vladimir. My seat was next to our resident director, Kelli, whose wisdom I count on to guide me through the occasional inconsistencies and frustration of life in Russia. We came to our seats to find that someone had set a pakyet (a sturdy plastic bag) in our seat, but no one was around to claim it, so we set it on the seat behind us and proceeded to settle in for the train ride. A few minutes later, Babyshka No.1 wanders by and sees her pakyet on the next seat. A look of confusion. Then she picks it up and we explain that we moved it there because it was in our seats. She gives us a quick once-over, then a lasting glance of suspicion and continues on to the opposite side of the car, where the seats are facing toward us. (There was a TV in the middle.) Nothing else is heard from Babyshka No. 1, but soon the train gives a little jerk and begins to crawl away from the platform. Enter Babyshka No. 2. This one walks passed us and takes a seat behind us, that very same seat, in fact, which was unacceptable to Babyshka No. 1. She seems to be talking first to herself, and then addresses Kelli and I, ‘Excuse me, are you going forward or backward?” She repeats this a few times as Kelli and I exchange confused glances and attempt to figure out if we understand correctly. Babyshka No. 2 then looks out her window and says, “Backwards. That’s bad.” She collects her things and follows the footsteps of Babyshka No. 1 to the opposite side of the car, where the seats are facing the opposite direction; also know in babyshka language as ‘forward’. Slightly baffled, I turn to Kelli and we start slightly giggling about how we have no problems understanding Russian, just the outrageousness of certain questions and statements can be confusing in any language. “Besides,” I added, “Weren’t we already moving when she asked us that?” Our giggling turns into to full out laughter at this point and then dies down for a few seconds before Kelli turns back to me and says, “Wait. The train was surrounded by platform on all sides but one. How could it have gone the other way???” I believe this is the point at which we both nearly lost consciousness from the intensity of our laughter. So, thank you, unidentified Babyshkas on the express train to Vladimir from Kurskaya station, for reminding me that my Russian has made great strides, but my understanding of your personal preferences/superstitions cannot always keep up. Well, I have probably taken up too much of my dear reader’s time, though I hope that I have offered some unique cultural insight into Russian life with a babyshka that you can put to use some day. If nothing else, I hope that these little stories have provided you with as much entertainment as they have given me. Poka!
Joely Hildebrand
American University, Vladimir, 2010