White Nights

Its a phenomenon of the Northern Hemisphere's Summer, where the sun hardly sets or rises, but lingers its light to allow all-night revelry and insomnia. I experienced it when I went to St. Petersburg during the Spring and Summer of 1997. And I just had a short experience of it again by watching "White Nights" with Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gregory Hines.

Most films about Russia in the 1980s were steeped in politics and this film was no exception. But the location shoots of Leningrad, now St. Petersburg, and the dance scenes between Hines and Baryshnikov were special. Of Leningrad, because it captures life at the end of perestroika and glastnost, which made the KGB cloak and dagger stuff kind of over the top.

But for having gone there just two months ago with American Councils for International Education (two very longs months now that school is almost over), I've seen how much has changed. While there's a political glass ceiling for anyone not in the United Russia party, there is relative freedom for artistic expression. I was so impressed with the community support of the arts of any kind: dance, embroidery, photography, and painting. Any child could have access to it and express themselves. My students are fortunate to have classes other than English, Math, and Physical Education! As I work to teach my little niche in the US system, I can't help but wonder how our school community could be different if all the pencil tapping boys could have an outlet it. How all the kids that can't get enough attention talking in class could express themselves through song for 50 minutes long.

Thanks for that trip back White Nights. I'll continue to seek out Russian connections as the reality and urgency of my teaching situation tries to keep me from living in many directions at once.

Prekhodit V Gosti (Coming as a Guest)

In my two visits to Russia, the concept of "coming as a guest" is the essence of building relationships. There's no pretensions or preparations necessary for the event. The humble kitchen with its stools and tiny table, bare floors and walls allows a glimpse into the unvarnished, undaunted Russian Soul.

To enjoy coming as a guest, just be yourself, maybe bring some sweets or a drink to share. The tea is poured from a kettle, brewed strong, then diluted with hot water. Add honey, milk, and some sweet cookies.

The conversation comes naturally when hearts are warmed by the tea on a late Winter's night. Most Russians that I've known haven't had the money to go out to the movies or a restaurant. Why let a dark room or mouths filled with food get in the way of conversation and just BEING with each other? Coming as a guest means coming as you are.

Friendships are forged when one comes as a guest. Like Greg Mortenson's Three Cups of Tea, after the third cup, you're family. When I went to the house of Elena, I could tell that she was a kindred spirit. She is the best friend of my host teacher, Tatiana. I warmed up to her quickly, too. We all would get together two more times in my remaining time in Korablino.

There is something about coming as a guest in Russia that builds relationships based on sharing nothing more than who you are as a person. With nothing to conceal in a bare kitchen, there's nothing to unravel a friendship's future with false pretenses.

Armadillo Alley

There's something about an alley that makes good neighbors. It's off the street where buildings brace against passing pedestrians, constant cars, and blaring buses. It doesn't have landscaping to pretend to be something it isn't. The alley is where you peek into cluttered garages with layers of trash and trinkets exposed by every coming and going of car and truck. The alley is where laundry is aired, trash is left, and pretense is forgotten. Alleys are the soft underbelly of an Armadillo: vulnerable yet well-protected.

My apartment is set in the backyard of a house on a busy street. Yet my domain is peaceful with a window onto the alley below. Across the street, two homes are on the back property of another home on an intersecting street. The resulting configuration makes a tiny hamlet in an otherwise noisy neighborhood. Filled with large and extended Mexican families, my across-the-alley neighbors' homes always have some activity going on. It begins each day with an idling car at 5:30 am, which I imagine is a carpool ride for one of the men to get to the factory. Around 7 am its the rehearsed sound of Maria announcing "Tameles! Chorizu!" (or something like that) as she sells homemade foods out of a stroller to supplement the income of her children. When I come home from work, there's always a gaggle of children playing in the alley or behind the fence. Their conversation flows from Spanish to English to Spanglish as the play escalates in excitement. The playful cries give way to hearty laughter as parents, tios and tias come back from work to enjoy dinner and each other's company once again. When I come home from teaching a late night ESL class, I'll be surprised to notice the newlyweds sitting on the stoop to cuddle and talk in the dark as I stop my car to open the gate and call it a night. Just from the alley, I've gotten to know this family and exchange a few kind words each day as we pass through. On the street, it's different.

"Get that piece of shit outta my way!!!" Ann screams, sitting high in her white Ford truck, ready to back out of her front driveway if it weren't for the Mexican about to leave in the black Nissan Sentra that's blocking it. I know a tough shell when I see it. Ann and Matt live in a 102-year-old home across the street from me. They're patiently restoring it to its original luster. Subdivided rental homes are on both sides of them. One waves an overbearing, faded flag of Mexico. The other, unpretentious. I hear Ann rage as I go on my evening run. On my return, Matt's waving me over to me from across the street. I oblige him. "It's good to see another white face around here." I smirk in politeness to his off-color joke. He wants to show me the inside of his home that he's restoring. I'm leery of what I might see as he takes me from room to room, as if there'll be a stash of pot or something that now I'm party to knowing about. Matt and Ann don't plan to stay very long after their vintage home is restored. "Too many Spanish taking over the neighborhood. Our daughter is 7 and can't ride her bike yet. This neighborhood is too noisy," they say as the neighbor kids zoom up and down the sidewalk on scooters, skateboards, and BMXs. I thank them for showing me their home, but I can't get over the rage I saw before.

On my way back, I realize that I just left the tough outer shell of the Armadillo on the street side. Sometimes I want to roll up and only show my shell; other times it's a pat on my soft belly that helps me through the day. How thick is my shell? How soft is my belly? As thick or as soft as I choose to dwell on it.