Traveler, Writer, Aquarius, Peace Corps Volunteer
The evidence
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Every morning the marshrutkas turn left on Ilicha and clumpety-clump their way over the uneven asphalt towards the river and all points east. Sometimes they merge left to right to pick up new passengers. Other times, they cruise straight ahead, appearing not to notice the lonely outstretched arm pleading for a ride. It�s a hollow, frustrating feeling watching the marshrutka, or minibus, you need pass you by. You feel second-class, half a person. Yet the insult is rarely on purpose. Traffic doesn�t always allow the marshrutka to get over in time. There are also those instances where a trolleybus obscures the marshrutka�s view. Of course, there�s always the chance that the marshrutka is full, and the driver will indicate this by waving his hands over the wheel like a football referee calling an incomplete pass.
Usually, even if a marshrutka is full, the driver will pick up passengers. As he approaches the stop, he puts his fingers in an upside-down �V�, like a pair of legs, meaning that only standing room is available. If that�s okay with you, you return the signal, and cram into the aisle, hoping a seat opens up soon. Somehow, the drivers have a way of knowing just how many people can fit in that small aisle, and they really pack them on when they want to, much to the chagrin of the five or six people already standing. The roofs are not very high and only about half of the marshrutkas have hand rails to hold onto. I�ve been on marshrutkas where there are as many people standing as sitting, and these things are basically the size of a small hotel shuttle bus and about as comfortable as riding in the back of a flatbed truck on a cobblestone street.
Standing on the side of Ilicha, about a third of the way down the street between the Beauty Center and the appliance store, I can clearly see the intersection where the marshrutkas turn, and it�s a guessing game which one will display the lucky �seven� in the window. That�s the number I need to get to work. There are always lots of 21s and 46s, and plenty of 107s too. But my seven is elusive.
Today the planets are aligned and I have no problem getting a marshrutka to stop. This is not to imply, however, that everything goes smoothly. First, I�m distracted and caught off my game when upon entering one of the passengers hands me money to give to the driver, who then accelerates before I have a chance to brace myself, hurling me into the lap of some guy sitting by the door. I apologize, but feel the heat from his scowl for most of the ride. It�s normal for people to stare, though. I stick out like a weed here.
One other thing to keep in mind if you ever find yourself riding on a marshrutka: try to avoid the row right behind the driver, especially the center seat. For one thing, you�re facing the wrong way, and while it�s interesting to see where you�ve just been, it�s a little unnerving to whip along Ukraine�s rickety streets in these buckets of bolts and not have a clear view of the road. The other thing is that when you sit in the front row, you become the de facto banker for the whole marshrutka, passing fares back and forth and dolling out change.
The marshrutka drops me off at Prospect Mira, and it�s a two-minute walk to my institute. Prospect Mira is a main street, but at this end it�s small and unassuming, like a trickling creek that later joins a rushing river. It�s tree-lined, and right now the air is filled with white wisps of this cottony snowflake stuff that�s wreaking havoc on my allergies. It�s eight fifty-five, and there are small pockets of students in front of the building, smoking cigarettes and hanging out. The first period is in five minutes.
This is a new experience for me. I normally don�t have classes here on Friday. But today is different, and in some ways special. Today I�m participating in my first exam as a teacher. And in about twenty minutes, I�ll become exposed to the nefarious workings of the Ukrainian higher education system.
I enter the building and head to my kafedra, or department, to find out what room the exam is in. There I meet Natasha, one of my counterparts who I�ll be giving the exam with. Natasha is the strongest English speaker of all the teachers, and the only one who I really have any kind of relationship with. In her mid-30s, she�s a senior member of the department and well-respected. She�s tough and at times impatient with the students, and can be scornful if they�re not quick with answers to her questions. �You don�t know?� she�ll ask incredulously. �It�s a pity.�
When I arrive in room 502, the students are cramming in the last vestiges of notes. This is my fourth-year Spanish group, my strongest class as a whole and a pleasure to teach. I have a good relationship with most of them, and have even hung out with a few of them outside of class. Today they are smiling and confident. They got the results of their Spanish tests back and almost all earned fives, the highest mark in the Ukrainian university system. Sveta and Marina seem to think this test will be a cakewalk. Christina, Lena, and Vikka are, as usual, nervous, but steady. And my guys � Dima, Sergey, and Vitaly � they have their heads down and are milking the last few seconds. There is also a girl who I�ve never seen before.
Natasha strides in hurriedly, papers carelessly cradled under her arms, and takes a seat at the head of the room. The students stand as they always do when a teacher enters. She instructs them that five are to stay and the rest are to leave. Sveta, one of the best students and speakers, full of boundless energy and a true gift of gab, stays, along with Lena, Christina, Marina, and the girl I�ve never seen before. Natasha takes out bundles of cut paper and spreads them out, face down, on the table in front of us. She instructs the girls to each take one piece, on which is written five phrases in English they need to translate into Russian and a conversation topic to do with their home reading.
Each class has two parts to their studies: speech practice and home reading. For speech practice, they work with me and another teacher named Lena, who will arrive shortly. The themes for this semester are difficult children, media and television, customs and traditions, and the family home. While Lena taught these from the fourth year text book, I supplemented it with my own lessons, also giving them handouts from Newsweek and excerpts from Fast Food Nation. For home reading, they read Theater by Somerset Maughm and work with Natasha. While I don�t lecture on the book with them, I�ve read it, and spend half of each home reading class giving them additional speech practice.
Each piece of paper the students take has a number on it which corresponds to two other piles of papers, one with quotations the students must comment on and another with a speech topic they must discuss. Every piece of paper is different to try and ensure no discussion or cheating during the test. However, this is Ukraine, and it wouldn�t be an exam without even the best students openly talking to each other and looking in their notes. Natasha and I warn them to stop. Lena comes in late and sits down. The side conversations continue.
I ask Natasha who the girl is who I�ve never seen before, and she thinks I�m talking about Marina, who only joined the class in the last few weeks. She explains that she is married to a guy from Panama and was living in America until recently returning, and I tell her that I know who Marina is � I�m curious about the other girl. She tells me that this girl has a full-time job and speaks English rather well, and as jobs are so hard to come by in Ukraine, the teachers look the other way for those students and excuse them from class. I understand and nod.
Sveta is the first to finish and excitedly sits down in front of us. She has brilliant sea blue eyes that sparkle and deep dimples in her round cheeks when she smiles. Her hair is wavy and brown with blonde streaks, and her bangs come down below her brow. She�s one of the students I�ve talked to outside of class. She started working at the newly completed Donbass Palace, a five star hotel on Artoma Street, about two months ago, and since then has rarely been in class. She�s excited about her job and ambitious, eager to stay in the hotel industry and eventually work abroad. Her mother is an English teacher, and the training shows.
She attacks the translations and dives right into the first question, which is describing one of the secondary characters from the book. Though home reading isn�t my field, having read the book I�m still interested in the responses and alert. Sveta�s rambling on and on, but missing the most important episode and conversation in which the character appears. Natasha serves her several prompts, coaxing the right answer out of her, but Sveta�s got her own momentum going and isn�t picking up the queues. Finally, she pays it some lip service, but doesn�t nail it. Her next task is to explain the quote, �when in Rome, do as the Romans do,� which she does in an inexact and round-about way, but it�s sufficient. Her responses are full of stock English phrases such as �it seems to me� and �to my mind.� For the last question, she must discuss holidays and traditions in Great Britain. Again, she talks around the answer and Lena and Natasha try to guide her in the right direction. She talks about life in Ukriane ad nauseam, but never quite explains life in Britain. Still, she is poised and not shy about speaking.
It�s now my turn. Though not required, I ask her a specific question from one of my lectures about how the television industry works, searching for such key phrases as networks, Nielsons, prime time, and ratings. She gives a completely made-up answer. She�s grasping at straws. She has no idea and it�s obvious. I try to remember if she was there that day I gave the presentation. I decide if it matters.
Sveta�s passport-sized grade book sits in front of Natasha. In Ukraine, everything is still paper, and they record all of their grades in a small hard-cover book with handwritten course names and descriptions, along with the teacher�s signatures. Sveta is standing over us, waiting for her grade. She is impatient. She needs to leave for work and is hoping for her grade right away. Lena and Natasha discuss it quietly to themselves. Natasha leans over and asks me what I think.
I tell her but maybe she doesn�t hear me. I write down on my notebook: �Sveta � 4.� Natasha seems surprised. Sveta is still standing over us. Natasha quickly writes down: �If she is a four and one of our best students, then what are we to give the students who don�t know any English?� At this point, Natasha excuses Sveta and asks her to wait in the hall. Sveta says she needs her grade now so she can leave for work, but Natasha and I need to talk. Sveta exits.
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