Cossacks

Map time! Here we have southern Russia, western Kazakhstan, the Caucus region, and eastern Ukraine, where I live. As you can see, my little green arrow is dead in the centre of the pale yellow shape. That shape indicates the territory most heavily populated by Cossack hordes.

These nomadic horsemen once thrived in the rich steppe and river basins of this region. The Cossack people have disputed origins, but they are likely a blend of Turkish, Mongol, and Slavic peoples and gained prominence around the 15th century. They were semi-autonomous and integral to the Russian border defence for hundreds of years. However, with the mechanization of the first and second World Wars, the Cossacks (and cavalries in general) became obsolete.

No longer instrumental to the protection of the Soviet Union, the Cossack subculture fell on hard times. During the Bolshevik period and the subsequent famine, the state redistributed many of the crops grown in this region among urban centres. As a result, the Cossack population dwindled.

In recent times, Ukraine, Georgia, and even Putin's government have taken measures to increase protection of what few Cossacks remain, now mostly poor farmers or peasants. In eastern Ukraine, however, people identify closely to the Cossack heritage and keep it alive as their own. Festivals celebrating the culture, conquests, and music of the Cossack people are frequent and spirited. More than half of the collectives performing in our House of Culture are dedicated entirely to maintaining and performing Cossack folk songs.

I often hear from volunteers in western Ukraine the misconceived notion that only in their regions can you find culture and history. While it may be true that Lugansk lacks synagogues, castles, or cities older than 200 years, ours was a nomadic and oral history and is not to be discredited. It may not be as photogenic as the West, but we do have loads of this: I give you Казачья молитва, the Cossack's Prayer.

2nd Cross-Ukrainian Open Competition

My collective and I were recently featured on the town culture blog for having come in second place in a major competition in Lugansk. Google translates the page pretty well, but that one sentence pretty much covers the gist of it. We sang not in Russian but in Ukrainian. It was a traditional a capella piece called "Hermit." Enjoy!

Kharkivshchyna: Constructivism and Cablecars

"Of Ukraine." It's a typical occurrence to hear someone describe a city, holiday, or custom as "the ________ of Ukraine." The intention, of course, is to convey that there are places worthy of fame here, that this country is just as high-quality as Western Europe. You should totally see the fountain in Vinnitsa! It's the Bellagio of Ukraine! Over time, however, this particular tagline more lowers expectations than raises them. Instead of picturing the Paris of Ukraine, you can't conjure up more than the Ukrainian Shadow of Paris.

This past week, I had the opportunity to return to the Boston of Ukraine, to a city with historical roots and a lot of universities, to Kharkov. I was last there during the 2012 Euro Cup, and the city was fine. The people are prettier, or at least not as beaten down by the world as the locals in my area of the country (the Rust Belt of Ukraine). The buildings aren't the same drab bloc apartments and factories as in Lugansk. Overall though, Kharkov didn't leave a deep and lasting impression, and I doubted I would return. When our regional safety and security meeting was relocated there, however, I found myself back on Freedom Square.

The seminal difference between this trip and the prior one was the decision to couchsurf. The decision was partly economical, but most important was the chance for a deeper understanding of the city. Zhenya Dudenko accepted my friend Andrew and I for a weekend of touring, history, home-made wine, and great stories. Zhenya showed us a series of ancient cable buckets, built as a way for factory workers to commute across the marsh (the Amtrak of Ukraine). He knew the names and stories of all the monuments, and the locations of the best pints. He took us to parks off the beaten path and knew the best places to get shish kebab or hummus-stuffed rolls. Thanks to Zhenya, we saw a remarkable version of the city that was unmemorable the first time around. Some of the highlights included the statue with a beating heart, the eerily abandoned megalith bazaar, the miniature water park where locals fill up on potable water and the obese bathe in Speedos, and the architectural style known as constructivism, exclusive to Kharkov.

As for the safety meeting, we got to meet the chief of transportation police, try on his Soviet hat collection, poke his tarantula, visit his jail cells, and tour the yard where people used to be executed by firing squad (the Lethal Injection of Ukraine). We later went to a meeting with the actual chief of police and several of the higher ups. It was a very formal and serious affair. We were being escorted by the PC director of safety and security Sergei Pashynsky, but while he was parking the car around the corner we got sucked into the meeting. 

As soon as we started climbing the stairs, fellow volunteer Dawn and I were already being photographed and videotaped. We reached the conference room on the 4th floor, where everyone was already seated and waiting impatiently. The aide continuously spoke to me in Russian about who else was coming, where we should sit, and how I would be translating. It was only after seeing the name tag on my chair that I realized he thought I was Sergei, the 50-some year old ex-SBU (the KGB of Ukraine) bruiser with the cop lingo of De Niro and the penetrating stare of Rip Torn. Needless to say, I did not want to fill those shoes. While we were waiting for him to park the car, we followed the lead of the people across the table by talking under our breath and making emphatic hand gestures.

In the end, it all turned out fine. I didn't have to translate between Dawn and the police. I didn't even have to translate between Zhenya and Andrew, who studied Ukrainian and should by rights have drowned amongst all the Russian. The food was good but not unaffordable, the trip was relaxing but not without a sense of adventure, and the company was tolerable even sober. I doubt a third trip to the Boston of Ukraine is in the cards for me, but a year is a long time and I know better than to say I'll never return somewhere. 

Fine Arts Camp

With my first week of summer, I conducted a day camp for kids in my town. Tired of the same old family tree project and discussion of sport, I planned a camp that used English to teach music, skits, and dance. With the help of a few other volunteers and community members, 30 kids learned step, Elmo's song, the gingerbread man, and others. Parents were happy with the performance, it was great to have some friends in town, and the students were happy to be part of something different. Here are some performance pictures.

 Step

 Hip-hop

 The Ants Go Marching

Gingerbread Man 

 Who Will Bell the Cat?

Last Bell

In my school, I teach the whole spectrum of students: 4th graders all the up to seniors (11th...). There are several groups, however, with whom I have a special relationship. My 5th graders and I meet 3 times a week, for instance, whereas most other groups will only see me once in that time. The seniors, however, have been my absolute favourites. I almost never see the 10th graders, and the 9th graders are obnoxious, but my upperclassmen are just the best. We meet regularly, including after class for advanced work. It was from this group of students that I snagged my cooking club boys. They are the most capable and motivated students in the school, which is what makes it particularly difficult to say goodbye to them.

Ukrainian schools bookend their academic calendar with First and Last Bell ceremonies. While the September event is a celebration of the new first graders and the promise of a new year of learning, the Last Bell is full of mixed feelings. All students officially go up a grade on this day, which is exciting. However, we say goodbye to the 11th graders. Draped in "Graduand" ribbons like at a beauty pageant, each school-leaver rings a golden hand bell, and the younger students shower them with flowers and best wishes.

Several of the young teaching staff gathered for lunch that day at the swanky (read: bechristmas-lighted) 999 Café in the centre of town, but I had the great honour to be invited to the private end of year stag party. In my school, there are 3 other male teachers. First, there's Boris Paulovich, the ancient and totally awesome chemistry teacher. He always makes conversation with me, usually about drone strikes or nuclear weapons history, which is so much more fun than small talk. The wood-shop teacher is named Andrey Boot, who helped me build and install my balcony shelves. Naturally, the PhysEd coach Constantine Nikolayevich is the third, a fellow kulinar but only in the most manly ways imaginable.

Together with these three gentlemen, I gathered at the no-girls-allowed club house: the weight training room in the gym. We enjoyed Constantine's home-made pickles, sausage, and vodka, while jamming to the radio station "America Hits Music." Then things got interesting. When the basketball came out it didn't seem like the best idea, but it was certainly more advisable than the BB gun. Well buzzed, we picked off ping pong balls and balloons on tables across the gym. Nobody shot their eye out.

The actual graduation ceremony didn't occur until almost a week later. The girls were decked out in prom dresses, the boys in suits. With a team of snare drum majorettes rented from Lugansk, all the graduands and their teachers and parents marched from the school to the town square, where other students and interested onlookers had gathered. The students did a choreographed catwalk while being introduced to the town as the freshest batch of adults. We then went inside the House of Culture for 3 hours of concert, diplomas, speeches, gifts, tears, and a personalized poem from the principal to each graduand. After night had fully descended, we stepped out onto the square once again for 15 straight minutes of fireworks and acrobatic dancing. The kids (who range in age from 17 to 18 years old) left the square for Korsar, a café their parents had rented for the evening, to enjoy dancing and champagne. These parents pulled out all the stops.

The downside of a school as small as this one is that while it's not hard to teach every student, it leaves no surprises for next year. I already know exactly who my kids will be, and these 11th formers have left them some big shoes to fill. They will be missed, but now I can pour my attention into a new group of children, who will hopefully prove to be just as special as the last.