(note: This came to me in rather a profound flash. I had wondered why I was – am – so interested in Russia, as a whole and as a people – and at the individual person level. And why I chose to go there. I’m shaking now – not from fear or anxiety. I’m not sure why. Maybe just a delayed response to the cold. But this is what I thought about on my walk tonight. The “law” thing is something I’ve been thinking about… practicing contract law in places where there really isn’t any such thing yet.)
“Maybe this is just because I was raised by people of a higher psychoclass… like, self-aggrandizement or something because I function on a higher level than they do. But I don’t think so. The truth is… they just have no spirit. It’s been bred – beaten – out of them. The subway cars are really like animal cars. They sit there like animals. Or… no. No. The problem is that they sit there, but not passively. Every one of them seems to be actively scanning the other people there. Taking in their clothes, their hair, makeup – their status, basically. And behind that is the implicit question “Are you going to hurt me?” – which always gets answered in the positive. That’s the problem.
“When I was a teenager I used to compliment myself – or think it might be nice to be able to compliment myself – on having no essential self. Which I saw as making me adaptive to any and every situation. Without realizing, of course, that it is only the people who HAVE an essential self who are – or can be – adaptive. The people in Moscow are the ones who really have no essential selves. Whole train cars – whole cities – full of them. Full of people who go around terrorized constantly functioning at the level of “Are you my friend or my enemy” – without knowing how to deal with people who are their friends, because they’ve never met any. Because it’s not even possible to meet any. These are the people with no essential selves. Which is why Russia can’t survive – won’t survive – because… people of that psychoclass who can’t adapt just… perish. Like Neanderthal man gave way to Homo erectus. Because they couldn’t evolve.
“So there’s the lesson. Here’s the lesson of Russia: here’s what we missed out on. Here’s what we’ve come up from – together. Here’s what we should be damned glad we can’t compliment ourselves on being. It’s not possible to change Russia… but seeing what that does on a societal level… doesn’t it make you want to improve? Not to go practice law there – or go bring laws into the places where there aren’t any – because it’s not happening. You know? Those interesting problems to solve… well, isn’t it those social institutions we want to get rid of in the first place? With the government as the arbiter of contracts?”
They gave me activated charcoal tablets to swallow. Each one burst in my mouth in a carbon-y shower. The nausea, however, isn’t caused by something I ate, and won’t be ameliorated by any tablet or potion.
I feel sick each time I think of teaching at Strogino. I keep thinking of calling in sick, or walking away. Last Thursday I nearly did just walk away – I was 10 paces down the sidewalk when I turned back… but I thought of you. Of all of you. And of a night in May where, casually, on one of those late-night calls that I so miss, I mentioned that I’d walked away from my final exams.
I thought of you, my friends, and that stopped me. Thank you. And, of course, all kudos to the boys upstairs, who reminded me of that night. Thank you, my dears. I appreciate you.
Today is my first day going to teach there since Tuesday. I do not want to. There’s nothing saying I must, of course… except the fact that. Well, no. Let’s rephrase that – courtesy of those book extracts that GG posted today. “I am choosing to teach at Strogino today because I do not want to lose my job and the housing it provides. I am choosing to teach at Strogino today because I would like a place to stay until I either find something better or choose to leave Russia, and I don’t want to spend the money or undergo the anxiety of staying in a hostel and waiting – and hoping – that I’ll soon be hired. I am going to Strogino today because I am a bit frightened of what will come to pass if I don’t – and I’m not sure how to resolve that yet.”
The prospects of getting another job soon are not that unfavorable. Yesterday I had an interview at an agency which is putting me up for a job immediately. In all likelihood I’ll be meeting the mother of my potential pupil tomorrow. There is another agency which is also looking at potential jobs for me, and I should get a few offers from that place as well.
Due to the visa vagaries of Russia, if I resign my current job they’ll cancel my visa, and I’ll have 10 days to leave the country. I’ll have to go to Ukraine for between 1 day and 1 week, where the Russian embassy there will issue me with another visa – once I’ve got a job offer lined up and a priglashenie issued. So I can’t quit this job until I’ve got another one – or, no. If I want to follow the path of least resistance, government hassle, and expense, I shouldn’t quit this job until I’ve got another.
Trying to take responsibility in these decisions. It’s a difficult, conscious effort right now. But it feels better. It really does actually feel better to know that I’m not at anyone’s mercy. That I’m not hard done-by. That no one is making me stay or making me quit – and that no one has the power to make me do anything.
I don’t want to leave Russia. I quite like it here, oddly enough. There’s money to be made here – and I’m here to make money to finance my travels and mountaineering and returning to university if I decide to do that.
I should leave now for Strogino if I want to get there. I researched hostels today – $20 a night will get me a dorm bed near the Old Arbat. Maybe tomorrow. After the interview with this woman – we’ll see how it goes.
This was the thing I wanted to write about on the board, and I’ve not covered it fully. I would love to speak with some of you about this – not about my situation, necessarily… but about these new feelings of almost (almost!) joy in taking the responsibility, and feeling free – even under stressful circumstances – to act in my own behalf. And the growing feeling that there’s someone behind me who wants to see me happy – not just you, my friends, and not just my conscious ego… but others.
And thanks to Andrea, my inner 5-year-old wants a toy. I shall have to go to the toy shop to get her one. :)
“You’re supposed to be better than this!” I thought.
I wanted to shout it at them, those boys in green, with their frock coats, grey and red hats, and the brown leather dispatch bags of the officers hanging over their shoulders. And the batons – the long, long black batons hanging from their belts. Four soldiers – not one of them over 20 years old – marching down a metro platform.
They, however, are not the ones that are supposed to be better – not those boys.
Not those boys whose mothers raised them to always obey, no matter the order. Not those boys whose fathers taught them to love nothing above Russia. Not those boys whose teachers taught them that a government which represents its citizens is the highest ideal, and that it should be the highest ideal of those citizens to die for their country. Not those boys whose drill instructors would shout at them, beat them, jail them, or kill them if they disobeyed. Not those boys whose government would refuse them exit visas and higher education – and kill them – if they refused to join the army.
Those boys are not the ones who are supposed to be better. Their mothers, their fathers, their teachers, their drill instructors, and their government are the ones who were supposed to be better. The latter two should be so good as to not exist in the first place.
Their mothers, fathers, and teachers are evil and corrupt failures, not the boys. Those boys in their frock coats and grey and red hats.
It made me sad to write the above. I wanted to help those boys on the metro platform. But they are far gone. Beyond my aid. They’re not boys… they’re the men they were beaten and cursed and propagandized into being. Done before reaching their 20s – gone, never to return.
I want to help all of the people I see. I want to help the women in their 5” spike-heeled patent leather boots and short skirts who look depressed and scared. The ones whose clothes scream “fuck me!” but whose eyes almost weep “love me… truly… please, someone… help me. I don’t want to be here.” I want to help the young mothers who impatiently cram their children between two strangers on the metro. The ones whose voices say “you are a naughty child! Sit down and don’t talk any more!” but whose postures say “I am frustrated because I don’t know how to communicate with my child or be a better mother to him. I was never given love… how can I give it now?” The young men, whose demeanor says “don’t look at me. Don’t mess with me. I’m not here – I don’t care” but whose true self… lord, down deep somewhere in there is saying “please… someone see that I am vulnerable and scared of it. All I want is a wife and children I can love… and I feel like I’m being forced into being someone I’m not. I don’t want to be this way.”
I see – or think I see – beyond the clothes and posture and outward demeanor. And I want to help all of these people. To show the young woman that she’s got something lovable besides shapely legs. To show the young mother that compassion and love are what her child needs, not discipline. To show the young man that vulnerability is the greatest strength he possesses.
But I can’t help them. Each and every single one is dying of the plague, and would rather die than take the medicine that will cure them. Each of them is not only convinced that the cure is much worse than the disease. They are absolutely certain – dead certain – that I’m the leper, and they are healthy. I’m the one who gave up their Holy Trinity – god, government, and family – for truth and reason and virtue. “For what?” they think. “What have you gained in return?”
Each of them has, of course, got a vested interest in not seeing the joy, the solid friendships, the self-knowledge and self-trust, and all of the other boons that philosophy brings. They’ve got a vested interest in seeing only the negatives… because it’s just so goddamned hard to put down their crosses and follow reason. It’s just so goddamned hard to work through processing your history. It’s just so goddamned hard to realize that no, there is no god, no, your parents didn’t love you, and no, no matter who has the golden gun it’s still only a goddamned gun and is only good at doing murder.
I used to feel contempt, or impatience. Now… now, it is almost – not always, but getting stronger – a feeling of compassion. I know it is hard, my brothers. Oh, it is so hard to give up the illusion of joy for the real stuff. It is so hard to love the world – and yourselves, and your children – enough to take the bitter medicine and start out across that long desert path towards the oasis of truth. If it wasn’t hard – if everyone was willing to put down that cross – then… why has it taken millennia to happen? If everyone was suddenly ready, then what was missing before?
The degree to which it is difficult is the degree to which you will rejoice when it is done. But oh, brothers, you have a vested interest in not seeing it – and the people who beat and cursed and propagandized you into becoming who you are have even more of a vested interest in blinding you. That, my dears, is why I’ve begun to feel that compassion. Because inside every spike-heeled, impatient, apathetic one of you is the child who was tortured into defending itself in that way. And my god, I’ve begun to have such empathy for that child. I’ve begun – finally – to see that he is there.
While talking about loneliness with a friend tonight, this came up: my thoughts about the soldiers. My friend mentioned that the degree to which I feel loneliness is the degree to which I wish to help people. Am I lonely because I’m a doctor with a cure standing in a hospital ward of plague victims who believe that what I want to inject them with is deadly poison? Am I lonely because where I wish to render aid, I am barred from doing so?
I think that is true. At least partly. And I’ll give it more thought. For now… this is what I have been thinking since we hung up.
…or that’s what it feels like.
After I hung up the call with Stef about… oh, about 3 minutes ago… I started crying – or nearly so. It’s pretty impossible to express, but I’ll give it a go. I want someone to see this. To know I’m here, I suppose. Even though it’s obvious that you do… well, it feels… right now, at least, as though I’m sitting in the wilds of Siberia, with no one for miles and miles. It feels like living at the end of the world.
Russia is a really hard country to be in. In almost every way, the values that people hold here are antithetical to my own. People put much more emphasis on appearance than substance here – which is true everywhere… but so overt here. Women dress over-the-top sexy and put on 5″ spike patent leather heels and tons of makeup even to go grocery shopping or for exercise (only the men go to gyms – the women usually just go for a walk around the ponds… in high heels). I couldn’t give a good goddamn about dressing like a slut. I go the other way, in fact. I look like a dumpy westerner. There was a businessman here who was murdered in part, they say, because he wore a polo shirt to a meeting at the Kremlin. I believe it. It’s that kind of place.
The Russians (women AND men) are not only vain about their bodies, but about their currency. The exchange rate is displayed everywhere here. In metro stations (where there are no exchange kiosks), on the news, on portal websites like mail.ru which have nothing to do with changing currency… everywhere. Are we up or down against the dollar? That’s all they care about. As long as the ruble is doing well against the dollar, who cares? Which is why Medvedev is spending it like water to try to keep the ruble afloat. The entire national pride is based on the economy – which is now shot because oil is down to $65 a barrel. I don’t think they’ll be able to finish the 5 skyscrapers that are currently under construction in Moscow. Including the one with the 3-storey tall beating neon heart hung in it.
All of the other infrastructure is crumbling to hell. The roads and sidewalks here are pothole-filled mud puddles. Water comes brown out of the tap – literally, again – for the first minute or so in Moscow. You can’t even brush your teeth with the water in St. Petersburg because the bacteria that cause dystentery are in the water supply there. The water is only marginally less dangerous in Moscow.
Journalists are murdered, here, for speaking out against the government. Well… only one journalist. That’s only because no one else dared speak out after she was gunned down on Putin’s birthday two years ago. Happy birthday, Mr. Putin! We’ve killed the only journalist who dared speak against you. Businessmen who have challenged economic policy here have been exiled or jailed. Anyone who opposes, who bucks the trend, who tries to make anything better is impoverished, or exiled, or jailed, or shot. Literally. All literally.
Again, this all happens everywhere. Only it is so much more overt in Russia. But… there is this mentality here. Not a “fiddling while Rome burns” one… but a sort of… they’re watching Rome burn and are either completely apathetic or just out to see what they can grab before flames consume it. The prevailing attitude is “even if it’s broken, don’t fix it.” Inertia is the great value here. Even if you suggest an easy, simple change for someone to make to their routine that will save time and money, they will not do it. Why? Because everyone already knows the current system, and even though it doesn’t work, it’s… known! No reason to change anything, ever. There is not only no call for innovation, but all attempts at innovation are blocked.
This apathy can’t be real. I cannot imagine a person who can sit by and let his… or, yes I can. My family have all sat by and let inertia carry them into living death. It is normal. It happens everywhere. And the rot is society-wide in America too. But it is SO, so so so so so so so so overt here. It’s like being brought face to face with your own death. Like seeing the hour you’re going to die, and the manner of it. Except in Russia you’re being brought face to face with the way that all the world is currently dying. This slow, slimy, creeping living death that seems to be swallowing the world. Jesus Christ, it’s enough to make you a nihilist. Where’s my landlady? I’m going to kill her and become the Nietzchean superman.
(I didn’t understand Crime and Punishment before. I disliked the book intensely. NOW I understand. The entirety of Russia is contained in that book, just as it was during the time Dostoevsky wrote it.)
No one will talk about the problems plaguing Russia. No one will say a single word of bad about the country. People look back over their shoulders when you ask about Soviet times, and grow silent. The FSB (come on, people, it’s the fucking KGB just given a new name) is known to tap phones, especially of westerners in Moscow. Sdrastvoitye, you bastards. The Russians have three values: Church, Family, State. Each of these is worshiped with absolutely over-the-top enthusiasm and adoration. Their faith in all three is devout – and becomes more devout as the objects of worship become more obviously corrupt.
The food is… 95% of it is not salable in a western supermarket. I’m talking about things that are obviously rotting or putrefying being sold. There are about 5 varieties of vegetables that you can get fresh, and maybe 2 more that you can only get frozen. Fruit is mainly apples and oranges – over-ripe. There is no fresh milk. It’s all sold in shelf-stable packaging. Most people eat tons of meat – for at least 2 meals a day, in combination with vegetables swimming in oil. By the end of the afternoon on Sunday, grocery store shelves are empty. Literally. With people squabbling to see who gets the last loaf of bread. Again, literally.
Old people get $200 a month in pensions. University professors make about $300 a month. That is not enough to live. Old people sell whatever they can get on blankets laid out along the main streets. They’ll starve if they don’t. Degrees are worth very little because the professors make so little that they can easily be bribed to give poor students good grades. There’s no such thing as a full-time student. Everyone studies at night, and works during the day. The Moscow Times says that banks are delaying payment on student loans. One bank has only ever given out 900 student loans in all the years its done business. 732 of those students are still in school. 125 of those students have not had their (already approved) tuition paid out, because the bank doesn’t have any money to pay. So the students can’t take their tests. Nothing has changed since the fall of Communism. The same people are making money – only the job they supposedly hold has changed. Party members became “businessmen” – like Putin’s best friend Oleg Deripaska, who is Russia’s richest man. A billionaire self-made by nefarious practices. His billions are all government money.
It is not just because of Communism. There is a reason why Communism could take hold in Russia in the first place. Nationalism in the 19th century was especially strong in 2 places: Bismarck’s Germany, and Russia. Germany got Hitler. Russia got Stalin. WHY? Why those two places? Well… Russia is essentially medieval. So many of the attitudes I have read about in historical Russians – of the very prince who founded Moscow in the 1200s – are present today. Russia lives still in the middle ages. Why? Why did the Renaissance and Enlightenment not come here? There has got to be a deeper reason. There has got to be a reason why this country, above all others, is so overtly on the verge of collapse.
Again, my plaint is not that any of this is unique to Russia. Just that – like under the hole in the ozone layer – the sun’s rays fall harshest here. They put everything in the west into sharp contrast. Let those countries paint an inch thick… to this end they must come. Oddly enough… I like Russia. In a way… it is more comfortable that the vanity, that the violence, that the medieval mindset, that… everything is so much more overt here. Perversely, it’s almost easier to deal with. Because it’s just as dangerous here as in the west… but in the west you can’t see the danger so much. People’s defenses here… talking with a Russian is like talking with a walled city. First you’ll get the bland denial. Then the over-the-shoulder glance for FSB agents. Then you’ll get the half-smile and the words “…but I will not say anything bad about Russia.” Then the accusations of it being worse in the west. Then the high-flying rhetoric. Then the appeal to the strangeness of god. And after that, the Russian will light a cigarette and no longer talk to you.
But… everyone is like a walled city in the west too. Only their defenses are not as overt. The blandness, then the uncomfortableness, then the accusations, then the “heh… well, you don’t know” then… nothing. Shut down. Blank out. People really are the same everywhere.
My problem is not a problem with Russia. This post is not even specifically about Russia. It’s about everywhere. It’s a problem with this entire civilization on the verge of collapse. And I’m glad it’s on the verge of collapse! Not because I’m some sort of nihilist who wants to watch the world burn. Quite the opposite. I love this good earth, and what we can do here, and the possibilities – such possibility! – in humanity. But I am glad that this set of contradictory, self-mutilating, confused, superstitious “principles” the world holds will not let society stand. I am glad to know that (as our theory holds) these false principles and false morality lead always to misery and destruction – or at the very least confusion and frustration and intertia. Because if they didn’t, and if things kept chugging along happily… what the hell have we taken the hard road for? What the hell have I deFOOed for? If we could live happy with bad principles… why would we not?
I seem to be going round and round, though. What has this got to do with me? That’s what… that’s what I wanted to express on the phone, but… couldn’t. Didn’t feel I could. That everything is more overt, and that… that it is very hard. I’ve been brought face to face with… the finality of seeing other people’s principles in action. That world that Rand described in the last third of Atlas, when absolutely everything is falling to hell? That’s NOW! That’s Russia! I’m frightened and feeling quite lonely and alone. And I don’t want to do this on my own. I want people around me – need them. Not bland bloodless people like my flatmate – although she is nice enough to talk to. I want people who see and want to make things better. People who hold the same values and are working towards the same things as I. People who have ambition and care for innovation and want to drag the whole goddamned world, kicking and screaming, out of pre-history. People who are like me.
You.
I’ve been asked to do what new teachers are almost never (or shouldn’t be) asked to do: to teach two advanced level and one elementary level class. New teachers are invariably (or should invariably be) given intermediate-level classes. I have one… but only one.
Two of these classes – one of them advanced level – are classes of teenagers. 15- and 16-year-olds who do not want to learn English, and let you know it. Defenses and projection abound. I understand why this is and I feel sorry for the children – their parents and culture have conspired to completely fuck them up – because it’s not really their fault. However, in 2 hours a week, I can do very little to break down their defenses. Especially not when they come in groups of 10.
I refuse to be around adults whose defenses and general attitude make it impossible to communicate with them… so why – especially when it’s extremely unfair (and absolute crap for the students as well) to have a new teacher put in with advanced students – should I teach classes that I don’t want, and with which I can do nothing?
I talked with the assistant director of students this morning, trying to find a way to give these classes to more experienced teachers. He basically told me to suck it up. I understand and don’t fault him – he must look to the school’s bottom line, after all – but… it made me extremely upset to know that I’ll be stuck trying to make the best of this until June. I felt trapped. I felt hurt. I felt invisible. One thing J kept saying is that “All teachers feel this way initially.” I’m sure they do. When you are trapped, it is a horrid feeling.
I was on the verge of tears and decided to take a walk. Without initially knowing where I was going, I headed off in the direction of Kuntsevskaya Metro – away from the school. As I walked down the hill amidst birch trees filled with chirping birds, I realized something:
I’m not trapped.
Despite what J made the situation out to be, there are at least two options. One is to go off-contract, which means that I could choose the classes I want – but it also means that I have to arrange my own flat and my own visa, which is extremely expensive. The other option is to leave Russia altogether and head for Czech Republic or Turkey – or Berlin, London, or Buenos Aires, for that matter.
My problem is not with Russia. It is not with teaching. I like Russia- I do not love it, but Russia exerts a strong pull on me. The people here make almost a religion out of worshipping strength. It is fascinating to observe Russia, and Russians. I do not want to leave. I also do not have a problem with teaching. My adult classes – both the pre-intermediate and the advanced ones – are lovely. Even the 10-year-old children that I teach on Tuesdays and Thursdays are sweet – and great fun to teach. I do not want to stop teaching them.
Is my problem even with the teens? Not really. They are inevitably what they have to be here, and their feigned indifference is their best and only defense. Fine. However… I do not think that I can do a good job with teaching them. I refuse to sit idly by and let them spend the entire class chatting in Russian… but I’m also not willing to spend my time and energy reaching them. I probably could, on a level… but to tell you the truth, it’s just not worth it to me.
As bad as it sounds… they’re just not a priority. Reaching them is not a priority for me. It is not something I wish to plow 110% of my time and energy into achieving.
The teens deserve a teacher who is willing to put in such time and energy. Someone who wants to make this a career, or at least wishes to improve their teaching to a level that will enable them to get through. I also deserve to have my needs met – not by J or by the school, but by myself. J does not owe me the right to refuse to teach teens – it is in my contract that I cannot refuse – but I owe myself the recognition of my own priorities, needs, and desires.
That’s what I learned on the way to Kuntsevskaya Metro. Not that I don’t want to teach teens. Not that J doesn’t owe me anything. Not even that I’m not trapped. But that I need to do all I may to improve my situation, and meet my needs and desires, and honor my feelings.
J has requested another parley. Here it goes. :)
…is a title that basically means “supreme commander” in Russian. I registered that tonight as a blog name.
Why?
Well… I want to write a travel blog. Not that this isn’t about journeys… but I’m looking for something a bit more… marketable. Something I can parlay into writing/editing jobs while overseas, and just generally. So that blog will be a bit flashier, a bit more succinct, and just a wee bit less personal – or at least less psychology/self-work oriented.
Why “voevoda bolshoia,” though?
There is, I must confess, a book that has sent me to Russia. A book written by an elegant and well-mannered little Scottish woman who is now dead. A woman whose passing was mourned with such profundity by her readers. The greatest writer, I might say, of this late age of humanity. Yes, my dears, none other than Dorothy Dunnett.
I can’t tell you how much of an emotional impact this book had on me. I was unable to move, unable to breathe… unable to do anything but feel Francis Crawford of Lymond’s emotions as he stripped away his humanity to become the voevoda bolshoia to Ivan the Terrible. So, the blog is named for Francis Crawford, who glitters like ice, or crystal… or damascened steel, and for his creator. The little Scottish woman of impeccable intellect who has sent me to Russia.
None of that, of course, is going on that blog.
I want to document my travels more. I want to document my travels in a way that does not make them take a backseat to other, more important content. I’ll leave that for my friends, and for myself. The others get the voevoda.
Filed under: job search | Tags: Complaints Department, job search, russia
I did get offered the job in the Czech Republic, but for financial reasons I turned it down, and will thus be going to Moscow instead. The visa manager at the school emailed me this morning, and it’s going to be at least 12 days from when I submit my info (today) until the letter of invitation can be issued, 3 more days for it to get to me, then a whole morning spent at the Russian Consulate, then another morning getting an AIDS test and certificate of health, then another morning queuing at the Consulate and then – 30 days from now! – I might finally have my visa. Ah, Mother Russia.
Anyhow, I’m shopping the mail order sales in the US trying to get some cheap winter clothes. (Clothes are about double the price in London for the exact same thing from the exact same store, and I’m told the prices double again in Russia, so even with the astronomical cost of shipping anything from the US, it’s still cheaper on the whole to mail order clothes from there, especially with the after Labor Day sales.)
I need to run down the road to the school and have the guy there scan my passport for me. I should have done that before I left the US, but hey – coulda, woulda, shoulda.
Almost all of the clothes that I brought with me to London will be replaced, and I’ll be giving the useable ones to Oxfam. I figure I may as well benefit the local charities while I’m here.
Not much else to say, really. I’m comfortably situated in London for the next month, which gives me time to try to learn survival Russian (why oh why must the Russian letter z look so much like the letter e!) and just generally prepare myself for arriving at the beginning of the Russian winter – i.e. very early October. Das vidanya, sunshine!
