First Story

Dear Friends,

The temperature has warmed in Riga, and the puddles dotting the cobble stoned streets have almost completely evaporated. The sunshine seems to provide the perfect setting for All Things Back to School. In his prayer on Sunday, the pastoral assistant prayed for the beginning of school, specifically for ensuing traffic jams, the many schools still lacking sufficient faculty, and most especially for the "hundreds to thousands" of children who will not be entering classrooms this fall. Issues of truancy and compulsory schooling are something I will have to look into.

But I can tell you that the students of State No. 1 have enthusiastically reentered the realm of wooden desks and chalk boards, due dates and decimals, lectures and lunch recesses. Going into the school year and new school system, the macro question forefront in my mind has been How different will these students be from the American ones I've known? The response, Not very.

All of the usual overarching, stereotypical types of students can be found in this school as in any other. For example, in one class today, three athletic boys, handsome and winsome and outspoken, sat together in the back of the classroom, and another boy, with long hair, wearing black pants and a black turtleneck sweater, sat alone in the front -- completely opposite of them. The athletic boys warmed to me quite easily, while the boy in front, when I asked him about his summer retorted, "Boring as hell." He wasn't being defiant, just unique... or something like that. Same applied to the girls. The prettier ones tended to sit together, while ones not so style-conscious (and maybe or maybe not more academically minded) sat toward the front.

Ah, I tire of speaking in generalities. I don't mean to pigeonhole these students, but only having first impressions with which to work, I simply mean to say that what I've seen in American classrooms, in terms of divisions and cliques and unspoken boundaries, I've already seen here in Latvia. Teachers, you know what I mean.

I've been giving the same basic spiel to each of my classes, and again teachers you'll understand when I say that, after eight times of delivering this introductory lesson, or "first story" as my Latvian colleagues say, I've polished the routine into a smooth and effective product. I mean, I could present this one for CPDUs galore!

I begin the story with different forms of greetings: the Latvian "Labdien" to the Russian "Приветствовать" to the German "Willkommen" then onto the American ones. It's great hearing the students repeat with me the enthusiastic "Alo-HAH!" or the slurred and swaggering, "Howdy Y'all," delivering their best cowboy impersonations.

I tell them a bit about myself, beginning with what to call me. Typically, Latvian students just say "teacher" when they want the teacher's attention, but using first names is also common practice. So, I introduce myself as "Timothy" but tell them to call me "Tim" or the Latvian version, "Tims". I tell them that if my grandmother were to walk in the room -- and wouldn't we all be surprised! -- that she may call me "Timmy Boy". I also suggest to the students that they may like to refer to me as "Professor," "Doctor," or "President," whatever makes them feel comfortable. (The students seem to like the "Chipman jokes," or else they're just really, really nice.)

I talk a bit about Jacksonville, about how I ended up in Riga, about Chicago (which apparently is home to the most Latvians in the world second only to Latvia itself) and Springfield -- which, so far, in every class has triggered a gleeful rumbling of recognition. "The Simpsons" reign ubiquitous. I clarify with my students that in spite of what they may hear, the Simpsons do indeed dwell in Illinois and that Bart is a personal confidante of mine. (Yikes, I know so very little about the Simpsons, perhaps I'm doing our fine state and myself a disservice by claiming them.)

Using the Koosh Ball (thanks Ken), I practice saying each of their names and ask them something about themselves. The names present a challenge -- the jots and tittles and other marks are legion -- but nearly each name has a very clear English counterpart. Some students have immediately okay'd me calling them by the English version of their name, though I hate to do that. The Simpsons may have already invaded their turf, but I'm going to delay the infliction of my Americanness upon them until I am absolutely resolved to surrender! As one colleague and friend put it, "In Latvian, we're going to pronounce every letter and sound we see. We're very phonetic." So, if the word is "tired," it will be pronounced (to my ear) "tee-er-ed". In America, we're looking to wring two syllables out of the darned word.

During my first story, I touch briefly on the four little rules that have become the basis of my classroom management, thanks to Turner Junior High, "Respect time, property, others, and yourself." With a couple classes, first impressions inform me that issues of respect among the students and their peers will be something to watch, but the majority of classes already exude the essence of Aretha's anthem.

Finally, I share five quotes about language with the students. One of the quotes that generates the most response from the students is this one by Frederick Fellini, "A different language is a different way of life." I tell the students how impressed by their language skills and sets I already am; most of them speak upwards of three languages and seamlessly shift gears between them.

Last weekend, Andris, his wife, Alona, and I were talking about this topic over dinner. Andris noted that he uses Latvian with his friends, English with his Embassy colleagues, and Russian at home with Alona, whose family is Russian. Marveling, I said, "You know, Americans are just so..." I was planning to say something like "lazy" or "disinterested" or "spoiled," but I paused. Both Andris and Alona simultaneously filled in my gap with "happy." Are Americans truly happier speaking one language? Does language, at the end of the day, have any real connection to happiness? Is life simpler and more blissful being monolithic? Evocative thoughts such as these accompany me on my small journeys here and yon along with the small sense of guilt I carry as an interloper in a land where I expect, nay, anticipate, the residents to speak my language.

I end the class session by distributing small papers and asking students for some information about themselves. There are five questions on the questionnaire, but the most intriguing for them and for me so far has been the last one where they are asked to ask me a question.

"What is your favorite thing about Latvia?"
"Why did you decide to leave the USA, because I'm sure you have a lot of friends there?"
"Are you a Christian?"
"Have you been to the Hardrock Cafe in Rome?"

And my personal favorite, "Are you evil?" followed by an ominous looking emoticon etching. If I had to bet, I'd say that one's probably from the kid in the front wearing all black. I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that...

Some students have left comments on the backs of these papers. One girl complimented my "clever and witty" lesson. One student hoped that my I would stay this "smiley" all year and that it was not just a show for the first day. Several have lingered after class to check clarification about something I said or to say thanks for the lesson (!!!) or tell me they look forward to class next week. Many just seem to like the sound of "see ya" rolling off their lips.

These kids have been selected as the most promising students in the country, and they know it. Yet, based on the first few days, I'd say their confidence is grounded in ambition, drive and sheer curiosity, not narcissistic entitlement. Beyond their promising futures and pasts of achievement, they carry backpacks and pencil bags. They tease each other. They hang out in the hallways. They wear Garfield and Nike T-shirts. They are tall and short. They are teenagers.

At the end of the day, walking back in the gleaming sunlight, I visited the roving outdoor market near to my flat. ("Don't ever buy your fruits from a grocery when you have the market!" I'd been advised.) Delivering the goods to the kitchen, I opened the window as far as it'd go to hear the wafting strands of piano scales coming from someone's lesson somewhere in the old apartment building. The occasional bouts of piano music to my ears are a treat, and when I hear them, I can't help but be transported back to the days of my own growing-up, sitting quietly listening to my mother teach piano in the living room.

I realize my environment has always been one of learning. Listening to the piano, I remember the feeling of going to school to learn, not to teach. I remember the burden and promise of new concepts and ideas and words. I am quite sure, here in Latvia on the third day of school, that I'm the one learning the most. And, I'm hungry for knowledge. I suppose this is surely a good thing, basic survivalist instinct at its root. Did the move to Riga trigger a curiosity about life and living that has always resided within, or because something as ordinary as gathering food here is such an adventure, are my senses that much more heightened, spurring a peak in my capacity of awareness?

I think I'll save those answers for another night. You know, the more I write, the better and better that bottle of Merlot I picked up is looking. And, maybe, I'll find something good on TV. Do the Simpsons know Latvian?

Thanks for reading.

Love,
Tim