I've spent a lot of time in Bulgaria, nearly 2 years. During this time I've done a lot of nice things, a lot of time spent helping and being a good little volunteer. However, I've also done a lot of judging. I think I've just got Bulgaria all figured out. I know where all the problems lie and I complain to friends over skype or in person about how much easier our jobs would be if certain things were addressed and changed. I get frustrated on a daily basis by the things I can't change and by putting any issues involving education, teachers, students, parents, etc. into a box that I can name and talk about makes it easier to handle. I judge and bask in the glory that is my Perfect Version of Bulgaria. If only they'd let me run the country...
And then I went to a 5th grade student's birthday party.
Now, my 5th graders are impossible. They are all significantly below grade level. Most of them would be classified as illiterate by American standards and that is unfortunately not an exaggeration. To say they are difficult to teach is an understatement and I dread Tuesdays when we have two hours in a row with these ADHD/music-playing/constant-wiggling/shut-up-shouting/always-argueing/KAKVO?!?! little hellions. I often wonder how they were allowed to become these versions of themselves. How can a class of only a dozen students spend hours at school every day for years and not know how to read or write in their native language? Why does the school bother to teach them a second one? Why aren't parents more involved? Why isn't there after-school help to get them back on track? Why isn't anyone doing anything?!?!
I thought I knew why. No one cares. Apathy.
And then I went to a 5th grade student's birthday party.
5th grade isn't the only class I struggle with, I have a lot of students who are very similar and many more who can add "violent", "thief", and "destructive" to their academic resumes. I can see the futures of every 8th grade student from now until they're walking down the icy streets with bent backs and canes struggling to get a small bag of bread and cheese back to their concrete home. And I think "why?" Couldn't they just try a little harder? Put in a little more effort? Take advantage of a relatively easy education and make something of themselves? Take something seriously?!?!
Again I thought I knew exactly why. Years of being spoiled and never told no. Not knowing a life different from this one. Not caring. Apathy.
And then I went to a 5th grade student's birthday party. This is what happened:
I took the 2:45pm bus from the center of my village to the Mahala on the other side of some low, rolling hills. Tucked away and with a truly breathtaking view of a famous mountain range is Veselitsa, the Mahala (or ghetto) on the outside of town. The houses are old and crumbling and cars are abandoned everywhere, along the roads and in front of equally useless buildings. The few nice cottages are for English tourists who come in the Spring and Summer months to get away in what I imagine they think is a quaint, nicer version of The Bulgarian Village. Businesses are few and most store windows are blackened, not having been used for what looks like decades. The streets are windy leading up to the center and it's cold, cloudy.
I step off the bus with every other passenger staring, no doubt wondering what I'm doing there, and I'm waved down by two of my students with, "Gospozha! Miss!" I wave to them and immediately wish Pepi a happy birthday. He sees I have a gift but doesn't mention it. I realize later that I probably should have handed it to him right away. Welcome to Veselitsa, they say.
We walk up the cobblestone street and stop in front of a very old wooden door and he beckons me inside. We're greeted by a puppy who's chained up to the fence and practicing being ferocious which he no doubt will be someday soon. As we walk through a door at the side of the house, I have to duck in order not to hit my head and immediately feel a wave of heat. There's a small, iron furnace burning in the tiny room, two beds, a small sink, one cupboard, and a baba. A baba is a grandmother and I'd met Pepi's briefly a few months before when I came to the Mahala to visit my students and play cards in the Fall.
We ate dinner. Kyufteta (meat patties) and bread with a fizzy drink and some coffee. There was lyutenitsa (vegetable preserve) for the bread and I was given a jar to take home and promised more whenever I wanted. I noticed how polite Pepi was, how different from the crazy, loud, class clown Pepi from school. He encouraged me to eat. He re-phrased his baba's Bulgarian as it was difficult for me to understand. He told me about an old picture on the wall, it was of his baba and her husband on their wedding day in 1963. It's then I realized this wrinkled and bent old woman with a cane and fewer teeth than fingers was only a decade or so older than my own mother.
After dinner, Pepi handed me a stuffed Winnie the Pooh and said it was for me. I thanked him and noticed him looking at the green, flowered bag with my gift out of the corner of his eye. I realized my mistake and quickly told him to open his gift. I'd bought him a robot that had to be put together out of Legos. As he opened the box and took out each small bag full of tiny Lego pieces he began to look more and more confused. It didn't look like the robot on the box. When he realized he was going to have to build it himself he looked at me like I was a silly American who'd been tricked into buying something that wasn't even put together yet. He set it aside, clearly never to be played with again. Later, when his uncle was trying to put it together and getting very frustrated, refusing to follow the directions no matter how many times I encouraged him to, Pepi said he hated it. He said it to make his uncle feel better and there was such a contradiction in his sweet voice that all I could do was laugh and promise to buy better gifts for children in the future. Ones that come already put together and ready to play with. I should have just bought him a soccer ball. His uncle and baba combined efforts and gave him 10 leva. He was very excited to spend it on snacks at school. The good ones.
I asked about another black and white photo on the wall. It was his baba, a dozen or so years after the honeymoon photo, with her 3 children. Pepi's uncle, aunt, and father. Pepi told me his dad doesn't come here. I asked what he meant and Pepi repeated himself. He doesn't come here. He lives in another town. I don't see him. Then Pepi shrugged and ate some more bread. I know nothing about Pepi's mother but I do know she doesn't come here either. Whether that's because she's passed away or because she also lives in another town, either way, probably isn't something I'm prepared to know.
I asked Pepi who started the fire in the furnace. He did. Who made the coffee, washed the dishes, cooked the food? He did. What time do you wake up, Pepi? 5:30. What do you do at home for fun? Listen to the radio. Sing. Dance. Play soccer. So, it's just you and your baba? Yes, but his uncle comes from Sofia in the winter to help. They need help when it's cold. His baba can't walk very far, she has a cane.
No wonder he plays in my classroom. It's his only escape. It is his play time. His time with friends. No watchful baba eyes and no coffee to make.
We spent the rest of the day playing soccer and sledding. All on ice. The snow from a few weeks prior had condensed and frozen, making everything very uneven and slippery. Soccer was not easy to say the least and we all fell hard, laughing and picking ourselves back up only to fall again a few seconds later. The sledding was easier and using a plastic bag was pure genius. Just sit on it and go, so fast the wind hurts your cheeks. We flew down the hill and crashed into large piles of snow, dusting ourselves off for the treacherous climb back to the top. Gospozha, don't scream, Pepi told me. I have to, I say.
Pepi walked me back to the center and waited with me for the bus. He listened to my ipod and danced with his baba's cane which he brought for protection from the wild dogs that constantly prowl. He asked if I had a pen and if I could write my phone number on his hand so he could use his uncle's phone to call me and ask how I'm doing on the weekends. (I got a very brief call from him later that night. I could hear his baba and uncle in the background, one encouraging him to ask me how I was, and the other encouraging him to hurry up.) He asked if I'd like to come again and maybe stay the night. I could sleep in his bed, next to his baba's bed, and he would sleep on the floor. He asked me for the millionth time if I'd had a great day. Not nice, he says, great. It was a great day, wasn't it?
It was a great day.
-Age
And then I went to a 5th grade student's birthday party.
Now, my 5th graders are impossible. They are all significantly below grade level. Most of them would be classified as illiterate by American standards and that is unfortunately not an exaggeration. To say they are difficult to teach is an understatement and I dread Tuesdays when we have two hours in a row with these ADHD/music-playing/constant-wiggling/shut-up-shouting/always-argueing/KAKVO?!?! little hellions. I often wonder how they were allowed to become these versions of themselves. How can a class of only a dozen students spend hours at school every day for years and not know how to read or write in their native language? Why does the school bother to teach them a second one? Why aren't parents more involved? Why isn't there after-school help to get them back on track? Why isn't anyone doing anything?!?!
I thought I knew why. No one cares. Apathy.
And then I went to a 5th grade student's birthday party.
5th grade isn't the only class I struggle with, I have a lot of students who are very similar and many more who can add "violent", "thief", and "destructive" to their academic resumes. I can see the futures of every 8th grade student from now until they're walking down the icy streets with bent backs and canes struggling to get a small bag of bread and cheese back to their concrete home. And I think "why?" Couldn't they just try a little harder? Put in a little more effort? Take advantage of a relatively easy education and make something of themselves? Take something seriously?!?!
Again I thought I knew exactly why. Years of being spoiled and never told no. Not knowing a life different from this one. Not caring. Apathy.
And then I went to a 5th grade student's birthday party. This is what happened:
I took the 2:45pm bus from the center of my village to the Mahala on the other side of some low, rolling hills. Tucked away and with a truly breathtaking view of a famous mountain range is Veselitsa, the Mahala (or ghetto) on the outside of town. The houses are old and crumbling and cars are abandoned everywhere, along the roads and in front of equally useless buildings. The few nice cottages are for English tourists who come in the Spring and Summer months to get away in what I imagine they think is a quaint, nicer version of The Bulgarian Village. Businesses are few and most store windows are blackened, not having been used for what looks like decades. The streets are windy leading up to the center and it's cold, cloudy.
I step off the bus with every other passenger staring, no doubt wondering what I'm doing there, and I'm waved down by two of my students with, "Gospozha! Miss!" I wave to them and immediately wish Pepi a happy birthday. He sees I have a gift but doesn't mention it. I realize later that I probably should have handed it to him right away. Welcome to Veselitsa, they say.
We walk up the cobblestone street and stop in front of a very old wooden door and he beckons me inside. We're greeted by a puppy who's chained up to the fence and practicing being ferocious which he no doubt will be someday soon. As we walk through a door at the side of the house, I have to duck in order not to hit my head and immediately feel a wave of heat. There's a small, iron furnace burning in the tiny room, two beds, a small sink, one cupboard, and a baba. A baba is a grandmother and I'd met Pepi's briefly a few months before when I came to the Mahala to visit my students and play cards in the Fall.
We ate dinner. Kyufteta (meat patties) and bread with a fizzy drink and some coffee. There was lyutenitsa (vegetable preserve) for the bread and I was given a jar to take home and promised more whenever I wanted. I noticed how polite Pepi was, how different from the crazy, loud, class clown Pepi from school. He encouraged me to eat. He re-phrased his baba's Bulgarian as it was difficult for me to understand. He told me about an old picture on the wall, it was of his baba and her husband on their wedding day in 1963. It's then I realized this wrinkled and bent old woman with a cane and fewer teeth than fingers was only a decade or so older than my own mother.
After dinner, Pepi handed me a stuffed Winnie the Pooh and said it was for me. I thanked him and noticed him looking at the green, flowered bag with my gift out of the corner of his eye. I realized my mistake and quickly told him to open his gift. I'd bought him a robot that had to be put together out of Legos. As he opened the box and took out each small bag full of tiny Lego pieces he began to look more and more confused. It didn't look like the robot on the box. When he realized he was going to have to build it himself he looked at me like I was a silly American who'd been tricked into buying something that wasn't even put together yet. He set it aside, clearly never to be played with again. Later, when his uncle was trying to put it together and getting very frustrated, refusing to follow the directions no matter how many times I encouraged him to, Pepi said he hated it. He said it to make his uncle feel better and there was such a contradiction in his sweet voice that all I could do was laugh and promise to buy better gifts for children in the future. Ones that come already put together and ready to play with. I should have just bought him a soccer ball. His uncle and baba combined efforts and gave him 10 leva. He was very excited to spend it on snacks at school. The good ones.
I asked about another black and white photo on the wall. It was his baba, a dozen or so years after the honeymoon photo, with her 3 children. Pepi's uncle, aunt, and father. Pepi told me his dad doesn't come here. I asked what he meant and Pepi repeated himself. He doesn't come here. He lives in another town. I don't see him. Then Pepi shrugged and ate some more bread. I know nothing about Pepi's mother but I do know she doesn't come here either. Whether that's because she's passed away or because she also lives in another town, either way, probably isn't something I'm prepared to know.
I asked Pepi who started the fire in the furnace. He did. Who made the coffee, washed the dishes, cooked the food? He did. What time do you wake up, Pepi? 5:30. What do you do at home for fun? Listen to the radio. Sing. Dance. Play soccer. So, it's just you and your baba? Yes, but his uncle comes from Sofia in the winter to help. They need help when it's cold. His baba can't walk very far, she has a cane.
No wonder he plays in my classroom. It's his only escape. It is his play time. His time with friends. No watchful baba eyes and no coffee to make.
We spent the rest of the day playing soccer and sledding. All on ice. The snow from a few weeks prior had condensed and frozen, making everything very uneven and slippery. Soccer was not easy to say the least and we all fell hard, laughing and picking ourselves back up only to fall again a few seconds later. The sledding was easier and using a plastic bag was pure genius. Just sit on it and go, so fast the wind hurts your cheeks. We flew down the hill and crashed into large piles of snow, dusting ourselves off for the treacherous climb back to the top. Gospozha, don't scream, Pepi told me. I have to, I say.
Pepi walked me back to the center and waited with me for the bus. He listened to my ipod and danced with his baba's cane which he brought for protection from the wild dogs that constantly prowl. He asked if I had a pen and if I could write my phone number on his hand so he could use his uncle's phone to call me and ask how I'm doing on the weekends. (I got a very brief call from him later that night. I could hear his baba and uncle in the background, one encouraging him to ask me how I was, and the other encouraging him to hurry up.) He asked if I'd like to come again and maybe stay the night. I could sleep in his bed, next to his baba's bed, and he would sleep on the floor. He asked me for the millionth time if I'd had a great day. Not nice, he says, great. It was a great day, wasn't it?
It was a great day.
-Age
