Two years ago when Jamie and I first agreed to come to Policka, we did so without really thinking about the two years after the CZ. Where would we go? What would we do? Would we go back to school? Would we stay longer in Europe? All of these questions rattled around in our head, unanswered. And, that was good. Yet, as this year came and the months quickly ticked off the calendar, Jamie and I were faced with the decision-making process again, and those same old questions came up. Except, this time, they had to be answered.
The definition of an adventure is quite a funny thing, in that all people have one. Usually, especially if you are young, the adventure that you dream up or concoct in your mind is quite exotic and unique: I want to move to Africa and cure aids; I’m going to hike through Asia; I’m going to ride on a helicopter through the Outback. Everything, every adventure, has to be grand and ‘international’ in flavor. Personally, for me, I had it. I wanted it to be that way. Consequently, the prospect of returning back to the United States was always up in the clouds, above my head, offering me a ‘foreboding’ reminder that the ‘wanderlust’ life will eventually come to a decisive end. I fought it—especially in September.
When Jamie and I both started job hunting, we often started as far away from Western, PA as we could. I know that I personally applied to three positions in Wyoming (of all places), one in Montana and one in Colorado. I though to myself, “well, if I’m going back to American, I might as well go someplace new. I’m still in the mood for exotic nature, which I think I can find…out WEST.” But, all the options fell through.
One day in February, I was perusing the internet on the AmeriCorps website and came across some job openings in Erie, Pennsylvania. I was very hesitant at first, as that was really the LAST place I would want to return to. But, I read the job descriptions of all the positions and each one of them offered something very interesting and worth-while: work with refugees, environmental education, college counseling, etc. I decided to apply. About two weeks later I had an interview. And, during the interview, the woman who was asking the questions, inquired as to whether I had a wife. “Yes” I answered, “She is looking to get into Environmental Education work.” “Really!?” replied the woman. “That’s funny, because we’re looking for a candidate for our open position who would be able to teach and work with an environmental group.” “Do you think your wife would be interested?” And, that’s how it started.
Less than a week later, Jamie had an interview, and then a second. A month later, she was offered a job with the Group “EarthForce.” I, on the other hand, had to wait a little bit longer. Ironically, they seemed more ‘gung-ho’ about Jamie than myself, and I was the original one who had applied!! But, by and by I finally did get my second interview and was offered a position with the group, “Urban Erie Development Corporation.”
To give you a very quick summary of what our lives next year will look like, I would like to tell you what the organizations do. EarthForce is an independent group that is nationally funded and run, however, is broken up into regional chapters: Jamie will be working for the Allegheny-Erie chapter. What EarthForce does (and no, it is not the crazy, eco-terrorist group, ‘EarthFirst!’) is they encourage environmental stewardship and community service among high school and middle school students. Jamie’s responsibility will be teaching and also ‘infrastructure building.’ This means that she will be the direct liaison for the group between the communities; she will have to find volunteers, encourage community involvement with EarthForce, give presentations to Universities and enjoy life on Presquile Isle.
Urban Erie Development Corporation, on the other hand, is a non-profit organization that specializes in community development in poverty-stricken areas. Their program is holistic in that they have programs that address the economic, social, educational and practical problems that come with being poor. My main responsibility will be working with youth through an after-school program, helping start up a community garden project with the large refugee population in Erie, and writing grants.
We both look forward to our new jobs and are confident that we will gain a lot of experience from them. We are working with AmeriCorps, which means that we are also being offered many incentives for our service: money for graduate school, a one year non-competitive status for any government job (National Park Jobs, anyone!?), and training for work and life in an NGO (Non-Government Organization).
The decision-making process was long, and I must admit, sometimes difficult, and we still don’t really have the answers to a concrete future path. Our two years in the Czech Republic have been a blessing in that it has opened our eyes to many different perspectives and experiences. We both feel confident going back to the United States, with the knowledge that we can succeed in difficult situations and that we can always adapt. We’ve grown in our work in the church, and have accepted it as our own. We no longer worry about what was done before, or what kind of opinion the community of Policka will have of us. We know that we’ve had a positive impact on both this church, and the community. We’ve also learned that failing is a part of succeeding, and that you have to have ‘tough skin’ sometimes when working for change (be it the perception of Christians in the Czech Republic, or working for change within the inner city of Erie). It has been a once-in-a-lifetime experience in the fullest of senses.
So, I guess I can go back to the beginning to tie this in. When we first left for the Czech Republic, Jamie and I were searching for an adventure, I guess. We wanted to learn, see and experience ‘something’ new. And, now, as I reflect and ponder on the life that awaits both Jamie and me in Erie, I can rest in the fact that my definition of adventure has been altered: it no longer has to be ‘big’ or ‘glamorous’. Each day we wake up with opportunities to challenge our perspective, or to see a place, or a person, or an experience in new light. Of course, this is much easier to come by if every single day you’re constantly bombarded with a different culture and language; it is a completely different story, when were stuck in the normal town, or in the comfortable life of where we grew up. Yet, like I said, each day you can search for something new—an adventure perhaps.
In this newsletter I also wrote about my joy at being able to plant a tree in Policka, and how the imagery of ‘roots’ grappling into the soil was powerful for me as I prepare for my departure. And, really, it’s the same with my preparation to go back to Pennsylvania; I’ll be happy to water the roots that are firmly planted in my own home, native soil.
Oh, yeah, it’ll also be nice to play baseball and see friends again. But, you already know that, right?
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Jamie told me my titles are boring, so here's a not-so-boring title.
For the past month, my head has been only in the past-- not my own past, but the historical one. For my birthday I received a book from two of my close friends in the church entitled, Neni Spravedlnost na Zemi(There is No Justice on Earth), which is the personal account of a Czech, Jewish man who was taken as a prisoner during WWII and sent to not one, but five concentration camps, all of which he miraculously lived through. The book has been quite a joy to get through for many reasons, one of which is that he covers a topic that I've always thought about, but never had answers to: What did the Holocaust survivors do when they returned home? I've been really taken back by how he humanizes the whole situation. Often times, when thinking about history, I tend to think of it on a grand scale, which paints the people and the events, in relation to me, as greater than they actually were--you could say that I make history inaccessible for myself. Yet, through this book, I've grown to see the holocaust, humanized--as much as it can be--through the experiences that the writer recounts. Here are some of the more interesting and thought-provoking incidences that I've come across: he says that most of the Jews who were sent to the concentration camps, while they hated the Germans, were not revengeful when the war was over; when the Jews who had survived returned home, they often found out that their homes were occupied by other families (sometimes old neighbors) and many of their personal possessions had been stolen or hidden, never to be found again; while walking on the street, a month after he had been liberated from the last concentration camp, Sauchsenhausen, he couldn't remember the names of old acquaintances and many of them , in turn, couldn't recognize him due to this emaciated, near-death state; many holocaust survivors still held out hope that their families would return after the war, as many of them were separated into to completely different camps, so their respective destinies were unknown to each other; in the death camps enemies were everywhere, even the other prisoners; one of the hardest social aspects to adjust to while being back was relations towards the opposite sex (in his case, woman),as he couldn't draw a clear distinction between pity and love and empathy and lies. Also, he speaks about how immediately upon his return back into normal, civilian life, many people around him looked up to him as a man who has 'experiences' in life and carries 'a big stick', which left him always in the awkward position of having to try to explain to those who looked up to him, that in fact he had NO real-life experience, and he was completely out of sync with how to react and live on an acceptable, social and relational level; all he knew was death, burning, robbery, deceit and the tenacity it takes to survive in hell.
---
Jan approached me about two months ago with a proposal to help him translate a historical book from the United States, from Czech into English. The book is entitled Pamatnik (Memorial), and is a collection of local histories compiled at the turn of the century by Czech pastors who wanted to write a comprehensive history of every single Czech congregation in America. Aside from the fact that the writing is nauseatingly pretentious (why is it that people need to make themselves LOOK intelligent), and that many of the founding stories are all the same, families move to America--they are poor--they want God--they found a church--have some troubles, get a pastor--find God--Hallelujah, the book itself has been a really fun way for me to get a glimpse into the rough-and-tumble lives of American settlers of the early Midwest. It's hard for us to imagine how much life has changed since then, but here a few of the more interesting tidbits of 'daily-grind' type stuff: The pastors often had to commute more than 60 miles to their congregations, on foot; churches cost less than 500 dollars to build; many original inhabitants of South Dakota lived in houses called 'Soddys', named after the material they were made out of; pastors in Texas had to flee to Mexico during the American Civil War (I'm sure they were glad the Mexicans weren't like Arizonans); the boom and bust cycle of the early plain states is unbelievable--a town could be built within a few days thanks to only a railroad station; and, one pastor got lost on his way to church in Illinois for over six days due in large part because he couldn't see over the tall grass.
Sometimes I find it really quite silly when we Americans claim our ancestry when we effectively know nothing of the language, the culture or the history of the people, yet, this book does remind me that at one point, no too long ago, a majority of the people in places like Wahoo, Nebraska or Silver Lake, South Dakota, were speaking Czech not English, and referred to their neighbors as Germans, Swedish, Dutch and Slovaks, not 'Americans'. I find it quite sad that much of this cultural heterogeneity has been lost only within the last 100 years.
---
Having spoken about the history of Czechs on the plains, I feel that it would be interesting for you to know Jamie and I (mainly Jamie) have been delving into some research about Slovaks in Pittsburgh--mainly through my dad's side of the family. She has a great advantage over most people, in that she can understand and read a little Slovak, so she can peruse not just through English-language websites about ancestry, but Slovak-language one's as well. She has done a pretty impressive job, and I won't post too much about it here, because I know that she wants to be the one to tell you more. She has managed to make contact with a relative of mine who is still living in Slovakia--we've been emailing her for the past two months and plan on visiting her in June (we write in Czech, she writes in Slovak)-- she's found information on my great grandfather, the boat he arrived in New York on, the date of his arrival and information about his parents and grandparents. She's contacted some of my 'relatives' who are living in the United States, and she's been partnering in research with a Slovak man who is helping us piece some of this story together. We'll keep you updated on the 'developments'.
---
Just this past weekend, Jamie and I went on a camping trip with one of our youth group members, Filip. On Saturday night, we all decided to take a break from the path and find a small pub where we could have a few cokes and a beer (me). We were successful in our endeavoring and found quite a comfortable-looking place about two blocks away from where our tents were located. After about 40 minutes of sitting in the medieval-themed bar, Filip's face turned, as he wore an expression of disgust and worry-- the normal talkative Filip wouldn't let out more than a few words at a time and his eyes were continuously scanning the room. Looking at me, Filip with a very stiff expression said, "These songs their playing in here are racist." "Really!?" I said. "Sing to me the lyrics, slowly." Hesitantly he began to articulate, "Bila Sila!", "Bila Sila!", "Bila Sila!" There was more to the refrain, but I can't really recall it right now, all you need to know is that 'Bila Sila' is directly translated into 'White Power' in English. I couldn't believe it. Here we were, in the 21st century, sitting in a pub in the heart-land of Bohemia, a country that has seen its fair share of violence and war, listening to the same dribble that came from the mouths of the KKK, and the same ideological foundation that the Nazis built their racist-terrorizing machine upon; this whole experience did not coalesce so well with my recent reflections about what I had been reading from Neni Spravedlnost na Zemi. All three of use left the pub in a hurry, and as we exited, the manager came up to us to get our money. He was very kind and he told us to come back again some day, but I couldn't get my mind off of the fact that this business supports violence, racism, killing and blind hate, yet they all looked and were, genuinely kind. And it was then that I realized that I really do have an advantage just by the fact that I have white skin; I can never imagine what it would be like to be a person of color in that place. How terrible and lonely would I feel? How rude, violent and aggressive would the patrons be? Who would be against me? I can't know. I never will know.
---
The past few weeks at work in the church have been really odd in the fact that I know I'm practically done; I'm yearning for the day of rest where I can say, "Job well done, Jeremy." "You've accomplished a lot." I know that it is near, and the spring time doesn’t help. With each passing day that leaves on the trees get greener and fuller, I'm reminded of how fleeting my last two months will be, and I'm content in that fact. I don't want to come to work every single day and focus only on my job; I want to spend time with friends; I want to make time to take walks outside; I want to research about apartments in Erie; I want to plan my first two weeks back in America; I want to engage myself in the life that is to come--all of this, of course, is while I'm sitting in the office. When I'm on the street, or out socializing with my friends, the feeling is quite the opposite: It's as if I'm never leaving Policka and I'll be able to cultivate and grown in my relationships for many years to come. However, the sad reality is that I must also prepare myself to leave my social life--the friends, the parties, the concerts, the nights in the pub, the gym--fairly shortly. It's just a bummer that that is much more difficult to do.
Relationships mean so much more than responsibilities at this point.
---
Jan approached me about two months ago with a proposal to help him translate a historical book from the United States, from Czech into English. The book is entitled Pamatnik (Memorial), and is a collection of local histories compiled at the turn of the century by Czech pastors who wanted to write a comprehensive history of every single Czech congregation in America. Aside from the fact that the writing is nauseatingly pretentious (why is it that people need to make themselves LOOK intelligent), and that many of the founding stories are all the same, families move to America--they are poor--they want God--they found a church--have some troubles, get a pastor--find God--Hallelujah, the book itself has been a really fun way for me to get a glimpse into the rough-and-tumble lives of American settlers of the early Midwest. It's hard for us to imagine how much life has changed since then, but here a few of the more interesting tidbits of 'daily-grind' type stuff: The pastors often had to commute more than 60 miles to their congregations, on foot; churches cost less than 500 dollars to build; many original inhabitants of South Dakota lived in houses called 'Soddys', named after the material they were made out of; pastors in Texas had to flee to Mexico during the American Civil War (I'm sure they were glad the Mexicans weren't like Arizonans); the boom and bust cycle of the early plain states is unbelievable--a town could be built within a few days thanks to only a railroad station; and, one pastor got lost on his way to church in Illinois for over six days due in large part because he couldn't see over the tall grass.
Sometimes I find it really quite silly when we Americans claim our ancestry when we effectively know nothing of the language, the culture or the history of the people, yet, this book does remind me that at one point, no too long ago, a majority of the people in places like Wahoo, Nebraska or Silver Lake, South Dakota, were speaking Czech not English, and referred to their neighbors as Germans, Swedish, Dutch and Slovaks, not 'Americans'. I find it quite sad that much of this cultural heterogeneity has been lost only within the last 100 years.
---
Having spoken about the history of Czechs on the plains, I feel that it would be interesting for you to know Jamie and I (mainly Jamie) have been delving into some research about Slovaks in Pittsburgh--mainly through my dad's side of the family. She has a great advantage over most people, in that she can understand and read a little Slovak, so she can peruse not just through English-language websites about ancestry, but Slovak-language one's as well. She has done a pretty impressive job, and I won't post too much about it here, because I know that she wants to be the one to tell you more. She has managed to make contact with a relative of mine who is still living in Slovakia--we've been emailing her for the past two months and plan on visiting her in June (we write in Czech, she writes in Slovak)-- she's found information on my great grandfather, the boat he arrived in New York on, the date of his arrival and information about his parents and grandparents. She's contacted some of my 'relatives' who are living in the United States, and she's been partnering in research with a Slovak man who is helping us piece some of this story together. We'll keep you updated on the 'developments'.
---
Just this past weekend, Jamie and I went on a camping trip with one of our youth group members, Filip. On Saturday night, we all decided to take a break from the path and find a small pub where we could have a few cokes and a beer (me). We were successful in our endeavoring and found quite a comfortable-looking place about two blocks away from where our tents were located. After about 40 minutes of sitting in the medieval-themed bar, Filip's face turned, as he wore an expression of disgust and worry-- the normal talkative Filip wouldn't let out more than a few words at a time and his eyes were continuously scanning the room. Looking at me, Filip with a very stiff expression said, "These songs their playing in here are racist." "Really!?" I said. "Sing to me the lyrics, slowly." Hesitantly he began to articulate, "Bila Sila!", "Bila Sila!", "Bila Sila!" There was more to the refrain, but I can't really recall it right now, all you need to know is that 'Bila Sila' is directly translated into 'White Power' in English. I couldn't believe it. Here we were, in the 21st century, sitting in a pub in the heart-land of Bohemia, a country that has seen its fair share of violence and war, listening to the same dribble that came from the mouths of the KKK, and the same ideological foundation that the Nazis built their racist-terrorizing machine upon; this whole experience did not coalesce so well with my recent reflections about what I had been reading from Neni Spravedlnost na Zemi. All three of use left the pub in a hurry, and as we exited, the manager came up to us to get our money. He was very kind and he told us to come back again some day, but I couldn't get my mind off of the fact that this business supports violence, racism, killing and blind hate, yet they all looked and were, genuinely kind. And it was then that I realized that I really do have an advantage just by the fact that I have white skin; I can never imagine what it would be like to be a person of color in that place. How terrible and lonely would I feel? How rude, violent and aggressive would the patrons be? Who would be against me? I can't know. I never will know.
---
The past few weeks at work in the church have been really odd in the fact that I know I'm practically done; I'm yearning for the day of rest where I can say, "Job well done, Jeremy." "You've accomplished a lot." I know that it is near, and the spring time doesn’t help. With each passing day that leaves on the trees get greener and fuller, I'm reminded of how fleeting my last two months will be, and I'm content in that fact. I don't want to come to work every single day and focus only on my job; I want to spend time with friends; I want to make time to take walks outside; I want to research about apartments in Erie; I want to plan my first two weeks back in America; I want to engage myself in the life that is to come--all of this, of course, is while I'm sitting in the office. When I'm on the street, or out socializing with my friends, the feeling is quite the opposite: It's as if I'm never leaving Policka and I'll be able to cultivate and grown in my relationships for many years to come. However, the sad reality is that I must also prepare myself to leave my social life--the friends, the parties, the concerts, the nights in the pub, the gym--fairly shortly. It's just a bummer that that is much more difficult to do.
Relationships mean so much more than responsibilities at this point.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Foggy post about a difficult subject.
In the dank, chilly alleyways that dot Policka, the Vietnamese can be found selling their wares-- usually a mixture of cheaply-made clothing, slippers and plastic sunglasses. They work constantly. Everyday they are the first ones on the street in the morning and the last ones to roll up their awnings and make their way home when dusk has arrived. Throughout the day they stand and speak to one another in Vietnamese, or they are busy dusting their wares. I've never spoken with them before, except for the one time when Jamie wanted to buy a small case for her camera. The Vietnamese women asked me what I was looking for and when I spoke back to her in heavily-accented Czech, she gave me a curt smile, which was barely noticeable. For a split second, I looked at her and realized we had an emotional connection: Neither of us were native.
Immigration is all in the news--both in the US and Europe--for numerous reasons. Just this past week there was a special edition newspaper that came out that had four pages of articles covering the immigrant's experience in the Czech Republic. Many of the young people interviewed were of Asian or Russian decent, as these are two of the largest groups of immigrants that are flooding into the Czech Republic. And Czech people don't trust them. They believe that all Russians and Ukrainians are thieves and mobsters and they are convinced that if more Asians come the Czech republic will lose its traditional cultural identity. (What was interesting for me was the fact that no Americans were interviewed for the piece, even though Americans make up one of the largest immigrant communities in the Czech Republic. It shows me that even though I'm not native, I'm much easier to assimilate (or ignore) due to the fact that I actually look like a Czech. Many of the 'new' Czechs who were interviewed were pretty animate in saying that the Czech Republic as a society is unjustly scared of anybody foreign. In the news, most reporting about foreigners comes from a negative perspective. There are overwhelming instances where crime was the only news worth covering in the immigrant communities: "Foreign-born Vietnamese Man Rapes Czech Girl."
I would say that each country has al limit on how many immigrants they can assimilate. This comes into play much more often in Europe than in the United States due to the fact that European nations sare constantly in a battle to preserve their language and "Kultur." For Americans this might seem like one never-ending pissing contest in childish proclamations of which country has the best cheese, or what it means to be a Frenchman, but here these battles take on national importance. Consequently, when there is an influx of foreign-born workers in some of these small, culturally-homogenous European nations (like the Czech Republic), the first reaction on the part of the natives is not positive. Instead, there is a palpable feeling of distrust and even animosity to the newcomer, especially the ones who threaten to change both the genetic and the architectural make-up of the nation (Africans and those Muslims with their very Arabic-looking mosques). There are plenty of examples from the public/civic sphere of European life where this societal fear has manifested itself into some pretty crazy laws (from my very politically-correct, American perspective). Switzerland’s law to ban the building of minarets; France's revocation of citizenship if a woman chooses to wear a burka; or, the Czech Republic's attempt at eradicating Mongols by offering them 500 Euro to go back home. Even in my own personal life I've come across very dangerous sentiments from Europeans speaking about immigration. When I asked my friends from Holland why they moved to the Czech Republic, they answered,"Because back in the Netherlands everyone is black now. Here things are different." I think the "things are different" phrase simply means that people are STILL white in Policka.
And yet, as I read the articles and heard about the stories and experiences from some of the immigrants, I couldn't help but feel a sense of camaraderie with them--which if I thought about it on a deeper level is quite silly and a little romantic. I don't speak any Asian language, my skin-tone is that of a northern European, my eyes are blue, my native language is indo-European, and my second language is Czech. I am way more Czech than I am Mongolian, Russian, Vietnamese, African or Brazilian. I'm a Christian, not a Buddhist, and I eat more mashed potatoes than curry (sadly). But I felt as if I could understand them and relate to their struggles of feeling unwanted and never being able to throw-off the label of being 'not Czech'. Why?
I think we as people should never underestimate the unity that arises between people that feel they are unwanted. As I go back to America, I feel that I will be more cognizant of the fact that there are groups of Americans who at some point in their history (and today) have been unwanted by the mass culture at the time: Afro-Americans, Asians, Muslims, and most importantly for today, Hispanics. We as a nation have great potential in the fact that we are such a mixed place. Sadly, we will never be able to tap into it if we keep falling into the trap of cultural protectionism. All that will do is alienate pockets of our population.
And yes, I'm thinking about Arizona....
Immigration is all in the news--both in the US and Europe--for numerous reasons. Just this past week there was a special edition newspaper that came out that had four pages of articles covering the immigrant's experience in the Czech Republic. Many of the young people interviewed were of Asian or Russian decent, as these are two of the largest groups of immigrants that are flooding into the Czech Republic. And Czech people don't trust them. They believe that all Russians and Ukrainians are thieves and mobsters and they are convinced that if more Asians come the Czech republic will lose its traditional cultural identity. (What was interesting for me was the fact that no Americans were interviewed for the piece, even though Americans make up one of the largest immigrant communities in the Czech Republic. It shows me that even though I'm not native, I'm much easier to assimilate (or ignore) due to the fact that I actually look like a Czech. Many of the 'new' Czechs who were interviewed were pretty animate in saying that the Czech Republic as a society is unjustly scared of anybody foreign. In the news, most reporting about foreigners comes from a negative perspective. There are overwhelming instances where crime was the only news worth covering in the immigrant communities: "Foreign-born Vietnamese Man Rapes Czech Girl."
I would say that each country has al limit on how many immigrants they can assimilate. This comes into play much more often in Europe than in the United States due to the fact that European nations sare constantly in a battle to preserve their language and "Kultur." For Americans this might seem like one never-ending pissing contest in childish proclamations of which country has the best cheese, or what it means to be a Frenchman, but here these battles take on national importance. Consequently, when there is an influx of foreign-born workers in some of these small, culturally-homogenous European nations (like the Czech Republic), the first reaction on the part of the natives is not positive. Instead, there is a palpable feeling of distrust and even animosity to the newcomer, especially the ones who threaten to change both the genetic and the architectural make-up of the nation (Africans and those Muslims with their very Arabic-looking mosques). There are plenty of examples from the public/civic sphere of European life where this societal fear has manifested itself into some pretty crazy laws (from my very politically-correct, American perspective). Switzerland’s law to ban the building of minarets; France's revocation of citizenship if a woman chooses to wear a burka; or, the Czech Republic's attempt at eradicating Mongols by offering them 500 Euro to go back home. Even in my own personal life I've come across very dangerous sentiments from Europeans speaking about immigration. When I asked my friends from Holland why they moved to the Czech Republic, they answered,"Because back in the Netherlands everyone is black now. Here things are different." I think the "things are different" phrase simply means that people are STILL white in Policka.
And yet, as I read the articles and heard about the stories and experiences from some of the immigrants, I couldn't help but feel a sense of camaraderie with them--which if I thought about it on a deeper level is quite silly and a little romantic. I don't speak any Asian language, my skin-tone is that of a northern European, my eyes are blue, my native language is indo-European, and my second language is Czech. I am way more Czech than I am Mongolian, Russian, Vietnamese, African or Brazilian. I'm a Christian, not a Buddhist, and I eat more mashed potatoes than curry (sadly). But I felt as if I could understand them and relate to their struggles of feeling unwanted and never being able to throw-off the label of being 'not Czech'. Why?
I think we as people should never underestimate the unity that arises between people that feel they are unwanted. As I go back to America, I feel that I will be more cognizant of the fact that there are groups of Americans who at some point in their history (and today) have been unwanted by the mass culture at the time: Afro-Americans, Asians, Muslims, and most importantly for today, Hispanics. We as a nation have great potential in the fact that we are such a mixed place. Sadly, we will never be able to tap into it if we keep falling into the trap of cultural protectionism. All that will do is alienate pockets of our population.
And yes, I'm thinking about Arizona....
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
I can't believe we're almost done
5 weeks lefts of English classes, 11 weeks until the English camp, and 12 weeks until we return to the United States. I would be lying if I said that I don't think about this, because it is constantly on my mind.
Coming to Policka in July 2008 changed everything in our lives. Our families and friends where far way, and we lived in a place that was completely unfamilar and foreign. Yes, Czechs have many of the same things we have in the US, but culturaly some things are very different. There are strick gender roles and a general coldness, which took about a year to get used to. Mind you there have been people who have been "warm" with us, but they have been like that from the start. We couldn't communicate with people very well, not even the simpliest things like buying chicken. We learned how to teach ESL, develope lesson plans and how to plan community events. It seemed like eveything was difficult, and the key to the difficulty was the language.
Personally I struggled every week to understand and be understood our first year. Keeping order was nearly impossible at times since my students would choose not to understand when I told them to sit down and not throw things. I was not a teacher or tutor of English language, I was entertainment. At some point I remember telling one of my students to go home if he didnt't want to be here because I was tired of him causing problems in my "class" week after week, since he odviously was not interested in improving his English. His only reply, with a mischivious grin, was that he had more fun here, AKA making my task of teaching as hard as possible, than on the computer. I was laughed at, disrespected, and completely not myself. I gave up on learning Czech about four months in, and it's something I regret, but at the time my day to day frustations with the langauge seemed so big and too hurtful to continue trying to learn. This of course only made things more difficult, and ofcourse put an unnessisary strain on our relationship. Jeremy's progress in the language was visible (and still is), and I became more and more silent and avoided situations where I would have to talk. I didn't want to out with people because I knew that I could not communicate with them in their language, and they would be forced to speak my language, which was unfair, so mostly I stay at home. Jeremy would go out and people would know me only through what he told them.
However, Our second year was completely different. We came back after 3 weeks in the US for the English Camp in July and had a blast. It was the perfect way to start our second year and in a way set me on a different path. During the camp I knew that people would be comparing our camp to all the other camps in the past, but I desided not to care and to just have fun. Yeah, we did things differently, but different doesn't equal bad.
Classes started again, but this year I am teaching both younger kids and adults. I remember being nervous for the start of the new school year, but my worries faded away soon enough. This year has been a lot easier mainly because I can understand way more and am able to communicate a lot better. I really like my classes, and if kids laugh at my Czech I no longer feel dumb, because it's not true. Yes my Czech is a grammatic mess and horribly limited vocabulary wise, but this does not make me dumb. My adult classes have been a treasure for me, because now I teach people who want to improve their English. Sure, my lessons are also a social time for them, however I know that learning English is difficult for them and I can relate. My one class has really taught me a lot personally - when they make a mistake the laugh and then fix it. My first year everything was a bit too serious and I think I missed out on a lot because of it.
We will be leaving in a short 92 days...and we are going to make the most of it. When people invite us some place we say yes, if we see a good Czech movie for 49kc we buy it, and when our favorite resturant makes svickova we eat there. For the last few weeks I have been trying to wrap my mind around the idea that in late July we will no longer be walking the same path to work that we have for two years.
About two weeks ago Jeremy and I both recieved Americorp*VISTA positions in Erie, PA. I will be working with a non-profit called Earth Force, which encourages youth people to get involved in their community in a way that focuses on Environmental awareness and stewardship. My main focus will be on networking with local colleges and public schools. Jeremy will be working with another non-profit, Urbin Erie Community Development Corp, where he will be involved with a community garden project, after school programs for local kids and working with refugrees in the city of Erie. So things are going to change, but change is good, and we have yet another adventure to look forward to.
Coming to Policka in July 2008 changed everything in our lives. Our families and friends where far way, and we lived in a place that was completely unfamilar and foreign. Yes, Czechs have many of the same things we have in the US, but culturaly some things are very different. There are strick gender roles and a general coldness, which took about a year to get used to. Mind you there have been people who have been "warm" with us, but they have been like that from the start. We couldn't communicate with people very well, not even the simpliest things like buying chicken. We learned how to teach ESL, develope lesson plans and how to plan community events. It seemed like eveything was difficult, and the key to the difficulty was the language.
Personally I struggled every week to understand and be understood our first year. Keeping order was nearly impossible at times since my students would choose not to understand when I told them to sit down and not throw things. I was not a teacher or tutor of English language, I was entertainment. At some point I remember telling one of my students to go home if he didnt't want to be here because I was tired of him causing problems in my "class" week after week, since he odviously was not interested in improving his English. His only reply, with a mischivious grin, was that he had more fun here, AKA making my task of teaching as hard as possible, than on the computer. I was laughed at, disrespected, and completely not myself. I gave up on learning Czech about four months in, and it's something I regret, but at the time my day to day frustations with the langauge seemed so big and too hurtful to continue trying to learn. This of course only made things more difficult, and ofcourse put an unnessisary strain on our relationship. Jeremy's progress in the language was visible (and still is), and I became more and more silent and avoided situations where I would have to talk. I didn't want to out with people because I knew that I could not communicate with them in their language, and they would be forced to speak my language, which was unfair, so mostly I stay at home. Jeremy would go out and people would know me only through what he told them.
However, Our second year was completely different. We came back after 3 weeks in the US for the English Camp in July and had a blast. It was the perfect way to start our second year and in a way set me on a different path. During the camp I knew that people would be comparing our camp to all the other camps in the past, but I desided not to care and to just have fun. Yeah, we did things differently, but different doesn't equal bad.
Classes started again, but this year I am teaching both younger kids and adults. I remember being nervous for the start of the new school year, but my worries faded away soon enough. This year has been a lot easier mainly because I can understand way more and am able to communicate a lot better. I really like my classes, and if kids laugh at my Czech I no longer feel dumb, because it's not true. Yes my Czech is a grammatic mess and horribly limited vocabulary wise, but this does not make me dumb. My adult classes have been a treasure for me, because now I teach people who want to improve their English. Sure, my lessons are also a social time for them, however I know that learning English is difficult for them and I can relate. My one class has really taught me a lot personally - when they make a mistake the laugh and then fix it. My first year everything was a bit too serious and I think I missed out on a lot because of it.
We will be leaving in a short 92 days...and we are going to make the most of it. When people invite us some place we say yes, if we see a good Czech movie for 49kc we buy it, and when our favorite resturant makes svickova we eat there. For the last few weeks I have been trying to wrap my mind around the idea that in late July we will no longer be walking the same path to work that we have for two years.
About two weeks ago Jeremy and I both recieved Americorp*VISTA positions in Erie, PA. I will be working with a non-profit called Earth Force, which encourages youth people to get involved in their community in a way that focuses on Environmental awareness and stewardship. My main focus will be on networking with local colleges and public schools. Jeremy will be working with another non-profit, Urbin Erie Community Development Corp, where he will be involved with a community garden project, after school programs for local kids and working with refugrees in the city of Erie. So things are going to change, but change is good, and we have yet another adventure to look forward to.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Skyview, Mercer County, 1991.
At about the time when the Berlin wall was crumbling in what I had been taught was the homogenous, 'iron' world of 'babichkas', poverty and handkerchiefs wrapped around temples, a storm was forming over Lake Erie. The clouds were thick, gray and heavy--the kind that remind you of a torrential rain, not like the spurts that are seen in the south or along the coasts. It careened its way onto land, passed over Presquile Isle and traversed what is known as the moraine country: the border between where the Appalachian low-lands of South Western Pennsylvania intersect with the glacial plains of the Lake Erie piedmont area. In the beginning, the wind began to howl and rain splattered in thunderous drops onto concrete. It began to pick up speed. It was cold, hard rain. Loose dirt was blasted up into the air and whirled into a mixture of brown soup that smelled and roiled into long troughs of near impassable sludge. Trucks couldn't make it through the muck, and the slime grabbed a'hold of the rubber soles of sneakers and was reluctant to release. I heard a thick sucking sound with each step I took; it was a battle between me and the forces of nature, to see which one us would win the right to rip asunder the shoe and reveal my white, Hills-bought sock. From that moment on, this land of pine needles and pine cones; R.V.s and pop-ups; peeling paint and an dilapidated goofy-golf; Disney-themed fishing poles and bikes with plastic spoke noise makers; now-and-laters and 'smores over the fire, would be known as "The Muddy Camp Ground".
Usually before I doze off for the last time in a day, I find myself in a reflective state of mind. Memories of long-forgotten friends, smells, or routines come back in wistful, fleeting pictures. It's as if a merry-go-round is at work within my subconscious; bringing to the forefront a memory, but never stopping, always taking it back around for another ride. I know not how long, nor how slowly it moves. Sometimes, I jump on for a ride, and am whisked away into the world of the past-- my own history. With each passing second, I begin to visualize years and clothing. Sometimes, I relive a moment of my life that has been locked away, somewhere, for over 14, sometimes 20 years. Where did these memories go before? And why, only now, in 2010, in the Czech Republic, am I reminded of them during the quiet of night? Recently, I spent a night in intervals of sleep; waking up to write down what I was envisioning in my early-dream state: this time, it was my childhood at Skyview (Muddy Camp Ground) in Mercer County.
---
The dew on the tall field grass rubbed along my arms, making them damp and itchy. I hated the feeling. The sun was just rising above the large Oak and Pine trees that lined our path; I could see spider webs adorned in diamonds of water that hung in place along their silky strands. Chipmunks scurried in front of us; burrowing into the moist, worm-strewn soil under the shale stones that littered the undergrowth. Grasshoppers jumped from strand to strand, making a thumping sound with their unbelievably strong legs; flapping their wings in an attempt to extend their leap just a few feet further. Sometimes I would catch a few of them, shocking the creatures so thoroughly, causing them to release brown gunk from their mouths, which I had been taught was called 'tar'. My dad always woke up early on Saturday mornings to make his annual pilgrimage to the breakfast sausage, and maple-syrup pancakes on Styrofoam plates that were served in the camp communal hall situated over the bridge, across from the lake. I tagged along. The smell of fresh coffee brewing through filters, and the murmured voices of men sitting in squeaky, plastic chairs adorned in mesh baseball caps gave me the feeling as if I had entered the realm of chiefs and kings of the weekend get-a-way.
---
The propensity for dead, brown leaves to fall into the middle of the pool was always quite a mystery to me. All I knew was that I despised the feeling of 'uncleanliness' that it emitted. The pool itself was surrounded by a beat-up, twice painted over, wire fence that had only one main entrance, where the latch hung loosely against the hinged door. Each time it would be opened, a distinctive whine would ring out from the grinding steel; signifying another round of splashing and yelling. The pool basin itself was surrounded by pebbled concrete and formed into the shape a square. The blue paint that lined the walls was chipped, and the steps always struck me as looking like a layered cake--the top, closest to the water, being the smallest. The railing was chrome and a tad-bit rusty; it wobbled whenever one would grab a hold of it, as the foundational screws had somehow jarred loose. In the far-end, the water was deep and had a darker tone than nearer to the steps. There was a mysterious looking vent that sat at the bottom of 12 ft, which filled my mind with the most horrific of thoughts: "What if it sucked me down? And, I got stuck.... and I couldn't get away...and my legs and fingers would be squeezed through the small grate...and I would...DIE!" This was not exactly my paradise. I feared it, the whole thing.
I remember my mother in her one-piece black bathing suit with golden trim, and a nice soft skirt around her waist. She was wading in the water up to her belly; her hair never was wet. She was swinging her arms from side to side, enticing me to jump in. I refused with an emphatic proclamation, but I still saw her crack a smile through watery eyes. "Come on Jeremy. I'll catch you. You don't need to worry." I took a few steps backwards and felt the ball of my feet rub against a crack of cement. I looked at the water, as it limply flowed back and forth creating crystal-like streaks of light across my mother's clip-on sunglasses. I held my breath, and ran forward. Felt the slick rim of the pool and let go of all inhibition. The cold water touched my legs first, and then quickly moved up to engulf my chest and even my neck. My mouth just grazed the water line. I screamed. My mother had me in her hands, but I still felt like she let me go too deep into the depth. I climbed into her arms and felt that the back of my hair was bunching up from the chlorinated water. I had jumped. But, man, I didn't want to do it again.
---
I always heard the sputtering truck as it made its round to collect the garbage from the nights previous. A man by the name of Rick would step out the truck and saunter over to a fire ring or steel can, and take the contents. His key loop would sing from side to side as his gait was long and a little hard. The keys would make a jingling, clanging sound as they slapped in-between his front pocket and his hip. I always liked the idea of wearing pieces of equipment around my waist; it made one seem more important: policemen had a whole array of shiny contraptions, and batman always had nicely, organized yellow boxes that contained all sorts of clip hooks, wires, latches and rope. Rick was quite a unique looking fellow, in that his glasses were thick plastic and tinted. He had a ruff of thick black hair that was pulled back, revealing a round, almost chubby face. He was fairly clean-shaven, but managed to sport a stylish, black mustache. His uniform was a tan/brown button up with pockets on the breast. The Nissan truck he drove was rusted, and the tail gate never was closed. With each bump in the road, the whole truck would wobble up and down like a boat over waves, because the suspension was pretty bad. The back lights were a stacked red, white and yellow, which reminded me of a popsicle. In the morning, I saw him make his rounds, and loved how the dust would fly up from the back tires...
---
There were towering deciduous trees that lined the field. The baseball backstop was a dilapidated structure of brown-stained wood and chicken wire that had gigantic holes from where a fastball, coming off a hot bat, was fouled backwards. The sand had been absorbed into the soil, and grass was growing up; only the pitcher's mound was still discernable.
---
The trigger was easy to squeeze, and I remember hearing a 'booiiiiing' as the plastic plane made its inaugural launch from my hand. It flew to about a height of 20feet and crashed back down, straight down. The nose of the plane was wrapped in a soft, felt covering, which seemed to be a tad too heavy for the plastic fuselage and cardboard wings.
---
The rumbling air-conditioner made the whole window pane shake. I heard the water fall into the plastic container below the vents. There were strands of paper taped to the main vent flailing in the wind from the mechanically-produced, chilled air. There were shelves full of camping supplies: plastic pocket knives, with toothpicks and tweezers on the side; kerosene lanterns; cooking utensils; fold-up tables; fishing lines; bobbers and reels; camp patches; canned soup; sausage. The ceiling had two large, brown spots right in the middle, where water had leaked through the flat-top roof and pooled on the ceiling tiles. There was a back-ground 'hum' from the luminescent lights, giving off a yellow-tinged hue to the whole scene.
---
It was a granite mystery, a giant, perhaps, from millions of years ago. It found its rest nestled between the spindly saplings of oak trees and beech wood, and had a bed comprised of leaves and needles. There was green moss that covered about half of the surface, which gave the creature a slick, almost slimy feel. There were ridges and groves over which we could place our rumps into; it was a seat fit not only for imaginative little boys, but for kings, maybe, of the northern forest, or Robin Hood-type characters living a reclusive life in the woodlands; securing justice for the people, and compiling adventures to boot.
My father used to lead us on marches through the trails and into the tree line. My brothers and I would file into lines on his flanks: two to the right, the other two, to the left. We were adorned in breastplates of rubber-stamped sweatshirts, helmets of ill-fitting, elastic-fit baseball caps; carried lances more fit for spearing the bosom of hotdogs, not enemies; and, boots crafted from the finest material 'Kids' or 'L.A. Gear' had to offer. Our coat of arms was a mouse with large ears, red shorts and a squeaky, feminine intonation.
We called it, simply, "Big Rock".
Many years later, I gazed upon a yellow-tinged Polaroid of the beast, and found it to be not as impressive as my mind had imagined, and remembered it to be: it couldn't have been more than 4 ft. and height, and less than 6 ft. in circumference. It's a shame that life takes you on journeys and gives you bigger and 'better' examples of what had enchanted your mind when you were young, so when you go back home, or you revisit a building, it always seems so much smaller, less-significant than before. Oh, the joys of wonder from a time that is gone...
Usually before I doze off for the last time in a day, I find myself in a reflective state of mind. Memories of long-forgotten friends, smells, or routines come back in wistful, fleeting pictures. It's as if a merry-go-round is at work within my subconscious; bringing to the forefront a memory, but never stopping, always taking it back around for another ride. I know not how long, nor how slowly it moves. Sometimes, I jump on for a ride, and am whisked away into the world of the past-- my own history. With each passing second, I begin to visualize years and clothing. Sometimes, I relive a moment of my life that has been locked away, somewhere, for over 14, sometimes 20 years. Where did these memories go before? And why, only now, in 2010, in the Czech Republic, am I reminded of them during the quiet of night? Recently, I spent a night in intervals of sleep; waking up to write down what I was envisioning in my early-dream state: this time, it was my childhood at Skyview (Muddy Camp Ground) in Mercer County.
---
The dew on the tall field grass rubbed along my arms, making them damp and itchy. I hated the feeling. The sun was just rising above the large Oak and Pine trees that lined our path; I could see spider webs adorned in diamonds of water that hung in place along their silky strands. Chipmunks scurried in front of us; burrowing into the moist, worm-strewn soil under the shale stones that littered the undergrowth. Grasshoppers jumped from strand to strand, making a thumping sound with their unbelievably strong legs; flapping their wings in an attempt to extend their leap just a few feet further. Sometimes I would catch a few of them, shocking the creatures so thoroughly, causing them to release brown gunk from their mouths, which I had been taught was called 'tar'. My dad always woke up early on Saturday mornings to make his annual pilgrimage to the breakfast sausage, and maple-syrup pancakes on Styrofoam plates that were served in the camp communal hall situated over the bridge, across from the lake. I tagged along. The smell of fresh coffee brewing through filters, and the murmured voices of men sitting in squeaky, plastic chairs adorned in mesh baseball caps gave me the feeling as if I had entered the realm of chiefs and kings of the weekend get-a-way.
---
The propensity for dead, brown leaves to fall into the middle of the pool was always quite a mystery to me. All I knew was that I despised the feeling of 'uncleanliness' that it emitted. The pool itself was surrounded by a beat-up, twice painted over, wire fence that had only one main entrance, where the latch hung loosely against the hinged door. Each time it would be opened, a distinctive whine would ring out from the grinding steel; signifying another round of splashing and yelling. The pool basin itself was surrounded by pebbled concrete and formed into the shape a square. The blue paint that lined the walls was chipped, and the steps always struck me as looking like a layered cake--the top, closest to the water, being the smallest. The railing was chrome and a tad-bit rusty; it wobbled whenever one would grab a hold of it, as the foundational screws had somehow jarred loose. In the far-end, the water was deep and had a darker tone than nearer to the steps. There was a mysterious looking vent that sat at the bottom of 12 ft, which filled my mind with the most horrific of thoughts: "What if it sucked me down? And, I got stuck.... and I couldn't get away...and my legs and fingers would be squeezed through the small grate...and I would...DIE!" This was not exactly my paradise. I feared it, the whole thing.
I remember my mother in her one-piece black bathing suit with golden trim, and a nice soft skirt around her waist. She was wading in the water up to her belly; her hair never was wet. She was swinging her arms from side to side, enticing me to jump in. I refused with an emphatic proclamation, but I still saw her crack a smile through watery eyes. "Come on Jeremy. I'll catch you. You don't need to worry." I took a few steps backwards and felt the ball of my feet rub against a crack of cement. I looked at the water, as it limply flowed back and forth creating crystal-like streaks of light across my mother's clip-on sunglasses. I held my breath, and ran forward. Felt the slick rim of the pool and let go of all inhibition. The cold water touched my legs first, and then quickly moved up to engulf my chest and even my neck. My mouth just grazed the water line. I screamed. My mother had me in her hands, but I still felt like she let me go too deep into the depth. I climbed into her arms and felt that the back of my hair was bunching up from the chlorinated water. I had jumped. But, man, I didn't want to do it again.
---
I always heard the sputtering truck as it made its round to collect the garbage from the nights previous. A man by the name of Rick would step out the truck and saunter over to a fire ring or steel can, and take the contents. His key loop would sing from side to side as his gait was long and a little hard. The keys would make a jingling, clanging sound as they slapped in-between his front pocket and his hip. I always liked the idea of wearing pieces of equipment around my waist; it made one seem more important: policemen had a whole array of shiny contraptions, and batman always had nicely, organized yellow boxes that contained all sorts of clip hooks, wires, latches and rope. Rick was quite a unique looking fellow, in that his glasses were thick plastic and tinted. He had a ruff of thick black hair that was pulled back, revealing a round, almost chubby face. He was fairly clean-shaven, but managed to sport a stylish, black mustache. His uniform was a tan/brown button up with pockets on the breast. The Nissan truck he drove was rusted, and the tail gate never was closed. With each bump in the road, the whole truck would wobble up and down like a boat over waves, because the suspension was pretty bad. The back lights were a stacked red, white and yellow, which reminded me of a popsicle. In the morning, I saw him make his rounds, and loved how the dust would fly up from the back tires...
---
There were towering deciduous trees that lined the field. The baseball backstop was a dilapidated structure of brown-stained wood and chicken wire that had gigantic holes from where a fastball, coming off a hot bat, was fouled backwards. The sand had been absorbed into the soil, and grass was growing up; only the pitcher's mound was still discernable.
---
The trigger was easy to squeeze, and I remember hearing a 'booiiiiing' as the plastic plane made its inaugural launch from my hand. It flew to about a height of 20feet and crashed back down, straight down. The nose of the plane was wrapped in a soft, felt covering, which seemed to be a tad too heavy for the plastic fuselage and cardboard wings.
---
The rumbling air-conditioner made the whole window pane shake. I heard the water fall into the plastic container below the vents. There were strands of paper taped to the main vent flailing in the wind from the mechanically-produced, chilled air. There were shelves full of camping supplies: plastic pocket knives, with toothpicks and tweezers on the side; kerosene lanterns; cooking utensils; fold-up tables; fishing lines; bobbers and reels; camp patches; canned soup; sausage. The ceiling had two large, brown spots right in the middle, where water had leaked through the flat-top roof and pooled on the ceiling tiles. There was a back-ground 'hum' from the luminescent lights, giving off a yellow-tinged hue to the whole scene.
---
It was a granite mystery, a giant, perhaps, from millions of years ago. It found its rest nestled between the spindly saplings of oak trees and beech wood, and had a bed comprised of leaves and needles. There was green moss that covered about half of the surface, which gave the creature a slick, almost slimy feel. There were ridges and groves over which we could place our rumps into; it was a seat fit not only for imaginative little boys, but for kings, maybe, of the northern forest, or Robin Hood-type characters living a reclusive life in the woodlands; securing justice for the people, and compiling adventures to boot.
My father used to lead us on marches through the trails and into the tree line. My brothers and I would file into lines on his flanks: two to the right, the other two, to the left. We were adorned in breastplates of rubber-stamped sweatshirts, helmets of ill-fitting, elastic-fit baseball caps; carried lances more fit for spearing the bosom of hotdogs, not enemies; and, boots crafted from the finest material 'Kids' or 'L.A. Gear' had to offer. Our coat of arms was a mouse with large ears, red shorts and a squeaky, feminine intonation.
We called it, simply, "Big Rock".
Many years later, I gazed upon a yellow-tinged Polaroid of the beast, and found it to be not as impressive as my mind had imagined, and remembered it to be: it couldn't have been more than 4 ft. and height, and less than 6 ft. in circumference. It's a shame that life takes you on journeys and gives you bigger and 'better' examples of what had enchanted your mind when you were young, so when you go back home, or you revisit a building, it always seems so much smaller, less-significant than before. Oh, the joys of wonder from a time that is gone...
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Slavic, Epic?
In the past two years that I've lived in the Czech Republic, there have been numerous times where I've had to step back and say, "Hmm, so that's how it works in the Czech Republic." I could give you a literal list of such situations that deal with the Czech lackadaisical approach to following laws (like that of the drinking age for example), or the time spent home from work or school due to the fact that one has merely a runny nose, or slight headache (most recently, I've heard from a friend that they stayed home for 5 weeks, due to a sickness that to me seemed no more serious than a hangnail), but I'd rather recount to you this past weekend. It was, for me, a perfect encapsulation of the quirky and often ironic situations that the Czech Republic seems to thrive on.
Alfons Mucha was once said to be able to make any woman look beautiful. And, to tell you the truth, I believe it. Mucha was born in a small Moravian village at the end of the Austrian-Hungarian's empirical rule over the Bohemian lands. He grew up in a culture that had been oppressed, and was on the verge of breaking their Germanic chains, hoping to attain a renaissance--so to speak--of Slavic culture, language, art and theatre. But, like all things Slavic, he had to leave the 'domov' (homeland) to be discovered; the destination in the late 19th century was Paris, of course.
While in Paris, Mucha began painting advertisements for theatre production houses. People in Paris were instantly taken back by Mucha's use of color to magnify light, giving all pictures an airy, elegant quality that might have only been seen in the palaces of Roman empires or Greek thinkers. He had made an almost ancient form of beauty (women and gold), accessible to the normal, working-class Parisian, and ultimately, the world. It was here that he began to make a name for himself on the world stage. His posters and advertisements were sent all over: America, Japan, China and Europe.
Mucha was probably painting these ladies to make money, but he had much greater plans for his talent. His mind had been tilled back in his Moravian homeland, a place of cultural wealth that was hoping to blossom. In 1906 (I believe), Mucha made a trip to Chicago and met an industrialist who was known as, "A friend to the Slav."(After reading Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, I'm not so sure a Chicago 'industrialist' and 'friend of Slavs' can be uttered with out cracking an absurd smile). Anyways, the man donated oodles of money (in the millions, of course) for Mucha to paint what would later become his masterpiece, 'Slovanksa Epopej'- a collection of 20 gargantuan canvases that recount the history of the Slavic people: from their capitulation to the steppe tribes (The Huns), to their role in the first world war. The collection took him almost 18 years to paint, and was really a continual work in progress--if you go today to the exposition, you will see unfinished parts of almost every single work. The paintings themselves are overwhelming in size, scope, detail and color. Eighteen years might seem like it is quite a long time, but when he was using egg-based paints and had to mix them all himself, draw the actual from, paint a base, mix colors and continue with minute detail, it is almost unbelievable that it didn't take him 100 years to complete: each painting is about 15 feet in width by 10 feet in height. You have to stand back about 5-10 feet just to be able to make out the focus and subject of each painting. The fact that Mucha had to paint up close to the canvas is probably the most shocking/impressive aspect of this art work. How could he keep all forms and people in relational size? The whole collection makes one person feel very small and insignificant, which is the appropriate reaction to a history of a whole people group. Many of the paintings, when thought of as a whole, tell a story of the Slavic people that is a mixture of truth and fabrication: The people of the Slav nations are actually a peace-loving group that only fight when provoked, and of course, are always on the good side of things.
The overt nationalism of the paintings is by today's age (discounting some AMUUURICA-loving places in Texas and the Appalachians) almost comically simplistic. In one of his crowning pieces of the 'Slovanske Epopej', Mucha ties all the themes together into one last orgy of love for the Slav. In the center of the painting is a young man with a lean muscular body holding two wreaths above his head, to symbolize victory. His face is soft and innocent. Around him in dancing colors of light, is the historical trajectory of the entire Slavic ethnicity: starting in the far right corner of the canvas with the tribes of a long-off past, finally culminating in the golden light in the middle, where women prepare bouquets of flowers that represent the first-fruits of the new Slavic pride that is to be released into the world. Finally, in one last dash of over-the-topness, Mucha painted God (or Jesus) with shinning light and rainbows behind the head of the central, Slavic man, proclaiming the saintly, moral, Godly quality of the nation itself. This seems eerily familiar to 'God Bless America’ doesn’t it?
Now, one would think that this collection of art would be housed, oh, I don't know, maybe in the capital of the Czech Republic in its own exhibition house, for the entire world to admire? I imagine that in most countries, their most sacred works of arts from their best artists would be placed in climate-controlled, neo-classical halls of magnificent size and whiteness. Of course, entry would be free, as something of this magnitude should be accessible for all. There would be men a women sitting on wooden benches, in navy-blue blazers and leather gloves watching each move of every visitor. But, that just isn't the case here.
The chateau in which the works are housed is a crumbling mess of concrete, mildew and broken windows. I'm sure that 70 years ago, this place was something to behold, but today, it looks like just every other 'carry over' from Communist neglect. There is spray paint on the ornate walls and fences that surround the court gardens; there is crumbling plaster that reveals the steel/iron rebar that support the structure; there are weeds growing in between the stone cobblestones that were laid in the 16th century; there are walls and windows that lead to nowhere, as they've been sealed off with a wall of ugly brick; and, the roof is a mixture of brown, maroon and red shingles that sag in the middle, where water has clearly done damage to the supporting trusses. It's a shabby mess. So, when I saw the sign (next to a rubber tire with a painted advertisement about tire change discounts from the garage next door) on the main entrance gate that Mucha's 'Masterpiece is open today' and an arrow pointing inside this dilapidated reminder of what 'once was', I was a little shocked.
The room in which the paintings are held is nice enough to forget about the 'bigger' picture of where we actual were. However, there were still some signs that not all was well with the location: the hall in which they were displayed was incredibly cold, which is the reason why the exhibition each winter must be packed up and loaned away to either Paris or Vienna; there were no English, French or German information packets or guide books; and, there were a total of about ten people there to take a gander. And, this is what got me reflecting on the completely ironic situation of having one of the most 'overwhelming' proclamations of Slavic power and influence, housed in one of the most appropriate examples of Slavic suffering and neglect. It all congealed to give me the feeling that maybe this was an appropriate, if not embarrasing, balance...
Alfons Mucha was once said to be able to make any woman look beautiful. And, to tell you the truth, I believe it. Mucha was born in a small Moravian village at the end of the Austrian-Hungarian's empirical rule over the Bohemian lands. He grew up in a culture that had been oppressed, and was on the verge of breaking their Germanic chains, hoping to attain a renaissance--so to speak--of Slavic culture, language, art and theatre. But, like all things Slavic, he had to leave the 'domov' (homeland) to be discovered; the destination in the late 19th century was Paris, of course.
While in Paris, Mucha began painting advertisements for theatre production houses. People in Paris were instantly taken back by Mucha's use of color to magnify light, giving all pictures an airy, elegant quality that might have only been seen in the palaces of Roman empires or Greek thinkers. He had made an almost ancient form of beauty (women and gold), accessible to the normal, working-class Parisian, and ultimately, the world. It was here that he began to make a name for himself on the world stage. His posters and advertisements were sent all over: America, Japan, China and Europe.
Mucha was probably painting these ladies to make money, but he had much greater plans for his talent. His mind had been tilled back in his Moravian homeland, a place of cultural wealth that was hoping to blossom. In 1906 (I believe), Mucha made a trip to Chicago and met an industrialist who was known as, "A friend to the Slav."(After reading Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, I'm not so sure a Chicago 'industrialist' and 'friend of Slavs' can be uttered with out cracking an absurd smile). Anyways, the man donated oodles of money (in the millions, of course) for Mucha to paint what would later become his masterpiece, 'Slovanksa Epopej'- a collection of 20 gargantuan canvases that recount the history of the Slavic people: from their capitulation to the steppe tribes (The Huns), to their role in the first world war. The collection took him almost 18 years to paint, and was really a continual work in progress--if you go today to the exposition, you will see unfinished parts of almost every single work. The paintings themselves are overwhelming in size, scope, detail and color. Eighteen years might seem like it is quite a long time, but when he was using egg-based paints and had to mix them all himself, draw the actual from, paint a base, mix colors and continue with minute detail, it is almost unbelievable that it didn't take him 100 years to complete: each painting is about 15 feet in width by 10 feet in height. You have to stand back about 5-10 feet just to be able to make out the focus and subject of each painting. The fact that Mucha had to paint up close to the canvas is probably the most shocking/impressive aspect of this art work. How could he keep all forms and people in relational size? The whole collection makes one person feel very small and insignificant, which is the appropriate reaction to a history of a whole people group. Many of the paintings, when thought of as a whole, tell a story of the Slavic people that is a mixture of truth and fabrication: The people of the Slav nations are actually a peace-loving group that only fight when provoked, and of course, are always on the good side of things.
The overt nationalism of the paintings is by today's age (discounting some AMUUURICA-loving places in Texas and the Appalachians) almost comically simplistic. In one of his crowning pieces of the 'Slovanske Epopej', Mucha ties all the themes together into one last orgy of love for the Slav. In the center of the painting is a young man with a lean muscular body holding two wreaths above his head, to symbolize victory. His face is soft and innocent. Around him in dancing colors of light, is the historical trajectory of the entire Slavic ethnicity: starting in the far right corner of the canvas with the tribes of a long-off past, finally culminating in the golden light in the middle, where women prepare bouquets of flowers that represent the first-fruits of the new Slavic pride that is to be released into the world. Finally, in one last dash of over-the-topness, Mucha painted God (or Jesus) with shinning light and rainbows behind the head of the central, Slavic man, proclaiming the saintly, moral, Godly quality of the nation itself. This seems eerily familiar to 'God Bless America’ doesn’t it?
Now, one would think that this collection of art would be housed, oh, I don't know, maybe in the capital of the Czech Republic in its own exhibition house, for the entire world to admire? I imagine that in most countries, their most sacred works of arts from their best artists would be placed in climate-controlled, neo-classical halls of magnificent size and whiteness. Of course, entry would be free, as something of this magnitude should be accessible for all. There would be men a women sitting on wooden benches, in navy-blue blazers and leather gloves watching each move of every visitor. But, that just isn't the case here.
The chateau in which the works are housed is a crumbling mess of concrete, mildew and broken windows. I'm sure that 70 years ago, this place was something to behold, but today, it looks like just every other 'carry over' from Communist neglect. There is spray paint on the ornate walls and fences that surround the court gardens; there is crumbling plaster that reveals the steel/iron rebar that support the structure; there are weeds growing in between the stone cobblestones that were laid in the 16th century; there are walls and windows that lead to nowhere, as they've been sealed off with a wall of ugly brick; and, the roof is a mixture of brown, maroon and red shingles that sag in the middle, where water has clearly done damage to the supporting trusses. It's a shabby mess. So, when I saw the sign (next to a rubber tire with a painted advertisement about tire change discounts from the garage next door) on the main entrance gate that Mucha's 'Masterpiece is open today' and an arrow pointing inside this dilapidated reminder of what 'once was', I was a little shocked.
The room in which the paintings are held is nice enough to forget about the 'bigger' picture of where we actual were. However, there were still some signs that not all was well with the location: the hall in which they were displayed was incredibly cold, which is the reason why the exhibition each winter must be packed up and loaned away to either Paris or Vienna; there were no English, French or German information packets or guide books; and, there were a total of about ten people there to take a gander. And, this is what got me reflecting on the completely ironic situation of having one of the most 'overwhelming' proclamations of Slavic power and influence, housed in one of the most appropriate examples of Slavic suffering and neglect. It all congealed to give me the feeling that maybe this was an appropriate, if not embarrasing, balance...
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Pomlazka
All five of us walked through the rusted gate, past the flower shop and off the cobblestone street, onto uneven pavement that led to a shabby, gray-plastered house that sat within a courtyard. Like most Czech houses, at least those in the city, the main entrance consisted of two large, wooden doors with ornate iron knobs. There were no windows. The brown paint was peeling, revealing a layer of orange-tinted wood that was dry and cracked. Filip turned the knob, and we all made our way into the first hallway. It was dark and quite damp, giving us the feeling that we were walking in an underpass that lead to the departure platforms at a train station. It was a dingy place.
I heard a faint voice from around the corner, “I don't know them. I wasn't expecting visitors." The nurse who was the primary care-taker came back to us and informed us that we would have to wait a few minutes, as she needed to prepare. "It's hard for her to walk now, you know." "She isn't feeling very well today." We all stood at the stoop and pondered whether this was a good idea or not:
Number one, we're all incredibly young--I being the oldest at 25--and two out of the five of us don't speak Czech as a native language. In my gut, I had the feeling like I was completely and utterly out of place. But, we had gone too far now; there was no way we would be able to slyly escape back to our bikes and continue on our way.
The first image I remember was of an old woman rounding a corner, dressed in a pink bath robe with a fuzzy neck made of long thread; giving it a soft look like that of a stuffed animal. Her feet were adorned in equally comfortable-looking slippers that had plush, white wool covering the whole inside. I saw that her hair was long, and straight; it was pulled back into a pony tail that made its way down past her shoulder blades. Most shocking of all, it still had streaks of darkness--maybe brown or black, I wasn't sure. Her eyes were set close and round. They had a glassy look to them, and seemed to be watery all the time. "Definitely someone old.” I thought. Her mouth was beautifully shaped and her lips were still full, albeit, they had lost some color over the years. Gripping her cane, she looked up at all of us and said, "I'm sorry I'm so slow today." "I've been feeling pretty sick lately." Her voice was high-pitched and had a waver that is normally expected from an old larynx. I couldn't resist a smile; I don't think I've seen anything quite that adorable in my life. Her nurse offered a basket of tin-foiled wrapped eggs, which were to be our gift. The old women, waveringly, grasping as tight to her cane as she could, grabbed one egg for each of us. "I don't have ribbons, and I'm too old to paint them for you, so all I have is a few chocolate ones." "I'm sorry I've been feeling quite ill today,” she said as she placed candy into the palm of my hand.
After she had given each one of us our 'due', I leaned down with my pomlazka and began lightly tapping her legs and proceeded to say the rhyme. Filip and Matej both joined in. Her face looked up to the rest of the boys who were waiting in the doorway, and cracked one of the widest smiles I have seen in quite some time. Her face was so beautiful at that moment; her smile creating a perfect octagon from her chin up to her nose. It creased her cheeks into two very long dimples. I knew that her teeth were probably fake, but I liked the idea that I couldn't really be sure; all I knew, is that they were white and healthy-looking.
Once the rhyme had been said, and the wishes for health and fertility were meted out, we all rushed out through the door. One my way back to my bike, I asked Filip if he thought it was good that we had come. He replied, "Yes. This is probably her last Easter." "She is 101 years old."
I heard a faint voice from around the corner, “I don't know them. I wasn't expecting visitors." The nurse who was the primary care-taker came back to us and informed us that we would have to wait a few minutes, as she needed to prepare. "It's hard for her to walk now, you know." "She isn't feeling very well today." We all stood at the stoop and pondered whether this was a good idea or not:
Number one, we're all incredibly young--I being the oldest at 25--and two out of the five of us don't speak Czech as a native language. In my gut, I had the feeling like I was completely and utterly out of place. But, we had gone too far now; there was no way we would be able to slyly escape back to our bikes and continue on our way.
The first image I remember was of an old woman rounding a corner, dressed in a pink bath robe with a fuzzy neck made of long thread; giving it a soft look like that of a stuffed animal. Her feet were adorned in equally comfortable-looking slippers that had plush, white wool covering the whole inside. I saw that her hair was long, and straight; it was pulled back into a pony tail that made its way down past her shoulder blades. Most shocking of all, it still had streaks of darkness--maybe brown or black, I wasn't sure. Her eyes were set close and round. They had a glassy look to them, and seemed to be watery all the time. "Definitely someone old.” I thought. Her mouth was beautifully shaped and her lips were still full, albeit, they had lost some color over the years. Gripping her cane, she looked up at all of us and said, "I'm sorry I'm so slow today." "I've been feeling pretty sick lately." Her voice was high-pitched and had a waver that is normally expected from an old larynx. I couldn't resist a smile; I don't think I've seen anything quite that adorable in my life. Her nurse offered a basket of tin-foiled wrapped eggs, which were to be our gift. The old women, waveringly, grasping as tight to her cane as she could, grabbed one egg for each of us. "I don't have ribbons, and I'm too old to paint them for you, so all I have is a few chocolate ones." "I'm sorry I've been feeling quite ill today,” she said as she placed candy into the palm of my hand.
After she had given each one of us our 'due', I leaned down with my pomlazka and began lightly tapping her legs and proceeded to say the rhyme. Filip and Matej both joined in. Her face looked up to the rest of the boys who were waiting in the doorway, and cracked one of the widest smiles I have seen in quite some time. Her face was so beautiful at that moment; her smile creating a perfect octagon from her chin up to her nose. It creased her cheeks into two very long dimples. I knew that her teeth were probably fake, but I liked the idea that I couldn't really be sure; all I knew, is that they were white and healthy-looking.
Once the rhyme had been said, and the wishes for health and fertility were meted out, we all rushed out through the door. One my way back to my bike, I asked Filip if he thought it was good that we had come. He replied, "Yes. This is probably her last Easter." "She is 101 years old."
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