OK, up until my trip to Prague last week, that was a true statement.

Immersing myself in local culture, eating foreign cuisine, and speaking as little English as possible are all checkpoints of a good overseas adventure in my book. Besides the pure enjoyment I get from doing something totally new and different, I’ve always felt like it’s a morally upstanding way to travel. You know, the whole “When in Rome”
aphorism.

Well, six months in Ukraine teaches you a lot of things. How much I love America is just one of them. That isn’t to say I don’t also love Ukraine. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t still be here. I’ve given props to borshch on more than one occasion, and I won’t rehash my affinity for babusyas and open-air markets. Yet there is something so wonderful about the familiar.

I’ve never been a big fan of huge chain restaurants, but I nearly wept at the sight of Starbucks. And I don’t even drink coffee. Walking up the steps, smelling the fresh grounds, hearing Starbuck-speak of “tall, grande, and venti,” was just good for my soul. Not to mention the free, high-speed wireless.

One of the many unexpected fruits of my travels has been a heightened sense of home. The more places I go, and the more varied friends I make, the more I value where I came from and the people I’ve known all my life. Not because they are superior circumstances or citizenry, but because they are mine. I was always one of those people who was quick to say the U.S. had no real “culture.” No national dress, no defining food, and overall very little that was actually “ours.” We have German Christmas Trees, a British Language, and cuisine from all over the globe. Although we may not have the traditional hallmark national customs, we certainly have our own culture, albeit a difficult one to define.

I’m still not quite sure what it is, but I can nearly always spot an American in Ukraine, or in Prague for the matter. Before they open their mouths, my US-Radar is alerted. Sometimes, it’s the tennis shoes, worn with jeans. Other times, it’s a particularly affable expression, a whistle on the lips or a bounce in their step, that exudes Americanness. Want another tell? Americans generally text with two hands, Ukrainians with only one. Granted, anyone from any walk of life could act like this, they just usually don’t. And even when they do, they don’t pull it off like an American. It’s probably how I look, stomping around in the snow in my knee-high boots, carrying plastic bags and all in all “looking the part” of a Ukrainian. But not really.

I still get higher cab rates, and clerks still speak to me in English, before I even have a chance to butcher the language.

As the world gets smaller, cultures blend and with it the concept of a “foreigner” becomes less black and white. I like that. I also like the idea of having my own identity, my own country, and my own culture.

The fact that America is a hodgepodge of European, Asian, Latin, and African traditions enriches our culture. It doesn’t diminish it.

After many failed attempts and half-starts, I had my very first English Club.

I had tried several times to arrange meetings through the chain of command: principal, vice principal, head english teacher, my counterpart. It was a long process. And, it had finally come to a foreseeable conclusion when the Flu Quarantine was declared, and the school was chained shut for two weeks. This was followed by a Monday holiday for “International Women’s Day.”

Suddenly I found myself halfway through the Spring semester with nary a meeting to my name. And it wasn’t for lack of interest. Students in general are pretty fascinated by American culture. They wear American brands, listen to American pop music, watch Hollywood movies, and snap pictures of me in class with their cell phones. I wasn’t really worried about students showing up to my club.  I was more concerned with getting the proper permission and following protocol. I was trying to respect the Ukrainian emphasis on authority and obedience.

Note my use of past tense.

Yesterday it just hit me. If I don’t get this club rolling, it might never happen. With a key to the English Teacher’s Cabinet in hand, I announced to all my high-school age students that there would be an English Club Wednesday at 3 p.m. “Another lesson?” they asked skeptically. I assured them it would not be a lesson. “I want to talk about American culture, show pictures, and play music,” I said trying to lure them in.

Now what I really envision for this club down the road is more akin to a debate club or a writer’s circle, but that would scare them away.  And I intend to start small and entertainingly. My school doesn’t really have a “club” concept. They have a lot of plays and drama presentations, but other types of enrichment clubs are nonexistent. In the Soviet Union, students were required to do a certain number of after-school activities. Ukraine rebels against this idea in much the same way that they rebel against drab colors.

In the Soviet Union, the only colors students could wear to school were brown, black, and navy blue. Knowing this history helps explain the tangerine orange jackets, purple pants, and lime-green sweaters I see peering at me from behind desks. The club phenomenon is another verse of the same song. Activity overload gave way to a dearth of clubs and organizations. And students and teachers alike are understandably skeptical of such ideas. After all, it sounds like more work, but without grades or pay. This is not entirely untrue, but clubs can also be a place of discovery, authentic learning, cultural exchange, and fun. A more controlled, academic sort of fun, but still a valid entertainment source, I think.

Well, one meeting down and I’m feeling pretty positive about the possibilities. Ten students, all female, were waiting for me outside the English Cabinet today at 3 p.m. sharp. I was encouraged to say the least. I was also a bit confused. Some of the students who attended aren’t even in my classes. And the ones who are always coming up to me after lessons (and sometimes during them) and asking to take a picture with me, or hear about my tastes in music, movies, and food, were notably absent. Logic tells me that those over-eager students would jump at the chance to spend an extra hour with me, but logic doesn’t get me too far these days.

I started the club by playing pop music (Justin Timberlake, Kelly Clarkson, Michael Jackson, etc), and showing a slideshow of pictures from various American cities. I had prepared a good bit of flashy entertainment as well as a slightly dry worksheet on the differences between American and Ukrainian cultures. After about 20 minutes of pictures and generic lyrical ballads, I posed a question. “Do you want to see more pictures, or do you want to talk about American and Ukrainian values?” I fully expected them to choose the mindless work of picture browsing. After a full day of lessns, I could hardly judge them. But, once again, I was wrong.

“We want to talk about America,” one girl said. I pulled out a large sheet of white paper with “Ukraine” on one side and “America” on the other. I had about twenty slips of paper with opposing world views on them, such as “formal” and “informal” or “group-oriented” and “individualistic.” It was a good old-fashioned Venn Diagram , with some of the values like “freedom” and “hospitality” going in the middle column. The ensuing conversation surprised me, not only because it was so robust, but because we so frequently disagreed.

At first, the girls put the slips where they belonged for them. Words like “authoritative,” “reserved” and “flexible” were on the American side, while “loud,” “private,” and “ambitious” were on the Ukrainian side. Their categorization was interesting to me, especially considering that I had done this exercise with Ukrainians before during training and they hadn’t put the puzzle together this way. In that group, we had nearly unanimously agreed that privacy was an American concept, Ukrainians were far more flexible than those across the pond, and authority was much more respected in the East. But as we began to discuss their choices, it appeared our disagreements stemmed from different definitions of the words themselves.

The girls described privacy as “fences and gates around our homes,” and “not talking or greeting people they didn’t know.” I had to admit they were correct. We (I speak for the South at least) frequently greet everyone we meet with a smile and hello, regardless of friendship or acquaintance, and sit out on our front and back porches.

But the privacy I was thinking of was of a different stripe. Our children have locks on their doors, and parents are generally expected to knock before entering. We like to live alone at some point in our lives, and value time to ourselves. Two different definitions of privacy, but both very accurate.

Our definitions of ambition also differed dramatically. The girls defined it as “getting married and having a family,” but this was an ambition not just for girls, but for boys as well. Family here is everything. When I explained that in America, when you meet someone for the first time they will inevitably ask you, “What do you do?” not “What’s your family like?” they snickered. But it’s true. And I’ve found the reverse to be quite shocking in Ukraine.

As I went through the ritual of meeting new people, I couldn’t believe the number of questions they asked about my family. “Do you have a brother or a sister? Are they married? How old are they? Where do they live?” were all asked frequently, but what I did for a living rarely made the cut. I think many people whom I consider friends in this country still don’t know I worked as journalist in the states. But they know that I’m the youngest child of three and that my mom had a kidney transplant last year.

When it was my turn to arrange the values, I did a 180 on the aforementioned ones. We had a really fruitful discussion not only of the characteristics themselves, but on how we defined them, which really told a lot about our cultures as well. At the end of our non-lesson, I posed a very Ukrainian question. “When do you want to meet again?” In America, we would meet on the same day, at the same time, in the same place. But in Ukraine, life and plans are always subject to change (hence my categorization of flexible).

They decided to meet Monday at 2:30 p.m. Why not. I’ve learned enough in the nearly six months (wow! i can’t believe it’s been that long) to know not to ask why this Wednesday was good and the next one is not.

I’m sure they have their reasons. All I really care about is seeing them again and having more conversations like this as often as possible.

That’s when I saw Stas, a little boy I knew to be in the fourth grade. I flagged him down and we started having a very labored conversation in Ukrainian. “Is this your classroom?” I asked, relying heavily on gestures. “Yes,” he said proudly in English. “My class.” “When do you have English today?” I questioned. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Upstairs.” I’m not really sure about the last part as it was in Ukrainian, but that’s my best guess. “Tomorrow?” I asked skeptically. “Not now, not today?” There was something in little Stas’ grin that made me think he was messing with me. Let’s be honest, if you were 10 and had a foreign teacher asking you in broken sentences if you had class, you’d probably say no. I know I would.

As we were talking, a substantial crowd had gathered. After a few more questions I discovered they were in the 4th grade. Feeling clever, I decided I had uncovered an attempted mutiny. “Okay, everybody: It’s time for English,” I said as I rounded up the little ones and pushed them toward the door. At this point, several little girls squealed with delight and one actually hugged me. This should’ve tipped me off that something was amiss, but I was thankful for the encouragement. Just as I was about to begin, a Ukrainian teacher opened the door and, either not seeing me or assuming I was a student, started telling everyone to get out of the room and go outside. I approached her and found out that the fourth grade actually had recess right now. There had been a change in the schedule. Chuckling at my own conspiracy theory, I apologized and said I hadn’t heard of this. But the kids were no longer in the mood for recess. After all, they had an American all to themselves. They weren’t going to give this up without a fight. The girls cupped their hands together and pleaded, “Please! Can we have English?” Incredulously, the teacher looked at me and said, “Well if you still want to have class, you can.” Thinking I’d be a fool to turn away such thirst for knowledge, I said “Of course we’ll have English class. Why not?” The children erupted in applause.

Now I’d like to tell you they were angels after this ceremonious beginning, but that would be a lie. My intrigue disappeared the moment we started drilling vocabulary and the kids realized they just volunteered to skip playtime. Preying on my limited Ukrainian skills, they ran around the room and dared me to discipline them. Using a handful of powerful words, I told them to sit down, be quiet, and listen to me. That worked for about a minute. Then Vladik staring hitting Sasha, and Sergihy decided to pound his fists on his desk. Remembering my own elementary experience, I put Sasha and Vladik on opposite sides of the room and brought Sergihy up to the front. I didn’t really know what to do with him so I just had him stand there, away from anything that could possibly double as a drum. Ironically, the boys reveled in my attention. It’s kind of hard to discipline children who are beaming at you in adoration. Through the magic of markers and white paper, I was able to bribe them into behaving. There’s nothing like a drawing activity to quell an elementary insurrection. By the time the bell rang, they were all working quietly, and had even spoken a little English. Sure, it was no recess, but I’m pretty sure they enjoyed themselves all the same.