My school closed on Thursday, February 19, to the delight of all well-bodied students. I still don’t understand why the announcement was made in the middle of the day, rather than at the end, as students could hardly be expected to pay attention in the remaining three classes after learning an unexpected vacation was imminent. 

It was like a scene out of a Disney Movie. The principal called an assembly for students and announced the closure to cheers, high-fives, and papers tossed in the air. Students then paraded about the school, skipping up and down the halls. And then the bell rang. Time to learn about National US Holidays, kids. Yeah, right. I tried to maintain some semblance of a lesson, but we ended up playing hangman–with new vocabulary, mind you–for about half an hour. 

I learned just moments ago that we will go to school tomorrow for a groundhog-day-like trial-run. If more than half the students are absent, we will have another week of quarantine. If not, classes will resume as usual. 

Now if I were a student and I knew the weight of my absence–or presence–in class, I would take all necessary measures to ensure I was anywhere but in my desk at 8:30 a.m. Only time will tell if Ukrainian students are as cunning as my imagination. 

In lieu of classes today, I participated in a “Living Library” event in Ivano-Frankivsk. It sounded self-explanatory. I figured I would read aloud a book about the U.S. and thus make it “come alive.” Well, as I shuffled in the door five minutes before go-time, I was asked what the title of “my book” was. 

“Oh was I supposed to bring one?” I asked. “I thought I could just grab one of the shelves.” 

Then I was told that I WAS the book and as such I would be giving a 10-minute presentation to four different groups of students. I needed a title and summary of my life in book format. 

That’s a tall order in itself, but in under 5 minutes it’s even more absurd. I quickly jotted down some lines on a borrowed sheet of notebook paper. I sped up the editing process and crossed out my first attempt just moments after writing it. I always need at least two drafts, and preferably seven, before I feel confident sharing my writing. 

I headed over to my first group with the working title “American Traveler” intact, but not much else in my arsenal. Then I remembered I had my laptop in my bag. Suddenly it appeared that I had prepared an extensive presentation. I flipped through pictures of my travels as I discussed different countries and cultures. And the kids were none the wiser about my lack of instructions. In the Peace Corps, that’s all in a day’s work.

As a five-foot-two basketball player, I’m not exactly a show-stopper. Sure, I can drive the lane or spot-up for a three, but I’m no superstar. In America, that is. 

In Ukraine, a female basketball player with fifteen years of experience is a rarity, and, I’m discovering, something of a draw. When I walk into the school gym, children applaud. Now this I could get used to. 

Since I discovered the tri-weekly meetings of a girls basketball club, I’ve been there as much as possible. The group has expanded from 10 to 15 girls, many of whom have never played basketball before. This only reinforces my stardom. Last week, one girl actually brought a video camera to tape our scrimmage. 

However unfounded my town’s awe of my basketball skills is, it’s surely more sensical than their fascination with my other habits, such as what time I leave for work in the morning, what kind of bread I buy at the bazaar, and what my shoes look like. It’s a tall order to be the picture of the United States to an entire community, especially in the former Soviet Union, where not too long ago, America was a distant, forbidden, land. But I relish the opportunity to share American Culture and learn about Ukrainian life and history. 

As obvious as the attention I garner is to me, the outside observer may not even realize what close scrutiny I’m under. When Riley visited in January, he actually commented on our “anonymity.” No sooner had the words left his mouth then my phone rang. My friend was calling to say that her aunt (someone I’ve never met) had seen me holding hands with a man in the street. Other people had spotted us in a taxi, and still someone else saw us eating in a cafe in Ivano-Frankivsk. Inquiring minds wanted to know who this guy was. So much for anonymity. 

When I first moved in, little kids would knock on my door and when it opened, they’d steal a look at me, giggle, and run away. They’ve become more courageous, though. A couple of girls brought me a basket of apples the other day and even came inside for a few painstakingly-silent minutes of fidgeting. One of the braver ones, a fifth grade student, comes over a few times a week to play Go-Fish. 

I’m not complaining about all the attention. I’m just in awe that people care what I ate for breakfast this morning. I’m not sure what I’ll do when I go back to the states and my entrance into a gym doesn’t include paparazzi.