The Foreign Service Journal, October 2011

Her: Why you want to know ’bout these tinks. They’re okay, that’s enough. But once you establish a connec- tion, Russians and Ukrainians are warm, humorous, kind, pensive and eager to offer any help, hospitality or advice you may need. Me: My cat is keeping me awake at night with her howling. I think she wants … uh… Her: A man. Natasha gave me a chart of the different case endings and personal pronouns. I received it with the confi- dence of blissful ignorance. I had no idea what this chart meant or how I would ever remember it all, but as- sumed that someday, after enough time and instruction, it would mean something to me and that I would get it. Someday. See Marsha Read It struck me as odd that there didn’t seem to be a textbook that I could plod through. Instead, we seemed to be using a collection of textbooks, all pub- lished during the existence of the So- viet Union — which, oddly, I came to think of a bit nostalgically as a time when education was organized and there were probably even lesson plans. We jumped all around from textbook to textbook, pulling tidbits from here and there in no coherent pattern. This drove me crazy. I need order. I need to have a sense that there is some kind of strategy, but never got the impression that there was one. I tried to explain this to Natasha, but she didn’t seem to understand my need for organized, step-by-step instruction. What I was looking for was a Russian version of Dick and Jane . I was at “See Spot” and wanted to “See Spot run” immediately thereafter. Alas, this was not to be. I assumed it was something in her nature that simply resisted order, and I had grown too fond of her to offend. I mused that perhaps this was a reflection of that part of the Russian character that en- abled them to create such beauty out of chaos (and might also explain why America isn’t famous for its classical music). Without a book to work through, I thought perhaps reading and translat- ing would do the trick. It was a fairly methodical exercise, and she had found a good book for me for such a purpose — a Russian “stories for be- ginners” book that had a glossary in the margins. She agreed that reading was good, so we embarked on my new plan. “Okay, you want to read? We read.” I stumbled torturously through the stories like a first-grader while Natasha tried not to yawn. I felt sorry for her and told her this often, but she said she didn’t mind; she enjoyed teaching. It sounded like a lot of self-convincing to me, but she was a trouper. We spent a good amount of our time together talking and laughing in English. Russian lessons absolutely ex- hausted me mentally, and I needed frequent diversions. I would arrive back in my office after my lessons com- pletely drained and unfit for any fur- ther duty until I’d had a cup of tea and had done some serious non-thinking activity — like answering e-mails. It took another three years for this meltdown effect to go away, but throughout that period I dreaded every single lesson like I was going to the guillotine. Natasha announced one day that she had gotten a job at a graphics firm, and that this would be our last lesson. She had been my teacher for two years, so I felt as abandoned as a child lost inWal-Mart. I scrambled to find a new instructor, asking all my colleagues who their teacher was and trying to fig- ure out who might suit me best. The Inessa Years I then called the ABC Language School, our provider, and told them of my need for a teacher — someone ex- perienced … structured. Could they send someone who understood my need for structure? I must have used that word 10 times in our conversation, for I had learned that repetition helped get a point across. My contact assured me that the woman she was sending me was in- deed structured; I suspect she grabbed a dictionary to look up the word as soon as she hung up the phone. At about the same time, our mission received a new management officer who immediately increased the lan- guage program to four hours a week. I was thrilled! Now I might make some headway. When I started classes with my new teacher, it would be with re- newed enthusiasm and commitment. I could do this. Inessa floated into my disordered language life much as Maria floated into the Von Trapp children’s — but without the singing. She was 74 years old, had been teaching Russian to for- eign students at the university level since 1961 — longer than I had been alive — and was formidable. She scared me a little, which was exactly what I needed. At the same time, there is something very com- forting about having a person your parents’ age as a teacher — especially someone who looks like your great Aunt Helen. I was also excited be- cause this was as close as I would ever come to the Soviet educational system 52 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / O C T O B E R 2 0 1 1 It struck me as odd that we kept jumping around through various textbooks, all published during the days of the Soviet Union.