First of all, folks, Spring is officially on its way, and the thaw is just magical. I know I have written about this in just about every recent letter, but I simply can’t express how great of a change it makes. People are out and about constantly, and the bazaars are filling up with produce. There is a fresh excitement in the air. Seasons here, folks, are very, very real.
But that’s not the story for this week. This week is about a struggle. While learning to speak well is very important, just knowing how to talk isn’t always enough.
This story takes place at my friend’s dinner table on evening. His host-father asked me the question that so flatters America, “where are you a teacher?”
“I’m not,” I responded, “I work at the UNDP. We do poverty reduction, try to help people help themselves.”
His response surprised me. “That’s bad work,” he said, “only people who can’t work for themselves work at big institutions like UNDP. My volunteer is a teacher, that is good work.”
What I didn’t know was that he had friends who had been burned working with UNDP and other international organizations, like the Asian Development Bank. Without knowing this, I fell into my standard routine of explaining my work. This lead to a lively conversation about why we do what we do, and why we work at the very grassroots level that we do. He maintained that we should just give out trucks and other machines, and I explained why that was an unsustainable solution.
I walked away from this conversation very satisfied, as in the end he agreed with me. I had changed a mind, I thought. I had taught someone something I believed in, and thought very valuable. Plus, I had held my own in a complicated conversation, and we really discussed some heavy issues. It was exciting, deep and stimulating. This was not how my friend’s host dad walked away.
After I left, he said to my friend, “is Chicago kind of a troublesome place? It seems like it would be one.” This translated pretty clearly to, “I didn’t like that boy.”
What I hadn’t realized was that my conversation wasn’t polite. From his perspective, I, a boy 40 years his junior, had blatantly contradicted him at his own dinner table. I had stood my ground and refused to agree with him. He found me belligerent and argumentative. Plus I had ignored some very clear signs. For example, when I had tried to lighten the mood, and tell some Kyrgyz puns that are invariably met with laughter, he had simply said, “see, that’s the kind of dumb thing UNDP people say.”
Polite is different in different places. At my home in America, friends who don’t engage in dinnertime conversation are suspicious. This kind of conversation would likely have lead my father to say, “that boy has passion.” I had been so proud of my language skills, I had ignored cultural signs. Language, folks, without culture, simply isn’t enough.
But every experience, for better or for worse, is a learning opportunity, and never fear, next time, Kyrgy Carl will know just what to do.
