2 years...that's an eternity

I'm not sure that I ever experienced "culture shock" in it's purest form. There's not a gut-wrenching brand of poverty in Ukraine or an extreme filth issue or even a visual ethnic difference that smacks you in the face and makes you question how in the world you ended up there. Ukraine provides more opportunity for "culture stress" than anything else. Culture stress is less of a smack in the face and more of a drawn out, walking pneumonia sort of adjustment. It comes on slowly but will flare up and pull you down on occasion. It's not a shock that you recover from or get used to, though. Rather, you find that you get used to the inconsistent nature of your stress. This is why I kept peanut butter, Coke, and Gilmore Girls on-hand. The "how in the world did I end up here/why in Heaven's name have I stayed" questions come around when you least expect them, and you realize that you're not ever going to fully adjust to being a Ukrainian. That happened mostly because...well...I'm NOT a Ukrainian. Try as I might.


It took me quite a while to begin to understand this cultural transition issue. The pieces of the puzzle sort of began falling into place somewhere in mid-November of my first year. I'd been in Ukraine for about a month. The weather was changing; the sun was coming up later (like, 8) and setting earlier (like, 4). The days were darker, the nationals were grumpier, I was more idiotic every day, it seemed. I'd had about 4 Russian classes at that point and was realizing what an uphill battle that was going to be. Every time I tried to speak, people were horrified at my lack of skill and most weren't particularly nice about it. I knew that I looked like such an outsider every time I stepped out of my apartment. I was just starting to get into the classrooms, and I felt like I wasn't accomplishing anything since I wasn't doing much of what I'd been sent to do.

Although I spoke practically no Russian and literally no Ukrainian, I still attended the weekly Thursday night prayer meeting at church. I usually stood (that's right- stood, as opposed to sat) next to Ira, who would lean over and translate the beginning of prayer meeting (Bible reading, prayer requests, etc). Somehow, even with the language barrier and the fact that we were standing, this time of the week was a stable time for me. I usually ended up tuning out everything that was going on around me and just had my own prayer time with the Lord. I think most of the prayers came out something like, "God, what am I doing? I need help...can't even think of where to begin asking for help...I feel stupid and ridiculous and no one is going to listen to a girl who can hardly say one complete sentence in Russian..." and often the tears would come at that point. Prayer meeting was often quite wet for me.

After one particular prayer meeting, Ira and I were chatting for a second, and she said, "Erin, what's wrong? You don't look like yourself." That did it. I quite literally broke down and just cried and cried. Poor Ira. She didn't even know what to do with me. I tried to say things that were coherent, but mostly things came out like, "...can't speak Russian...hate feeling stupid...got yelled at...can't buy things...don't understand..." Ira was great. She hugged me and let me cry. Then, she prayed for me and said that she just knew that I would speak wonderful Russian by the end of 2 years. That's when I thought, "2 years...that's an eternity."

I wasn't sure I'd make it.

There is a direct correlation between sunlight and attitudes.

The days were getting shorter and darker and tempers were following suit. I could not go anywhere without being grouched out by grumpy Ukrainians who just couldn't deal with my ignorance of culture. I'd ventured out to the bazaar, local grocery stores, schools, church, and on the occasional walk in the increasingly cold outdoors and consistently ran into grouchiness. I was developing thicker skin out of necessity.

I'd been in Ukraine for about 2 months when it was time to mail in my first expense report to the Company who supported my life expenses. I spent about 2 hours trying to ensure that all of my figures were in the right spreadsheet columns and meticulously taping and numbering receipts. I'd given myself a headache by trying (practically futilely, I might add) to read the receipts and determine what each was for. I ended up guessing and praying that my guesses wouldn't result in lack of reimbursement. After buying a washing machine, I REALLY wanted that reimbursement.

It took me a couple of days to work up the courage to take myself to the post office. I'd called Ira and had her write out exactly what I was supposed to say to buy stamps and mail my package. Apparently, it wasn't the kind of thing where I could just buy stamps and stick it in a mail slot. I practiced saying my phrases over and over, feeling like an idiot every time. I felt like an actor in a cheesy spy film, practicing my best "Russian mobster" accent. It was awesome and awful.

On the big day, I bundled up, packed up my paperwork, and headed to the post office downtown. I always really liked this building because of its classic Soviet architectural style. Once I got there, things started off with a bang: quite literally, as I rammed full-force into a door that was painted shut. Why, exactly, do they make for-display-only doors? Everyone in a 10-foot radius stopped to stare. There's not a real way to recover from that.

Once I got inside, I discovered that I loved the architecture inside even more than I loved the outside...and that's where the love ended. I walked up to the first teller that I came to and waited in line. When I got to the counter, I took a deep breath and gave my spiel. At the end of my well-prepared speech, the woman looked at me with a bored, who cares? look and rattled off a string of Russian words that sounded like gibberish. I asked her to repeat, and she said exactly the same thing, only louder. I had to ask again, and this time, I got an angry repetition as well as hand gestures pointing me to a different teller.

Frustrated, I moved to the indicated teller and waited in another line. When I got to the counter, I repeated the same scenario that I had with Teller #1. I was losing momentum as I moved to yet another teller. Before I even began rattling off my speech, Teller #3 fixed me with a cold and piercing stare that cause me to fumble and drop the figurative ball. After I finished butchering my worn-out line, she continued staring but eventually said something and held her hand out expectantly. It caught me so off-guard that I hesitated ever so slightly. Wrong move. The cold stare became a burning-with-hateful-irritation glare, accompanied by a yell of instruction. Thankfully, my brain kicked into gear, and I handed her my package. My confidence had been shattered, unfortunately, and I dropped every coin I tried to pull out of my wallet (Ukrainians usually insist on correct change, so dealing with the coins was absolutely necessary) and even had to chase one across the floor.

After watching her go through a series of mail-related actions that made no sense to me, she looked up at me, spat out some angry-sounding words, and gesticulated toward the door. I high-tailed it out of there and got on the first bus that came by (thankfully, it was going my direction). Once I got home, I pulled out my stash of peanut butter, a spoon, and a disc of Gilmore Girls. The trip to the post office had just wiped me out for the day and left me with no other choice, obviously.