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What Am I Doing Here?A recent Baylor grad discovers that joining the Peace Corps has meant more than just a move across the globe.
Stories and photos by Claire St. Amant
I’m sitting on a bus, wearing a raincoat. I got the unfortunate seat
underneath the leaky emergency exit, and the water is coming down not
in little drips here and there, but a steady flow. However, no one is
overly concerned, including me.
Then it starts to get hot. Really, really hot. The bus is overbooked,
as is customary, and there are about twenty people standing in the
aisle. My friend and I nonchalantly discuss whether the heat is of
human or unnatural origin. The driver pulls over and smokes a
cigarette. We strip down to our T-shirts and try to open the window.
It’s winter in Ukraine, and we are sweating.
The driver gets back on the bus but continues to take smoke breaks
every fifteen minutes. We are severely behind schedule and confused.
 It’s business as usual in the Peace Corps.
When I first arrived in Ukraine, I assumed my confusion was a result of
not understanding the language. “Surely if I could speak Ukrainian,
then this wouldn’t seem so ridiculous,” I frequently thought. But as my
language skills have improved, I’ve noticed the opposite is true. The
more Ukrainian I understand, the more often I am confused. At least now
I’m not alone in my quandaries.
As it turned out, our bus was overheated that day. The driver’s
frequent stops weren’t motivated by a nicotine addiction but a desire
to keep the bus itself from smoking. He just didn’t bother to tell us,
his loyal passengers. We were left to our own devices, questioning each
other and coming up with conspiracy theories.
America is a country of answers. Ukraine is a country of questions.
Will we get paid this month? Will the gas turn on this winter? When
will we have running water again? When I moved from my training village
to the town of Tysmenytsya, there wasn’t a street sign, and it took
five days to find someone who could tell me my address. Answers don’t
come easily. But the questions are plentiful.
I came to Ukraine to teach English, and images of former beloved
literature and writing educators comforted me in advance about this
journey. I’d be the contemplative, knowledgeable, well-read English
teacher, who drank big cups of tea and had walls lined with old books.
There was only one problem with this idea. I’m not an English teacher.
Here, I’m the foreign language teacher, the zany lady with weird hair
and funny clothes who is entirely too enthusiastic about her native
language. (That's me in the center pictured with one of my classes.)
Yeah, that’s me. I listen to music in English, read books in English,
and even make jokes in English. Most of what I do is lost on the
general population of my town. Understandably, I get asked a lot of
questions—only a few of which I am capable of answering. First, they’ll
ask my age, if I’m married, and where I was born. From there it can go
a whole range of directions, from questions about cities in New York to
the starting salary of a chiropractor. While the gamut of Ukrainian
curiosity is long and wide, not a day goes by without someone asking
the inevitable question: What are you doing here?
Most people are boggled by the fact that I am living without my
friends, family, and fiancé for two years in the former Soviet Union.
My favorite version of the question was phrased this way over dinner: I
know why Ukrainians go to America, but why do Americans come to
Ukraine? When the daylight is short, the wind is cold, and the
electricity is functioning intermittently at best, it’s sometimes hard
to answer. But when a neighbor invites me over for borscht and good
conversation, or a child greets me in the street, I remember.
The relationships I’ve built with Ukrainians are my biggest
accomplishment in the Peace Corps. For a culture that is heavily
family-oriented and traditional, it can be difficult to gain acceptance
as a single foreigner. The fact that my neighbors invite me to their
birthday parties and my colleagues bring me soup when I’m sick is the
best reassurance of my service here. On those days, I know why I came
to Ukraine. I know that my presence here and the exchange of skills and
culture is spreading global understanding and furthering my personal
growth.
But that’s an existential mouthful, so I generally tailor my response
to the audience at hand. If it’s an elderly person, I talk about my
interest in Slavic culture, Ukrainian language, and famous Eastern
European cities. People who grew up in the Soviet Union have long
considered America a land of mystique and generally assume the feeling
is mutual. They smirk wistfully at me and say the equivalent of, “Your
reason is as clear as day.”
To the younger crowd, I toggle between sharing my earnest desire to
teach English and the idea that learning about a new culture while
sharing mine is an exciting way to spend a few years. I talk about how
frighteningly fun it is to be independent in a new culture, how
navigating everything from the subway to the outdoor market is an
adventure for a twenty-four-year-old Texan. I tell people this is the
experience of a lifetime. And while each reason is legitimately a piece
of the puzzle, I never reveal the big picture. I don’t think there’s
sufficient space in the thirty-second window I’m given. But now that I
have the virtue of time and space, I can put it together for you.
In the weeks and months leading up to my departure from the States, I
doubted my decision. The naysayers pointed out that there were plenty
of people who needed help in America. Immigrants who wanted to learn
English, orphans who needed love and care, and communities that lacked
adequate youth programs were literally in my backyard. Yet I had chosen
to do similar work six thousand miles away.
A few days before I left, I was wrestling with this idea in my favorite
place of introspection—the shower. With the steam rising and a nice,
thick shower curtain protecting me from the harsh elements of
air-conditioning, I paused to take in one of my last luxurious bathing
experiences. I wanted to remember this feeling, to store it up for what
would undoubtedly be a long and cold two years. But as I tried to clear
my head, the question kept rising like soapsuds. All the answers I had
given during the course of the summer had danced around my real
motivation. I talked about the value of cultural exchange, about the
importance of peace and about the honor of being an American
ambassador.
These responses have legitimacy, but they aren’t the whole story.
I remember exactly where I was in 2003 when we bombed Iraq in the
“Shock and Awe” campaign. I was sitting in my parent’s living room,
curled up in a blanket. I felt giddy as I watched the night-vision
cameras capture the images of rockets exploding, bombs dropping, and
buildings collapsing. I happily ate fresh-baked cookies, washed down
with a side of milk, as I proclaimed, “I’ll always remember what I was
doing when we attacked Iraq.”
Well, I got my wish. I’ll never be able to forget the flippant way I
treated war, the way I felt vindicated, safe, and warm. I was
comfortable with the idea of destruction being leveled against people I
had never met in a country I couldn’t even pronounce properly. It
helped that I’d never met an Iraqi. I’d only seen pictures of their
worst, most extreme representatives on television. Besides, I had seen
footage of people rejoicing when the Twin Towers fell. They danced in
the streets and sang out cries of victory. I wanted my day to cheer,
too.
But wars don’t last a day. When the dust settled, I realized some
people are our enemies, but without exception entire nations are not.
I’ve wrestled with this image of myself for years. I chose the Peace
Corps because I believe a global education is the best way to ensure
that fewer people will celebrate future wars.
 What Century Is It?
My career path may have taken me oceans away from home, but my first
year out of Baylor was nonetheless filled with familiar milestones: a
fulltime job, financial independence, cooking experiments, and home
repair projects. The difference is that my job description included
having tea with neighbors and picking potatoes. I was financially
independent with a shrinking currency, learned to cook in an oven-less
kitchen with one working burner, and the only redecorating option
within my budget was whitewashing.
I have traveled back in time to the age before washing machines and
central heating, but somehow satellite television and the Internet have
broken the time-space continuum. If I’m in the middle of town, I can
walk into a multistoried café, order sushi, and use high-speed wireless
just as if I’m in Houston, Los Angeles, or New York.
But as soon as I start back for home and step on the bus—which is
actually a converted 1980s minivan—I’m struck by the contrasts of the
developing world. Fields of potatoes, beets, and onions line the
two-lane highway, and workers are tilling the soil by hand. I return
home, fire up the pilot light in my heater, boil a pot of tea, and I’m
back in a simpler time. Walking down the streets in my town, I can
picture what Tysmenytsya looked like fifty or even one hundred years
ago. All I have to do is imagine the apartment buildings freshly
painted and without satellite dishes hanging precariously from the
balcony.
While the Iron Curtain fell in 1991, the architecture, city plans, and
mentality are still very much Soviet. This is as true downtown as it is
in the classroom. Under Soviet control, the dominant teaching
methodology for foreign languages was centered on rote memorization and
strict grammar translations. Our Peace Corps training is based on the
communicative approach, which places a bigger emphasis on the ability
to converse than on getting the translation just right.
 My
students are programmed to stand up when called on and to recite an
answer quickly. Translations are conducive to this pattern. They
require no critical thinking and can be produced instantaneously with
practice. But the problem is, Ukrainian only has three tenses. English
has twelve. Ukrainian also doesn’t have a “to be” verb. Considering all
the linguistic differences, asking my students open-ended questions in
English helps me check their understanding better than a simple
translation exercise can. It takes a while for students to realize
there is rarely one “right” answer. I’m interested in their opinions
and their creativity, not a formulaic response found in the book.
Part of their desire to answer systematically is because English is a
foreign language for them. They are busy thinking about how to say it,
and they don’t want to bother with what to say. While this kind of
subversion is also present in American classrooms, there is a marked
difference between the attitude of American and Ukrainian students. The
American classroom, like American society, is about competition.
Individual achievement reigns. Students want a higher grade than their
classmates. Not here. They all want the same grade. The Ukrainian
classroom and society are based on achieving communal success. No joy
is received by besting your classmates. The brightest students do
homework assignments for the weaker ones, and they whisper answers if
they see anyone struggling.
We would call this cheating in America, but that’s not how it’s seen
here. They consider it looking out for each other. Teachers encourage
it. I don’t want to break their spirit of community. I think it’s great
how shared their lives are. But I found a way to tap into their desire
to answer black-and-white questions and to slip in a little
competition, too. Enter Jeopardy.
It’s the perfect review game at the end of a unit. I break the class
into two teams, tell them to nominate captains, and let the games
begin. Their eyes light up as they survey all the brightly colored
sheets of paper with point values. I explain the rules, daily doubles,
and penalties for wrong answers, but omit answering in the form of a
question. Sorry, Trebeck, it would just be too complicated.
They breeze through the first round, each barely missing a question.
But as the tasks get more complicated, one team pulls ahead. They seem
to finally be embracing competition as the winning team exchanges
high-fives.
Then it’s time for Final Jeopardy. I explain how the last round works
and tell them to write down their wager on a sheet of paper. I turn
around to find the two captains discussing what each team should risk.
After a few minutes, they wagered the same amount so that if they both
got the question right, nothing would change. I still don’t know why
the team that was behind agreed to this, as it meant they had no way of
winning, but they were happy with their arrangement. Both teams got the
question right and they both celebrated—even the team that lost. I
imagine the game would play out a little differently on our side of the
world.
Why Is This Happening?
I believe I could save myself a lot of stress and confusion in Ukraine
if I could only do one thing: erase all my past experiences. Because I
have been to a school before, or ridden in a bus, I unwittingly put
American expectations on uniquely Ukrainian situations. I waltz into a
seventh-grade classroom and think, “I remember what it was like in
middle school. I know what’s going through their minds.” But I honestly
don’t.
 One
of my earliest culture-shock moments happened when I was living in a
village in Northern Ukraine. It was during my three-month training
period, and four of us were assigned there with host families. We were
waiting for the bus one morning, and it was taking longer than usual.
Forty-five minutes later, we were getting worried that we had missed it
when a herd of cattle started marching down the main road. There must
have been a hundred or more of them and only three people attempting to
control them from wandering off. A rogue steer with horns came up to us
and sniffed around our feet. Then some guy with a tattered whip hit it
on the backside, and it snorted and moved along.
After all the cattle passed, our bus pulled up and we got on. We
decided it was late because the road was closed for the cattle, but we
never found out for sure. I live in a bigger town now, and while there
are more signs of modernity here than in my training village, I still
have to watch out for stray livestock when crossing the street. Once,
when I was at a picnic, I took a picture of the cattle crossing. I knew
it would draw attention from my Ukrainian friends, but I just had to
have proof of this for the folks back home. Sure enough, my friend
Svitlana questioned me earnestly as the flash went off, “Do you not
have cows in America?”
In general, I try to avoid taking pictures of what is considered normal
life here. Or rather, I usually attempt to be discreet about it.
Everyone is normal in their own eyes, and they don’t need the American
in town making them feel weird about selling their wares on the side of
the road or setting flowers by the local monument before a holiday.
Where Am I From?
Since I didn’t have a Ukrainian hanging around me in America, snapping
pictures of me in my car or buying groceries inside a building, I never
realized just how American I am. The odd looks I get when I wear tennis
shoes with jeans or smile at strangers have showed me more about
American culture than all my years of citizenship.
 We
may not officially have a “native dress” or even a language that’s our
own, but we have the most pervasive culture in the world. And our
influence isn’t limited to trademarks, music, and movies. I always
bought into the theory that American culture was just a hodge-podge of
European, African, and Asian traditions without anything uniquely its
own. Oh, contraire. From our fierce individualism to our peppy walk and
casual nature, we are a nation of strong tradition. It just took a year
in the former Soviet Union for me to realize it.
While Americans can’t believe how long a Peace Corps tour is,
Ukrainians think it’s hardly long enough. Of course, if you have
thousands of years of history behind you, two years is a drop in the
bucket. Life happens a lot more slowly in Ukraine.
While whitewashing my kitchen this summer, my friend and fellow
volunteer Kristi posed an interesting question: “What would you be
doing on a Saturday afternoon if you were in America right now?” I
answered definitively, “Running errands.” I was almost always running
errands in America. How I had so many places to go and people to see I
can’t understand anymore. Ukraine and its twenty-five national holidays
have cured my restlessness.
For better or for worse, Ukrainians take life in the slow lane,
patiently waiting and carefully observing before acting. It takes a
long time to build trust here and to gain credibility. Your personal
space is invaded physically from day one, but emotional barriers are
more formidable.
It took six months before my friend stopped serving me dinner before
the rest of the family, as a sign of hospitality but also distance. I
didn’t want to be treated like a special guest. I came over nearly
every day. As time went on, they treated me less formally. I could
carry my own plate, get juice out of the fridge, and even help clean up
on occasion. I had crossed over from guest to friend.
But this added closeness affected more than kitchen etiquette. They
began to ask more pressing questions about my life in America, our new
president, and my religious beliefs. I enjoyed discussing all of these
topics over cups of tea and Russian soap operas. They probed me more on
my opinion of Ukraine, about the quality of life, the education system,
and the economy. I was honest and optimistic.
 I
truly believe Ukraine is a great country. I love the way people take
care of each other, and how they live off the land. I value their
reverent Greek Orthodox faith, and I am amused how it never gets in the
way of a hearty celebration. It’s a rich culture with a beautiful
language, delicious food, and kindhearted people. But tragedy,
corruption, and a host of environmental and health problems are also
present. The Chernobyl disaster still has effects in some areas, and
clean drinking water is in rare supply nationwide.
Of course, these aren’t my problems. I’m only here for two years. It’s
the worst thing any volunteer can hear, an insult to the decision we
made to join up and likewise a piece of searing truth: “But you get to
leave. In two years, you’re going home, to a country that works. And
we’ll still be here.”
And the worst part is, they’re right. As earnestly as I want to help
Ukraine, there’s only so much I can do in two years. The bittersweet
part of the equation is that they wouldn’t tell you this if they
weren’t really close to you. And that’s a miracle in itself. That two
people from opposite sides of the world might find common ground and be
brave enough to share a piece of themselves is nothing to scoff at.
It’s the whispers of world peace on a micro level. It’s exchanging
ignorance for understanding.
I really will go back to America, taking with me a wealth of experience
and knowledge that I can only hope I transferred a fraction of in
return. The Peace Corps isn’t about moving permanently to a new country
or changing the whole world. It is about a cultural exchange with
ramifications that reverberate through individuals and communities in
both countries.
As much adjusting as I’ve done during the past year, I’m far from
finished. Soon I’ll be moving to another country, getting a new job,
and starting all over again. I’ve spent the last year living alone in a
Soviet bloc apartment. I worked eighteen hours a week and spent a
sizable chunk of my time hand-washing clothes and dishes, walking to
and from shops, catching the bus, and tilling the soil.
I’m coming home to America, where I’ll shortly have a husband and a
black Labrador. We’ll likely live in a modern apartment building, own
two cars, work forty-plus hours a week, and use machines for roughly
all life processes. And we’ll speak English. All the time. Right now it
sounds heavenly, but I know it won’t be so easy to flip the switch from
single international development worker in Ukraine to wife and
journalist in America.
When I was a Baylor student, I thought I was a minimalist for buying a
drying rack for my clothes and walking to class. I’m looking forward to
the amalgamation of my pre- and post-Peace Corps self that can only
occur once I return to the motherland. I told my fiancé he’s getting
quite the deal. As long as I don’t have to wear a raincoat inside our
car and can take hot showers at will, I have no further demands for our
future household.
Claire St. Amant ’08 ended her assignment as a Peace Corps volunteer in January.
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