Alli, why don't you know Georgian yet?

The short answer: because I know Russian!

The long answer:

I never realized when living in Russia how vital my classes were in teaching me grammar and words so I could later pick them up in conversation. Maybe that sounds stupid, but it's true – I sort of had the idea that even if I weren't in class, I'd still have picked up the language okay.

Turns out, for me at least, that's just plain not true. Because I've been in Georgia for a total of seven months already, but beyond a few words and phrases, I don't know any more Georgian than I did when I first arrived.

I forgot that I'm not five years old anymore and can no longer spontaneously learn a language. In particular, most of my linguistic exposure is aural, and I've found that without written confirmation of what I hear, sounds that are new to me continue to pass by my ear – I simply can't catch them.

I know it's possible to retrain one's ears to hear new sounds, as I hear the difference between hard and soft consonants in Russian that I couldn't differentiate and the beginning of my studies. So there's hope.

Beyond my lack of formal language study – something I hope to remedy soon – there's the probably more important fact that everyone is already used to speaking with me in Russian. So it's very hard for them to remember to switch to Georgian, and I – because I understand them in Russian – don't remind them. There have been a couple attempts to “go Georgian,” but when I don't understand right away, it's too easy for everyone to just switch over to Russian rather than struggle through it to communicate in Georgian. The irony, of course, is that without Russian Reziko and I would never have met at all, but now that same language has become a crutch.

My first few months in Russia in 2005 were miserable because I didn't understand what people were saying to me. My brain was overwhelmed by linguistic input it couldn't process. But that experience is necessary to push through to language fluency. I feel like my ear is so used to hearing Georgian around me now that if only I'd learn a little grammar and vocabulary, everything would fall into place. But until I can create that uncomfortable situation where Georgian is the only language of communication, I fear I'll never pick it up.

Celebrating the Moment

Last Sunday was my godfather, Iva's, birthday. Reziko and I were among 15 or so people who gathered for dinner at Iva's home. It was a typical Georgian gathering: very noisy, toasts that went on for several minutes or more, lots of joy and laughter, and even quite a bit of singing, from traditional Georgian songs to church hymns. Much hilarity ensued when our tamada (toastmaster) demanded that at least one toast be given in Russian for my benefit, as the boisterous guests did their best and gave each other a hard time about their rusty Russian.

This gathering reinforced my desire to *finally* learn Georgian, because I'm tired of being left out of the jokes while everyone around me laughs. But it also reminded me what I love about Georgians, and why I think I could live here long-term. Georgians are joyful people. They've been through a lot, and because of this they understand the importance of celebrating the moment. I like that.

Trying to understand

I read an article in the New York Times today that gave me some insight into my own biases when it comes to understanding the mentality of my Georgian family and friends. You can read the article here, but in a nutshell, it was about how cultural understandings influence the manifestation of metal illness, and how Western ideas and methodologies and approaches are being “exported” at locomotive speed. The entire article was fascinating, but the part that struck me in relation to my family was where the author pointed out that Americans' sense of self as an individual and the influence we believe we have over our destinies, the power of personal will to change circumstances, if only we try hard enough – all of this influences how we react to mental illness. Other cultures place more value on a person's role in the kinship group or on their place in the line of ancestry, and this helps them deal with mental illness in a way that is more accepting of the condition.

I can't pretend to be an anthropologist or an expert in sociology, but through my interactions with Georgians over the past year or so, it has become very clear that they more closely fit the kinship group model. People are defined by their role in the family (patriarch, first son, second son, mother-in-law, godfather, etc), and families are defined by their relation to one another. For example, Eliko is my godmother. Because she christened me, there can be no intermarriage between our families for nine generations, because we are now considered one family; such a marriage would be considered incest in just as if we had a blood tie. Similarly, christening can only go in one direction, that is, I cannot christen the children of anyone in Eliko's family, but her brother could christen my children. When one person or family experiences misfortune, the family and neighbor community gathers round to provide support. And these are all great things.

But one thing I could never wrap my brain around is the rampant homophobia I've encountered here. This, in fact, is the one aspect of Georgian culture that I simply cannot grin and bear. However, while I am in no way comparing homosexuality to mental illness (Georgians would), the article gave me a new way to think about this issue. When I discussed homosexuality with Georgians before, my arguments were always very individual based: people are born gay and can't change that fact any more than a person can change the fact that they were born in a particular country; God made everyone the way they are and it's not our place to judge; and someone being gay has no effect on our lives – just live and let live.

This last argument in particular has little meaning for my Georgians – in their minds and cultural understanding, gay people do affect our daily lives, because by going against strongly held communal norms, they threaten the very foundation of those values. Religion plays a key role here, of course, and is most often cited in Georgian arguments against accepting gay people as they are. But religion isn't all of it, I think. Gay couples can't have children (at least not the traditional way), which means they can't have a family. “If they have no family, how can I tell where their family is in relation to mine?” I imagine the Georgian line of thinking. Being childless is considered a heavy burden in this culture, so anyone who “chooses” to live a life that leaves them childless is selfishly turning their back not only on their traditions and culture, but on all of Georgia – a people that has survived over the centuries despite nearly constant invasions, never dying out even when their population dwindled to a few hundred thousand (there are about 4 million Georgians around the world today).

This is all speculation. I haven't checked this out on any of my Georgians, but I sort of wonder if they'd have enough perspective on the issue to give me an objective answer. Of course, I haven't changed my beliefs, and I would love to see Georgian culture become more accepting. But, I think I at least understand their viewpoint now – I've gotten past my own emotional reactions to what I perceived as thoughtless bigotry. I feel that I'm one step closer to a fuller understanding of this culture which has become a permanent part of my life.

Procession of the Cross

On Orthodox Christmas (January 7) I participated in my very first крестный ход, or Procession of the Cross. Usually this procession simply winds its way around town, with more and more people joining as it passes by their homes, but this year I lucked out: the procession was to escort the Cross for the top of the new church being built up the closest mountain.

I've been up this mountain before. At the end of June my soon-to-be godfather, Iva, took me and Reziko up to see the convent there. We were give a tour by Sister Barbara after riding most of the way up the mountain in a sort of scary Soviet-era bus and then walking the rest of the way. This time we'd be walking the whole way up.

Reziko and I got off to a late start due to a (typical) morning bathroom traffic jam, so the first half hour of our procession was us walking very fast to catch up with everyone. Once we caught up, it was a very cool thing to be a part of. There were probably 500-700 of us, from priests, deacons, and alter boys to lay men and women, teenagers, even some very small children. Two bulls (or oxen?) pulled a cart filled with donations for orphans to be distributed by the nuns at the convent, and a little donkey, representing the donkey that Mary rode into Bethlehem, hauled a cart with a large cross and an icon. The poor donkey pooped out before we even got out of Batumi, so he didn't make the journey up the mountain.

But the rest of us did! It took over an hour just to get to the base of the mountain (we took the scenic route). The road started out as asphalt, then just past the cemetery became cobblestones (at least a century old!), then the cobblestones gave way to a mix of dirt, gravel, and mud. Even for Batumi it was unusually warm for January, and I carried my coat for the entire trip. Fresh air, beautiful views, and participation in an ancient and holy tradition – I can't think of a better way to spend Christmas day.

Reziko and I kept up a good pace, and once we got to the mountain the crowd became a long, thin line snaking up the old roads. Even at our clip we reached the summit two and a half hours after leaving the house – and this is the littlest mountain around here! The church bells rang out every once in a while, calling us further up and providing encouragement.

At the church I expected there to be a formal service of some kind, but there was none. There were candles to be lit in prayer, and, of course, the new Cross was blessed before being raised and affixed atop the church. The church itself, still under construction, was closed.

We were among the first to arrive, and the summit slowly but steadily filled with other processioners until it became quite crowded. After lighting candles, we watched the Cross as it was raised into place on the church, then turned our weary legs towards home. At the edge of town we gave in and took a marshrutka the rest of the way, and arrived home around 5 PM.

I look forward to the day the church will be completed, when I can ride up on those creaky buses or get a workout climbing the hill myself, reach the top, look around, and feel my heart burst from the beauty of this place. I will offer up my prayers to God and the Saints among the mountains by the sea, where I feel closer to Him than anywhere else.

Post Office Scavenger Hunt

My mom sent us a Christmas care package by regular post. The Georgian postal system isn't 100% trustworthy, so I was a little nervous about it getting here at all. So I was quite surprised and pleased when, just three weeks after Mom sent it, the post office delivered a notice saying I should come pick up my package.

Just a couple of problems. First, until just a few months ago, the central post office was housed in its historical building near the town square. However, that area has become prime tourism real estate, and nothing so lowly as a mere post office can take up said space, so they moved it.

But they didn't tell anyone to where, and everyone we asked had a different answer as to the new location of the post.

Secondly, an address was written on the notice, but the street name was an old, Soviet name. Street names here change faster than Liz Taylor's husbands, depending on who's in power and who's in favor. So we didn't know exactly where this street was located.

Reziko thought it was over by the park, so we headed that way first. On the way we asked some elderly ladies where the post office was, and they pointed us to some courtyard. Dubious that the central post office would be tucked away in some yard, we headed there anyway, Reziko grumbling the usually American complaint about the lack of building numbers. Then, another woman pointed us to an apartment. This apartment, while obviously serving some sort of official function, was closed. There were three phone numbers on the door, which Reziko promptly called. The first connected us with a woman who only dealt with letters from the court. She gave us the number of a guy who worked at the international post, but who said they had no packages from America. And neither of them knew the street that was written on our notice, nor could they tell us the location of the main post. We were flummoxed and annoyed. Imagine if I'd received such a package without a native Georgian speaker to help me out! As it was we were stumped.

It was close to closing time, so we gave up. The next day was Orthodox Christmas, so we didn't even try. Finally, following a new lead from friend Tamazi, we found the post office on Friday. And then we ate chocolate for a week straight. So it was all worth it.