A Poem Inspired by my Students

Sparrows

At my office door

the students jostle

each other, fighting

and fluttering,

cocking their heads

at a jaunty angle.

Wings flapping,

they chirp anxiously

in a new language

trying out the words,

uncertain of what

they want or whether

they will get it.

One or two have pin feather

awkwardly sprouting,

and they squawk overly loud,

wanting to be the first to be noticed –

the first to be fed.

They circle and flit

eying me like some

dropped grain,

some new crumb

of different,

uncertain of whether

they should boldly dash in

to grab it before the others do;

tentative and leery of a trap.

Some will return to search

and scratch

among the English

for the half-eaten kernel of a word,

while others will peck among

the shells for the odd phrase

or quirky idiom to sing.

But maybe,

maybe if I'm lucky

a couple will settle,

eat from my hand and teach me

to fly.

The Roads of Trușeni

There are so many beautiful aspects of Moldova. So many things that remind me, indeed of Kansas, like the rolling hills of NE Kansas, the small forests of locust trees, wild fruit trees, walnuts, so many of the flowers and plants are identical to our own heartland. The people too are in many ways similar to those I met in Kansas – here too, people care deeply about their faith and family. Neighbors go out of their way to help neighbors and it seems that everyone knows every other person of their village. That's one of the reasons that we Americans stand out so much. We are alien here, even if we don't have horns and scales. But, that is for a different blog.

Among the differences, there is one thing that seems to really stand out and that is the roads of Moldova. I also believe, that most Moldovans would agree heartily that many of their roads can barely be named roads – more like goat trails. On my very first visit to Trușeni, I was told, „Drumuri în Moldova sunt foarte teribil.” (The roads in Moldova are very terrible.)

All summer long I walked up and down this incredibly long and steep hill in Trușeni. And, in actuality aside from the brutal heat, or the incredible mud (when it rained) it was a Godsend. I managed to lose about 22lbs on that road and had a chance to let my mind settle after long hours of training and to prepare my mind every day on the way down the hill. And -- I miss this most of all -- my host brother Gelu and I would make the trek every three days or so all the way down the hill with several 6-liter bottles, visit the well and walk back up with them. It was an opportunity for me to listen to the profundity of his thoughts and challenge his teenage nihilism. But, more than anything, those treks back and forth made me feel a part of the scenery, a part of the family, like a real big brother.

A view from my hill into the village of Trușeni.

Several Moldovans who either dropped me off, or came to pick me up for events said it was "the end of geography”.

So the gods of the road not only stole 22lbs from me (which I was happy to sacrifice), but they also greedily consumed a nice pair of dress shoes and a pair of flip flops.

This particular road of which I speak had deep crevices where the rain gouged it, and the only walkable area was also where the daring drivers drove their varied vehicles, often seemingly aiming for the poor pedestrians that shared the road with me. Pedestrians simply had to head into the weeds to get out of their way.

It was nothing to see Bunice (grandmothers) carrying water up the hill, little kids in their Sunday best, or proud Moldovan women in their very high-heel shoes going up and down everyday. Bunica asked me for some glue one day, and I asked her what it was for. She needed it to glue the soles of her two-week-old Italian-leather shoes back together after the road chewed on them for awhile.

And then one day, a grader went up the hill and flattened out all the crevices. That was cool except for two things: A) it created a chalky dust that blew everywhere and turned my black shoes (with a mandatory Moldovan shine) completely gray when it was dry and, B) turned the road into a quagmire of mud when it rained. Naturally, the mud completely destroyed shoes, so a friend of my host family sent a truckload of building materials and had them deposited in the middle of the road. Gelu and I became instant muncitori [moon-chee-tor] (workers) and shoveled and hauled brick, plaster and assorted poly-styrene to create a path for the family to step on after the rains. This was hard but extremely gratifying work. Somehow, knowing that I was having a direct positive impact on the welfare of my host-family's feet and shoes made me feel like a thousand bucks. And... I felt somehow more like a real Peace Corps volunteer, helping to build a road.

 

I asked a Moldovan engineer if anything would be done about the roads in Moldova or Trușeni, and he simply shrugged his shoulders and said there was little the country could do. This was simply how it is in Moldova. There are more important things upon which to focus. So, the roads of Moldova will continue to be bad, but somehow they make the people a little more genuine, a little more neighborly, and a little more understanding of each other as they have a common complaint.