The Language Blockade

(Julia writing) They buzzed his hair. As bald as a bowling ball, poor little guy. They are now dressing him in tights (similar to tight long johns with feet), wool pants, a t-shirt, flannel shirt and a sweater. And a bald head. Can this Mama just say that she can’t wait to take this child home? With the tights on he cannot do anything with his feet. We tried to protest the first day he came out wearing them, but to no avail. “He’s cold,” they said. Umm - NOT ~ Rob and I were both shedding jackets that day. We sit in a sunny spot. His cheeks were red, not from cold, but from heat. Nevertheless, the tights stayed. We kicked a blow-up ball until it was pierced on one of the never-ending thorn bushes. We rolled the truck endlessly until that too became boring. Finally, we figured out that if we push a pen into his sleeve and place it between his thumb and fingers, Aaron can write with his hands. Oh, the joy! The look on his face as he drew on the write-on, wipe-off board was priceless. He expanded his letter repertoire to include a wobbly E (for Elijah) and A (for Aaron). Of course just plain scribbling was the best activity of all. So perhaps the tights were a blessing in disguise. But not the egg-bald head.

Our court is in two days. There has been much behind the scenes activity on our behalf and for that we are very grateful. Please continue to pray fervently for the judge and the process. Our translator/facilitator returns tomorrow, so we will try to post specific requests then. Our desire is to give the most updated information, as things seem to change quickly here.

(Rob writing) Traveling to Eastern Europe is not like a holiday jaunt to France or Germany, where nearly everyone knows a bit of English. The “language barrier” metaphor does not suffice to describe what we encountered when we arrived here. Our language problem was far more than a mere barrier, like some hastily strung barbed wire fence manned by a few sleepy sentries. It was more like a blockade, a heavily fortified stone wall with armed guards and spotlights.

We arrived here with precisely two barbs in our language quiver, “da” and “nyet.” Formidable as those may seem, they didn’t really carry us very far at all. We couldn’t call a cab because we couldn’t read our own address, or pronounce the name of our destination, or discuss when the cab was needed (even the word “now” has about seven syllables here). We couldn’t manage well at the stores because we couldn’t read the labels or understand the totals when the cashiers read them out (thank goodness for digital calculators!). We walked everywhere we went, laughing at our own stupidity, hoping for indulgent and helpful smiles from the locals. More often we received blank or even hostile stares. I decided that I had better get on with the language study I had so far neglected.

For this task I had only eclectic equipment: a child’s picture book with 1000 illustrated words (no English), a phrase book for adoptive parents (only transliterations, no Cyrillic alphabet) and a one-way dictionary. Our hostess has a two-way dictionary, but even so, I CAN’T LOOK UP NATIVE WORDS. I’ve learned the sounds the Cyrillic letters make, but I don’t know their names or their order in the alphabet, and none of my books tell me these things. I can sound out the words in signs and newspapers if they’re not too hard, but I can discover their meaning only by accident. Sometimes they sound like their English equivalents, but far too rarely.

Here’s an example of the way I learned one word, “bolshoi.” I first saw the word beside a picture of an elephant in our illustrated children’s book, so I assumed it meant “elephant.” It took me a while to connect this word with the well-known Russian “Bolshoi Ballet,” because the pronunciation is a bit different from what I’m used to hearing in English. When I finally made that connection, I thought the description “elephant ballet” was highly uncomplimentary to those elegant young women who dance on their tiptoes. I was looking for a better understanding of this word, and I found it when I looked at the 2-liter size of orange juice we brought home: it, too, was “bolshoi.” The light came on, and I knew at last that “bolshoi” meant “big.” But then I thought, ‘what an unimaginative name for a national treasure: “The Big Ballet.”’ Finally, I considered synonyms, and arrived at my present understanding: it must be “The Grand Ballet.” “Bolshoi” must mean both “big” and “grand.” I am ashamed to admit that this process took several days to complete. If it takes me that long to learn a word like “big,” I must literally be years away from becoming conversant.