XIV. Mid-year reports!

So I’ve received a few requests via email for more information regarding the Fulbright. Apparently some of you out in cyberspace still naively consider this blog a source of real information, and so I’ve decided to acquiesce and provide you with my mid-year report, something every Fulbrighter fills out regardless of project or country. Designed as a self-evaluation of one's “progress,” the mid-year report is in the form of a standard online survey, with very few parameters and no indication of what is expected.

The questions are verbatim from the report. The responses are in their original full-length, which I had to condense for the form itself to meet the 1500 character limit per answer.

1. What are/were the most important goals/objectives for your Fulbright project proposal? Please list the top 3 or 4. Next to each goal, select the response that best indicates your progress, to date, in the accomplishment of these goals: 
Achieved, Significant Progress, Some Progress, No Progress, No longer significant.
 
GOAL #1: Write the next Great American(-Polish) Novel

STATUS: Some Progress

Okay, so I may have overestimated the mental resources required to teach full-time while studying a new language myself, as well as my affinity for Polish beer. Yet most of all, I ingenuously underestimated—and by my euphemistic “underestimate” I mean that I did not in any way account for, or have any idea was not just the chimerical conveniences of lazy people— my susceptibility to winter lethargy and this phenomenon my Polish friends call ciśniene with the same whispered dread Hogwarts kids reserve for Voldemort (rough translation: barometric pressure). Seriously, what happened? Everything turned leaden and comatose, and I think I might have unintentionally undergone biological hibernation because I have no concrete recollections of the past 4 months. I only retain one vague impression from (what I believe to have been) late December, which may or may not be unconsciously concocted in the same way our brains fill in minor gaps in images, or missng letters in common words in order to create a congruous narrative. My impression is of waking up in a somnolent gray not knowing whether the luminescent 9:00 on my alarm indicated Ante or Post Meridian time, followed by an epiphany that was not so much an epiphany as a confrontation of the obvious. This brazen realization was that the European clock system (i.e. the 24-hour clock) is not cultural idiosyncrasy or evidence of the utilitarian socialist mentality but pure necessity in a region where one is consumed in perennial darkness.

Let me put it this way: you know those shitty stories about some father who gets dressed every morning at 8:47 am, eats his fibrous oatmeal with brown sugar, kisses the wife goodbye, gives the little league son a paternally affectionate slap on the back and drives off to work in the SUV, as he’s done every morning for sixteen years, except one day—without any warning or signal—he just never comes back? And nobody knows why he left, or where he went? And for the next few months, from 5-6 pm, the wife waits at home thinking that maybe today he’ll walk back through that door like he had always done for sixteen years with his briefcase in hand and his tie slightly askew towards his left shoulder? Well, the Polish sun is one of those shitty fathers.

Basically, this is how it happened: one day the sun just sank over the horizon and never came back.

I was not prepared for this.

Everyone told me, at least with regards to weather, I had nothing to worry about in Poland. Chicago and Warsaw are like brothers, with equally brutal winters; it shouldn’t be anything I haven’t handled before. Freak snowstorms, toppling winds...you know, the usual seasonal affronts. But they failed to mention that I would live in a gloomy twilight for weeks at a time. While Chicago may be similar in terms of weather—temperature, winds, precipitation—these similarities are entirely contingent upon oceanic currents. Geographically speaking, our true European parallel is Rome. Chicago and Rome lie on almost the exact same latitude (41.6° versus 41.7°). The North American parallel to Warsaw, on the other hand, is Saskatoon, Canada, at 52.2°. Thus while I’d been well trained to beef up for ice, wind and hail, I’d not been remotely prepared for becoming the bastard child of a feckless sun of a bitch.

That all being said, I'm about 40 solid pages into my book and about 100 semi-solid. The story is of my grandparents' escape from Poland in 1939, the only members of their large family to elude a tragic and horrible fate. They crossed the country in trucks, cars, horse-buggies, anything with wheels to get to Lithuania before annexation. From there a Japanese diplomat named Sugihara signed a family visa for them to cross Russia on the Trans-Siberian railroad and then take a boat to Japan. After a few months in Japan, they then managed to get a boat from Yokohama to the US on May 7, 1941. I think what fascinates me the most about their story is how they managed to stay weeks, days or sometimes mere minutes ahead of global events that determined their fate. They left Poland on August 26, 1939: five days later they would not have been permitted to leave. Even more incredulous, my grandfather returned to his hometown on the border between Poland and Germany on the night of August 31st, to try to convince his family to join him in running as fast and possible from Hitler’s army. They considered him hysterical and paranoid, and told him there might not be a war at all-- and, even if there was, they would be fine, just as they’d been twenty-five years ago in the Great War. They’d dealt with worse. So my grandfather left, frustrated and terrified for his family, and caught the last train out of Poland that evening. Literally the last train. The tracks were bombed that same night, with the train just barely managing, as if by some preternatural fate, to stay ahead of the bombers. None of his six siblings, parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, nieces, nephews or cousins survived. Only 2 members of his family remained after the war: a third cousin who had moved to Palestine in the 1920’s, and a fourth cousin whom he'd never met, Leo Seifman, whose story is so incredible (literally) that I doubt I could get away with including it in my novel (which is essentially non-fiction, since I’m not changing any historical facts or events. The “novel” part is that it’s written as a narrative. Someone wears a blue dress. Another person eats an apple while reading Sholem Aleichem. These narrative tools comprise the fictional component of the project.)

The story of Leo Seifman is that, like almost all my relatives from that time, he was sent to the gas chambers. Knowing what fate lay ahead, Leo decided he was in no hurry. He lingered as long as possible in the “changing room,” taking in the plastered walls, the rough texture of each button on his prison uniform, the musky smell of sweat and the slightly bitter almond scent from the residual hydrogen cyanide. He soon found himself at the end of the line of bodies getting filtered into the chamber and decided, since he had nothing to lose, to attempt to slip behind the thick iron door to get a few more seconds of life. Somehow nobody noticed his disappearance in the shuffle until the guards had closed and bolted the door, exposing him naked and alone against the wall. The gassing had already begun and, if nothing else, the Germans were notoriously obsessed with efficiency and economy, so wasting an entire canister of Zyklon B on one person was out of the question. Instead they just sent him back to work under the presumption that he’d end up back in the chamber soon enough anyway. And so he worked, until the Russians liberated the camp.

2. GOAL #2: Learn Polish.

STATUS: (Relatively) Significant Progress

I arrived in Poland knowing only the phrases comprised in the first three units of Rosetta Stone TOTALworld (c), and now—after four months of relentlessly subjecting myself and my more patient Polish confidantes to what could be interpreted by those not involved as the maniacally circular and nonsensical ramblings of a borderline schizophrenic—I can...well...survive. This may not sound as impressive as it feels (which is not very much either), but I've never had a talent for adopting foreign tongues, a failure I attribute as a byproduct of my upbringing in the patriotic monoculture known as America (I also like to think my English is so predominant it overreaches into those sections of my brain that would've otherwise been reserved for foreign languages… like my American Standard English is a large, red pick-up truck and the Broca's area the standard size of a parking space designated for compact cars (in cerebral terms of course, or else I’d be a giant human...as for why the truck is red, I’m not sure, but it feels like a vital and mandatory component of the analogy so I’m keeping it in.) And so my ASE spills over the white line into the areas reserved for cute European vehicles, like the Polish Maluch, the French Peugeot, the German Volkswagen.)

In fact, the notion of tackling a new language (even worse, a Latinate, synthetic language) terrified me enough to seriously consider deboarding the plane after the LOT Air flight attendant wished me "dzien dobry," my first non-computerized confrontation with this insane and illogical linguistic system (true story…I think I was also excruciatingly anxious at the prospect of living alone in Poland for a year). Thus the fact that I can compose even a minor sentence (Gdzie jestem? Co to jest?) is a small miracle, and more importantly the result of more tears, sweat and expletives than anyone donned with the honor of a Fulbright should ever confess to discharging. And, of course, I couldn’t have done it without the following: my Polish teacher, the most patient woman in the history of education, whom I meet 1.5 hours/day M-F; some patchy tandem tutoring sessions; and my housemates, Polish lawyers who never cease to dazzle me with their capacity for grammar, native speaker or no. (And, yes, I’m aware that I essentially just wrote an “Acknowledgements” section to my studying Polish. It is that big a deal.)

3. GOAL #3: Teach English

STATUS: Achieved

I’ve been teaching English Tuesdays and Thursdays with Professor Elaine Horyza. We teach 4 sections Tuesdays (each 1.5 hours with 15 minutes in between), and 2 sections Thursdays. While Elaine determines the majority of the syllabus and structure (she’s prescribed very strict and somewhat limiting teaching goals by both the university and the new EU standards, to be officially enforced starting Fall 2013), I get to teach at least one section per class, and plan 2 classes per semester. Last semester I designed 2 classes around social media: vocabulary, implications for the English language, social implications, personal implications, political (you guessed it) implications, etc. We discussed the logistics of relationships and dating through this new, non-physical venue. We discussed the potential for careers and jobs through this new market medium. We discussed the role social media played in the US presidential elections, the Arab Spring, the Occupy Movement…tackling the overriding question, “Is social media a tool or a detriment to democracy?” And the class amazed me with their astute and perspicacious ideas and opinions.

This semester my unit will be about food and animals. Eating animals, owning animals, protecting animals, with all the ethical and practical ramifications such practices necessarily engender in us H. sapiens. In Korea and the Philippines, dogs are delicious; in Europe and America, companions. In France, a baguette with butter and cheese is the perfect start to the day; in the US, we harbor an institutional distrust and resentment of gluten, fat and dairy. So it should be interesting to see how my students feel about food culture, and how often (if ever) they contend with the consumption of sentient creatures.

4. GOAL #4: Work/volunteer at a local theater

STATUS: No longer significant.

Get involved in theater:
In my original letter of intent, I claimed I would effortlessly implant myself in the local theater scene, wherever that would be and in whatever form that would manifest itself. Basically, I assumed that the second my dramatic feet touched the potatoed Polski earth, thespians from around the region would blow their conk shells and plug in their S4s (the theater world’s Bat-Signal, though of course they would have only done this if my plane landed in the evening, which it didn’t), and summon me to the stage. Needless to say, with my elementary Polish phrases and well-rusted experience (I haven’t done theater since college), this did not happen. It also might be because finding a conk shell 450 km from the nearest body of saltwater was too much of a challenge.

Furthermore, I quickly learned that dabbling in theater was not an option. Like street gangs, marriage and high fashion, you’re either in or you’re out: 100%. Make a full commitment or don’t make one at all. And since I had many ideas and ambitions for this year (see goals 1-3), I decided to stay out.

I do, however, attend many plays here. Studio Matej and Theater Zar at the Grotowski Institute have put on my favorite performances thus far (most notably “Caesarean Section: Essays on Suicide,” which I saw twice in one weekend because it was that mind-blowingly confusing and horrible and gorgeous), as well as Song of the Goat Theater, which isn’t as viscerally decadent but intellectually dynamic and worth noting. Others worth a mention are Theater Polski and Teatr Wspołczesny, which are both great for listening practice with Polish (see goal #3).


5. GOAL #5: Find Polish lover

STATUS: No progress

Don’t worry internet. I didn’t actually include this one in my mid-year report.


What kind of changes did you make in order to adjust to the local culture?

Honestly, Polish culture isn't too different from Chicago culture, which makes sense given that for the past 50 years our largest human import has been of the perogi-consuming variety.

I will concede that I've become more clothes-conscious, since women here tend to spend more time and energy on appearance (my college sweatpants were the first casualty of European living). I've also become more patient, but that's been a matter of force rather than choice. People don't cross the street on a red sign, no matter what. Even if it's -20°F (or C), and snowing, and the road is closed, and a giant sloth is attacking them with razor sharp teeth, and someone managed to build a time machine and go back to 1879 and convince Karl Benz to destroy all his blueprints such that the automobile never came into existence, even then people would STILL wait for the light to change. There's also a great deal of forming lines before a callously fusty older females, whose favorite two words are a resounding “Nie ma!” (Literal translation: Not have!), which they typically bark with a rough contraction of the abdomen, which also (at least observations indicate) comprises the full extent of their daily physical activity. Worst of all, people stand in the middle of escalators without moving. The frustration often brings me to tears.


What types of safety issues were prevalent in the country (problems with diet, pollution, crime, etc.) and what safety precautions would you recommend?

I can't think of anything.


This place is safer than anywhere in the US in terms of crime (I forget my iPhone on tables at cafes and restaurants all the time) and the food is very easy for sensitive stomachs. Best of all, not only have I managed to maintain a strict vegetarian diet, but I've discovered new dishes, unbelievable vegan restaurants and many fellow conscientious eaters to partake in aforementioned restaurants with me.


Please comment on other aspects of your social and cultural adjustment.

It would be easy to atavise my first few months here with laughter and smiles, the same way we often look back on elementary school as one long and cordial playtime, when in fact we all struggled socially and developmentally and I still-to-this-day have strong residual emotions of helplessness and impotence instigated from activities as innocuous as ordering juice over an adult-sized counter, or approaching the "cool kid" monkey bars, or basic mental problems such a 3x4=?.

The truth is I struggled more than I expected my first few months here, because—if you replace "monkey bars" with the northwest corner of Monsieur cafe, and "juice" with coffee—all those quandaries I just mentioned from 3rd grade apply once again as major stress-inducers.

On top of that, my first few months here were lonely, lonely in a way 3rd graders cannot fathom. Lonely in a way only adults understand, because only adults realize how deeply ontological and interminable such loneliness. And sometimes I had to go home early to cry and ask myself "What the hell am I doing in Poland? Who am I? What am I doing in my life?" and then wishing I had somebody to listen these questions even if she didn't know the answer or diagnosed me with some anxiety disorder I likely already have. In other words, in my first few months here, I began to understand Chekhov's Masha and Dostoevsky's Sergeant X on levels I never wanted (maybe I should’ve applied for a Fulbright in Russia...).

On the brighter side, I've since pulled myself out of this state and thrived, and that's not an easy thing to do when living alone in a foreign place. In other words, I would finally call myself "adjusted" and relatively happy (relative to writers, that is, which is admittedly a low standard). Also, I'm heading to a birthday party as soon as I finish this report, so my happiness is about to be bolstered with liquor and chocolate cake. You might want to consider repeating this question to me tomorrow.


Please comment on your travel to and arrival in your host country. Did you experience any particular difficulties? Was there anything special that made your adjustment easier? Are there suggestions or hints that you could offer future grantees to your country/world area?

Booking the flight was easy and straight-forward, and I stayed in a dorm arranged by my university when I arrived, which was not remotely comfortable or clean but served its purpose for the initial 2-3 days before traveling to Warsaw for orientation. The only issue was that I had to pay for my flight to Poland with my own money, because we did not receive our first installment within a reasonable time to reserve a seat. If I hadn’t been fortunate enough to have the personal expenditure to do this, I’d be trapped in a troublesome and frustrating bind, which is something to keep in mind for next year’s class.

My only other "suggestion or hint" for anyone heading to Warsaw from their base city is to take the train, not the bus. It's worth the extra money to be comfortable, safe and able to sleep/work with ease. The trains here tend to be timely and spacious (and first class is typically only 30 zlotys ($8) more, with a guaranteed seat and a table, outlet, snacks, etc. Well worth a mini-monetary splurge). The bus, on the other hand, is horrifically long, uncomfortable and crowded, and the roads wind and dip and swerve the entire route (for more details, see blog entry #7 “Bath Salts Geese and UFOs”). Apparently a highway is in the process of being built, but the pace of public infrastructure is one of the few vestiges of communism that seems in no hurry to change (and yes, I am aware of the less-than-clever entendre in that sentence). I think this highway will be a few long years away. Until then, stay on the tracks.


In what areas have you found IIE, the U.S. Department of State, U.S. Embassy personnel and/or the Fulbright Commission especially helpful? What areas need additional attention? What improvements would you suggest?

The communication has been non-existent, but I anticipated this. Everyone told me that Fulbrights are notoriously unsupervised, and that you have to be disciplined and self-motivated. I still don’t know anyone’s name at IIE, USDS or the Embassy, except for Internal Unit Chief Kevin Kabumoto, whom I met randomly through the Forum for Dialogue Among Nations, and is incontestably the coolest Asian in Poland. If he reads this report, tell him I owe him a drink (or three) next time I head to Warsaw.

I haven't had any issues, so I haven't had a pressing need to contact anyone for professional reasons—thus I can't say what the response level would be. However, given that the Embassy is a top priority government agency, I’d assume prompt and thorough, but I also wouldn’t bet more than 7 zloty on that assumption. But at least I’ve been a Fulbright pre-sequester, right? I’d imagine the response time and organization will be even worse next year. And something tells me that the embassy dinners and opening ceremonies may have less champagne and hors d’oeuvres come 2014…but what was the question again?

Oh right. Attention. Improvements. The only thing I wish had been better clarified (and still don't understand) is our insurance plan. They basically gave us a useless propaganda booklet and walked away. I have no idea how to get reimbursed for prescriptions, etc., or how to book/pay for a doctor's appointment.