Miss Georgia

This morning, Heves High was aglow with patriotic cheer, home to a giant celebration in the gymnasium. One-hundred and fifty-eight years ago, if I dare be that precise, a bunch of bearded Hungarians decided that they’d had enough of Imperial Austrian rule.

In a sense, it was suicide. They were crushed; so goes the history of Hungary. But since then, schoolboys proudly recite the names of those men on the fourteenth day of March and, even more proudly, have the next day off of school.

In little Heves this morning, students of all stripes wore their national-holiday-finest, black topped off with white, coupled with a red-white-and-green tri-color ribbon on the left breast. Above the heart.

They lined up in rows. They know exactly where to stand, exactly how to stand. They’ve done it before. But there’s a teenage reluctance, a sort of embarrassment, to claiming an actual spot. My first instinct, as an observer, was to wonder what makes a country a country in the new sameness of modern Europe. But that’s not what this story is about.

It’s a little about Georgia. It’s a little about spring.

The ceremony, complete with singing, dancing and plenty of poetry reading, took the whole first lesson. Forty-five minutes of standing. It was probably my last ceremony in Hungary, so I took notes, trying to capture the mood and spectacle of that moment.

Unfortunately, the revolutionary remembrance preempted a prep period in my schedule, rather than a regularly-scheduled lesson. So I was still concocting a plan for the upcoming second period -- not a moment too soon as usual -- when Etelka waved my attention just as the bell rang. I was a bit discombobulated, I was still in a planning frame of mind. It took a while to focus on what she was saying.

"Kriszti isn’t here today," she said, pushing down gently on my hand, more like a grandmother would than a mother might. "Can you take the German half of 12B this morning, too?"

I agreed, because I always do. My mind switched gears seamlessly. Expanding the class to encompass twice as many languages and ten more kids meant simplifying the lesson. Ideas started to bubble and congeal. Lest they get away from me, I started to write new ideas on a little scrap of paper as Etelka walked away. Three steps later, she stopped and turned, as if a just-remembered after-thought kept her from going any further. Nailed her to that spot until she blurted out the tidbit that had popped into her mind. As if she might forget it again.

"Oh, one more thing, Jeremy." My pen stopped mid-word, caught at a hyphen. I looked up, bothered to be ripped from my planning again.

"Gyongyi would like to talk to the whole class before you start," she said hastily. I smile when I think of Gyongyi. I can’t actually make the consonant sounds in the poor girl’s name. Instead, I just call her Georgia. She has a dark complexion and shiny black hair. Her eyes are deep, she likes to smile. Georgia's good at English. She works hard and learns quickly. She didn’t know which side of the Civil War the state of Georgia was on until I told her, but she’s still one of my favorite students.

"Her father killed himself last night."

* * * * *

On our first day of training in Budapest, we were warned about the Hungarian mindset. It’s a fragile thing, captured within a rather sorrowful national history. They get a little negative, they’re not always so optimistic. Life’s a little bit more difficult here, some Hungarians tend to feel like they aren’t capable of initiating positive change. So as a race of people they make the biggest change possible, at astounding rates. The non-option is an option in Hungary.

Hungarians have been known to hang themselves, poison themselves, shoot themselves, jump out of windows from the highest building in town. Often. Through the fall of communism in 1989, Hungary almost always led the world in per capita suicide rates. Ethnic Hungarians in neighboring countries are more likely to take their own life than their non-Hungarian countrymen. It’s just the way it is.

Hajni offered a scenario during training. What would you do, she asked us, if you were the leader of a 16th century Hungarian village and Turk invaders were at your gate, threatening to massacre the whole town unless the town gave the invaders all the young women. We agreed that the situation was grim, but we concocted plans like "hold out for reinforcements" or "ask the Lithuanians for help." The correct answer to this sort of untenable situation, in the Hungarian way of thinking Hajni assured us, is falling upon your own sword.

Rather than compromise with the Austrians sometime in the 19th century, a leading politician of the day jumped off a bridge into the icy Danube. And when a 20th century prime minister found his alliance with Hitler leading to destruction, he could muster no response but to kill himself.

An unknown poet was tormented by demons in his head, as I suppose all the best poets are. So Attila Jozsef threw himself in front of a train. He was 32. He became a national hero and one of their most famous, dearest-loved poets.

Unless they know something we don’t...

* * * * *

The plan on that little scrap of paper lay crumpled up in a garbage can as I started to climb the two flights of stairs to 12B’s classroom. I went slower than normal. Now my mind was racing in a higher gear, twisting itself to find the right tenor of sympathy, coping not with my pain, but with a pain that belonged to others.

Class 12B and I have a history. Back in November, in the spirit of environmentalism, I walked out the door hoping they would follow me to spend a class period picking up litter. Not a single one came. Thirty-two students strong, they have learned together in the same classroom for the past four years. Except for language classes, when 22 kids learn English together and the other ten learn German. A couple times a week they flip-flop languages, they each have to learn a little bit of both by the time they graduate.

And they will be doing just that soon. We toasted them with Russian champagne at their December ribbon ceremony celebrating their impending graduation. Some will head off to university, others will go to community colleges, some will do neither. The champagne that night was called Perestroika. Perestroika in Russian means "restructuring." Soon they all will be doing just that, released from school into the real world.

As I got closer to their classroom, I was still uncertain of the next step. I didn’t feel well-prepared for that moment. And part of it, of course, is that I’m not a teacher. My certification process was an online course and time on the job. My professional training is in facilitating and being a leader. My educational background is in India and writing stories. My work experience is telling stories and making people smile. My pedigree falls from an "educator" and a librarian.

I’m a mutt. But here in Hungary, that’s enough. In fact, it’s perfect. An English-speaking mutt meets all the requisite criteria.

Normal education classes, and I suppose the graduate degree that my little sister will earn next year, offer you protocol and procedures for most situations in the classroom, even if they might not tell you exactly how to handle the aftermath of a tragedy like this with children. But I never learned any of that. And I probably wouldn't be interested. I’m a bit unconventional, I suppose.

Last year, I caught a 9th grader trying to cheat on a vocabulary test. It was my fifth day on the job. I sat her down and talked. I told her that I had once cheated on German quizzes. It’s not okay. As the bell was about to ring, desperate for a meaningful punishment, I scrawled "Who is Patty Nelson?" on the bottom corner of her quiz paper. I assigned her to write a one-page essay. In English. A council of a dozen of my most-respected friends wrote a response to the essay she gave to me the next day in an envelope. To this day, I have a Patty Nelson folder in my email box, dedicated to the emails of confusion I get from her and the replies of encouragement I offer back.

One class in particular, last year, was unruly. Eighth hour. A difficult blend of ages, abilities, interests and maturity levels in a first-year German class. One Friday afternoon I reached my boiling point, which is rather high. For the final five minutes of class, out of desperation, I chanted "Carpe diem, lads! Seize the day, make your life extraordinary" in giant oratory circles. I believe at one point I was standing on a desk. I didn’t stop until the left student left the room, probably in some stage of wonder.

Fourth hour got an hour-long discussion on the point of life. Seventh hour learned the German past tenses by playing four-square. Both heard some of the stories of my life, because I think they are good learning tools. At the end of the year last June, we pushed the tables to the edges of the room and sat in a circle. Just as if we had been tight-roping across wires on a ropes course fifty feet in the year, we debriefed the year. It was an experience, full of little experiences. We talked, we tried to appreciate what we could take-away, what we could learn from that process.

My approach to learning in the classroom, to almost all situations of note, comes from that goulash of a background. Life is full of experiences, forming some sort of a grandiose whole. Live, enjoy the ride. Then, learn from the little experiences to make the later ones, and the bigger picture, more meaningful.

Sometimes, learning about life is more important than learning about an academic subject. Because life, at least in some people’s eyes, is a precious thing.

* * * * *

I opened the door only very hesitantly. I peeked in, unsure of what I’d see inside. The class’s form-teacher waved me in silently, somberly. Georgia was standing, body quivering at the front of the classroom. Today, she was the teacher. Every one of the students was silent, most were looking distraught. Some in tears. The teacher set a chair behind Georgia and she collapsed into it.

I couldn’t understand a word of what she said. I didn’t need to.

When she finally sighed one last word and choked back a sob, every student lined up, single-file, facing her. A wake, cued by that conclusion of her eulogy. It was the second time these young people had stood in line that morning.

Each of her classmates stepped forward to kiss her delicately on two cheeks. First Georgia’s left. Then Georgia’s right. The last boy had blond hair. He kissed her cheeks, then hugged her. I didn’t know him, he’s a German student. I wondered if he was a boyfriend, he seemed to linger in a sympathetic understanding. Georgia stood, wiping her eyes, and looked toward her form-teacher. They walked together towards the door, towards me.

I wanted to hug her as tightly as I’ve ever hugged anyone after a campfire. I wanted to hug her and say that hugs are special in my country. I wanted to say so many words that might help her. I wanted to cry to show her that others cared about her and life and happiness. I wanted to squeeze her. I wanted to wash her with my tears, that hers might not be alone. I wanted to look into her eyes and connect with her at that human level that assures you that the world exists, the others surround you, that you are not alone.

Instead, I kissed her twice on the cheeks and she walked out the door. The form-teacher closed it behind them. I exhaled. I swallowed. I turned from the door to look at the kids. Each of them was looking at me, many from behind red eyes.

Setting my bag down, I didn’t say a word. I went straight to the blackboard, slowly and deliberately. I was still thinking. I picked up the chalk. I looked at it, as if it would have any meaning more than usual. Slowly, I lifted the chalk to the blackboard. It’s green in 12B’s classroom.

I wrote SPRING in big block letters, slowly, quietly and carefully. These days, I write just about everything in capital letters. I feel like it makes my writing more accessible, slows my writing process just enough to reassure me of words and phrases, and grants a bit of status and importance to whatever I write. Below it, I carved the chalk along the board in the shape of the German word FRÜHLING.

I paused. Beneath the two big words, I etched two sentences. "Why must we have spring in our lives?" I paused to think about the best possible German translation. "Warum muss man in unsere Leben Frühling haben?" I was sure of the grammar in first one, but not in the second one.

I picked up six pieces of chalk. All the pieces of chalk. I was still looking at the floor, thinking, as I walked to one of the front desks. I sat on top of it, casually. I finally looked up at the kids. They were all looking at me.

"Today is a little sad," I admitted, delicately. Like almost all of the ten-million other people in this country, I’ve been fighting off a cold of late. My voice wasn’t strong. "Heute ist ein bisschen schade," I echoed in German. You get good at a foreign language when you must translate your own thoughts, one line at a time, for the benefit of others.

Then I pointed behind me, back toward the board. "Spring." I left long pauses between my words. "Frühling." Just the two words on the board, everything else was blank. My ideas always make sense in my own mind. Sometimes they are understandable to others.

"What is spring?" I asked. When I know what I am doing, my voice can sound like a preacher. I repeated the question in German, "Was ist Frühling?" for the half of the congregation that could only understand me what I use that language. There was silence. Comfort with silence is an acquired ability. I am patient.

Finally, the blond-haired boy raised a tentative hand, just barely off the table. I smiled and nodded. "Love?" he hypothesized. I smiled. Spring is love.

In an arch that almost touched the ceiling, I tossed him one of the pieces of chalk. The German commands are much easier when you use the exceedingly formal construction. "Bitte, schreiben sie es," I said, with a nod to the board. In big letters, he wrote the letters l-o-v-e on the board and sat back down. He seemed to know what spring was.

"What is spring? Was ist Frühling?" I repeated. Spring is more than just love. But there was nothing. The silence stagnated. Left unchecked, it would become suffocating.

Nothing but birds chirping.

I pointed to the window. "Spring is birds. Birds chirping. Can you hear them?" I wrote it on the board, birds chirping. And waiting. Nothing. Nothing but the birds.

"Spring is flowers," I said suddenly and brightly. I drew a flower on the board. Underneath it, the Hungarian word virag. I had realized the moment before that this experience-in-progress was too important to insist upon imposing a foreign language.

"What’s the Hungarian word for spring?" I asked. Someone volunteered "tavasz." Kids always laugh trying to watch me work through the Hungarian phonetics as I try to spell in a language with 40-odd letters.

In one of the front seats, Ligeti Erika smiled. Each time she smiles, I fall a little bit in love. Blond hair -- I think it’s real -- frames her smile. Like many Hungarian smiles, it isn't quite perfect, but you learn to love the uniqueness of each one.

"Spring is…born…again," she thought out loud. I walked quickly to the board. Momentum is precious. I wrote born again. Then, on the other side of an equal sign, I wrote rebirth. I didn’t know the German equivalent.

From the back, Török Ildiko’s eyes glimmered as she raised her hand. Each time I look into her eyes, I fall a little bit in love. One is blue. One is brown. In February, I orchestrated an in-class valentine-writing activity mostly so that I could tell her that here eyes were one of the most beautiful things in this town of 10,000. And probably in this whole land of ten million.

"Spring is 'wake up?'" she proposed. I agreed. I scrawled wake up = awakening. Again, I could only guess at the German. We were flowing. I was getting excited.

"I think of ladybugs, how do you say ladybug in Hungarian," I asked. Someone said katicabogar. I threw the voice a piece of chalk and asked them to write it on the board.

"What about ‘melt.’ Snow melts when it is warm. Ice melts into water. What’s the Hungarian verb for ‘to melt?’" I queried. Another piece of chalk was tossed to the voice that answered olvad.

I get pretty animated when I’m excited. I was flying around the room, launching English words and chalk. There was always a Hungarian echo, and a new student sprung up to write the Hungarian word.

Bunny? Nyuski!

Kite? Héja!

To bloom? Viragzás!

Blue skies? Kek ég!

I’m sure the neighboring rooms were wondering what was going on when I finished the brainstorm with a flurry, a crescendo building to the climax of this experience.

I sat down. I threw my hand backward at our board now covered with English, German, Hungarian and pictures. What spring is.

"Why must we have spring in our lives?" I asked quietly, peacefully. I had thought more about the German equivalent. I decided a better sentence would be "Warum müssen wir Frühling in unsere Leben haben?" I asked that question, too.

Erika smiled. "Happiness," she said, as if it was the answer to every question. Her boyfriend is a 22-year-old truck driver.

Some of the English-speakers bobbed their head in approval. I nodded, too. Then I found an English-Hungarian dictionary. I flipped to the h-section, but looking for a different word with the same beginning.

I strode to the board, confident in the impending impact of this learning experience. I erased the words spring and Frühling in the middle of the board. It left a giant hole in the middle of words and drawings. I copied directly from the dictionary to the middle of that hole. I didn’t even finish writing remény before all the kids, English and German students alike, knew exactly what I was imprinting onto the board and into their mind.

"Spring is hope," I proselytized, attempting to convert those curious eyes in the pews of school desks into our positive American way of thinking. In our way of thinking, life is a dream. It’s meant to be enjoyed, not ended. For us, happiness is possible. It’s a goal. Destiny is a matter of choice and effort. I don’t mind being a colonist in this regard, I think it’s a good way to live life.

I clasped my hands in front of me. "Please, please, please, always have remény." I used the Hungarian word. "Bitte, bitte, bitte, habt ihr immer remény."

I picked up my bag. I turned on the one classroom light that spotlights the chalkboard. I turned off all the other lights in the room. I opened the door. One of the kids asked quietly where I was going, I didn’t answer. I closed the door behind me.

* * * * *

I had completely invested myself in that classroom, I had left myself in that moment. I had a hard time walking down the hall. I stopped halfway to the stairs. Hanging on the wall was a plaque commemorating the Heves High graduating class of 1998. The outfits looked ridiculous, but if I had been born in Heves, my picture would have been on that board. The class of 1998.

I must have been looking at it for long time when I realized a boy, almost a man, was standing next to me. It was the blond-haired boy who had comforted Georgia the longest, the one who seemed to know what spring was.

"I graduated high school in 1998," I said, pointing at the picture, as if to try to explain myself, in defense of my space-iness. He must have had the same urge, to explain why he was in the same hallway as me.

"They talk about Gyongyi’s father," he said wistfully and then added "I left." If there weren’t such a thing as different languages and thought processes and forms of communication, I think I would have understood him to say "I couldn’t bear to sit in that room." I didn’t know why, until he told me.

"I lost my father three years ago."

I nodded as if I understood. As if I could understand. We talked for fifteen minutes, standing in that hall, half in German and half in English, until the bell rang. Then I shook his hand.

* * * * *

This week in Heves, the snow is melting. Flowers that were brave enough to poke through the snow are already blossoming. Others are just now starting to burst from the brown below. The winds are carrying a gentle coolness these days, not a biting cold.

Awakening. Rebirth. Happiness. Spring is here. Hope is here.

And the birds are here to break any silence.

I’m not sure why Georgia’s dad couldn’t hear them.

I hope that Georgia can.