[The Montana Professor 22.1, Fall 2011 <http://mtprof.msun.edu>]
Danielle Jones
English
UM-Western
d_jones@umwestern.edu
When Leo Tolstoy, Feodor Dostoevsky, and Anna Akhmatova wrote their classic texts, they never imagined their intended audience would be a cowgirl from Montana—though perhaps they might have been amused by the image of a young woman, braids trailing out from under her cowboy hat, lounging on a dilapidated back porch, perusing Russian literature. Fields of alfalfa rolling away from her for miles in every direction until they tilt steeply upward and form tall rocky mountains peaked with snow, the cowgirl rests her dirty boots on an overturned Coleman cooler and holds in one hand a Coors Light and in the other An Anthology of Russian Literature—or Experiences in Translation, the books I required my students to read last winter in LIT 302, Literature in Translation. And yes, among those students were bona fide cowgirls—just like me.
I'm in my second year of teaching English at the University of Montana Western in Dillon. This is my hometown. I grew up on a working cattle ranch nearby in the Horse Prairie. Our ranch is one of the few where everything is still done from the back of a horse: sorting and branding calves, moving cow-calf pairs to mountain pastures, roping and doctoring sick cattle. Horses are our most dependable vehicles, utilitarian tools of the trade, our pride, joy, friends. To my knowledge, I'm the only professor at Western who grew up on a ranch, graduated from the high school a few blocks away, then left to travel, earn a Ph.D. and return here to teach.
Last winter, I taught Literature in Translation. I'd just returned from two months in Perm, Russia, with my husband and daughter and was still having trouble switching my brain back to English on the first day of class. I took roll and asked my students to write down on a note card a distinguishing characteristic I could remember them by. Mano's was "Hawaiian!" As my only minority student, Mano is easy to remember—a square-faced young man in shorts with two gold hoop earrings and a black tribal tattoo down his right leg. Another card was from Meredith. She wrote, "I plan to teach high school in a more foggy/rainy place upon graduation. I have naturally red hair and like hats." She's easy to remember as well: a heavy-set gal with extremely light skin who sat in the back row with her arms crossed and her lips set in a thin line. Dakota sat next to her. Long silver earrings sparkled under her dark hair as she sported heavily-mascaraed black eyes. She wrote, "I rodeo & my horses + my dogs are really important to me."
She was not the only cowgirl in class nor the only student wearing Wranglers and cowboy boots. Rural Montana kids. I wondered how they'd respond to this class. Russian literature is difficult and exotic for most Americans, much less for students from a bucolic background like western Montana.
After collecting the cards, I asked, "Why should we study Literature in Translation?"
"I don't know," Mano smiled and shrugged.
"So we know something about the world out there," Meredith said pushing back a red curl from her forehead.
"To expose us to other ideas and ways of doing things," Dakota added.
"Absolutely," I agreed. I pulled out a list of the World Library's one hundred most important books. The UK has fourteen entries, Russia ten, and America six. Dostoevsky, at four books, has the most of any writer. I asked them if they could guess the Russian books.
"War and Peace," Mano said.
"Lolita?" Dakota asked.
"Crime and Punishment," Paige said. She's a blue-eyed, blond-haired basketball player who took an American Literature class with me earlier in the year.
After these three, the class drew a blank.
"I hope by the end of this class, you'll be much more familiar with Russian literature. Maybe you'll even grow to love it as much as I do," I told them.
"Whatever," I heard Mano whisper to Dakota. She nodded slightly in agreement.
Now if someone had told me when I was eighteen that I'd love Russian literature and teach it at Western, I would have laughed at them.
I loved growing up on a ranch. It was the only childhood I could have ever wanted: spring, summer, fall, or winter. In the spring, there was branding, fencing, and irrigating. Cold water from a tin cup straight from the side of a mountain. The acrid sizzle of hair on a branding iron. Summer found us weaning, herding, and haying. The sweet pungency of freshly-cut alfalfa falling beneath the swather. Fall was time for gathering, sorting, and shipping. Riding light in the stirrups on the slippery grass. Rattlesnakes and wild irises rattling in the dry breeze. Winter was longer: feeding, doctoring, and calving. Frosted fingers and toes. Beer bread and chili. Getting bucked off and getting back on.
I loved every minute of my childhood, even the ones I hated.
I never expected to return to Dillon, though. My parents made it clear I should go to college, find a good husband, have kids. I did. My husband, Kreg, is an architect. We've been married fourteen years and have a twelve-year-old daughter. Before we married, I returned to the ranch during my college vacations and worked on the hay crew or jumped on a horse and helped brand. But it was plain there was no permanent place for me on the ranch.
To my great surprise, Russia became my ranch. I made my first visit, at the age of twenty, to Ukraine in 1994, just three years after communism crumbled. I was in college and eager to explore the world. When a young couple I knew offered to let me stay with them in Kiev for the summer, I readily accepted. They didn't know much more about the language and culture than I did, but we fell in love with Russia together. Later, I began studying the language and literature alongside my graduate work in English. After we married, Kreg and I spent a summer in Vladivostok learning Russian. On other trips, I attended writing conferences and visited friends in St. Petersburg and Moscow. One memorable spring, I helped host a camp for orphans outside of Vladimir. By this time, I was an enthusiastic and devoted student of all things Russian. When my husband and I decided to adopt, we didn't think twice about where the child should come from. Most of 2007, I lived in Tver and battled the court system to formalize the adoption of our daughter, Angelika.
Russia demanded of me the same hard work, focus, and fortitude as the ranch. Whether I was partaking in a nude banya with the female university president, or landing in jail after accidentally bribing a militsia, or getting on a bus that would take me to a remote village instead of my favorite shoe store, the excitement seemed to never end. I committed all the normal faux pas that come with second-language acquisition—like saying the word "peeing" instead of "writing" to a prim instructor or buying a birthday present for the wrong person.
I didn't share many of my stories with my students, though. It seemed more important to focus on the ones in the course anthology. We read Pushkin's The Bronze Horseman, Gogol's "The Overcoat," and Lermontov's "Taman." My students struggled with the stories but liked the characters. I was pleased to see them grapple with the culture and customs of a location very different from Dillon and, in doing so, expand both their understanding of the world and their world. Each day, I gave the student who wrote the best discussion question and answer a prize from Russia: a shaving kit from our hotel, a pair of flimsy slippers, compliments of the train we rode on, or a bar of chocolate.
"Russians are not known for their chocolate," I warned them. "I wouldn't eat it if I were you, but you're welcome to if you'd like to."
Mano tried one. "Ew," he said. "It's not that bad."
They also read chapters from Experiences in Translation, and we discussed faithful translations versus literal ones, denotation and connotation, and why there is no such thing as an exact synonym. I gave them specific illustrations of traditions in Russia, like offering someone a loaf of bread and some salt as a sign of hospitality. We learned why poetry is the most difficult genre to translate. I provided them with examples from Anna Akhmatova's Requiem, particularly where she utters a single word, magoo, which is often translated into English with two or more words—hence, losing its original effect. We discussed foreignizing and domesticating, expressive substance and aesthetic effect.
In the second week of class, we read "A Meek Woman: A Fantastic Story" by Dostoyevsky.
"What does he mean by 'fantastic'?" I asked.
"Wonderful?" Mano asked stretching his tattooed arms above his head.
"Not in this context," I said.
"I titled it 'fantastic' although I consider it to be realistic to the highest degree," Meredith read out loud from Dostoyevsky's author's note.
"Yes," I said. I explained that according to many scholars Crime and Punishment was the first great modern novel. Dostoyevsky was interested in psychological realism and how he could configure a text to give the reader the illusion of living through the same spiritual struggles as his heroes. Thus, "The Meek Woman" is fantastic because it's the "fantasy" the cruel husband narrates for us while revealing his own psychological state and the "truth" of the suicide of his wife. In effect, he murdered her through his cruelty; the story is his rationalization of his actions.
"Wow," Paige said, her blue eyes wide. "We just learned a whole lesson about language before even reading the story."
I laughed and was pleased. I treasure the times when I hear excitement in my students' voices because it doesn't happen every day or with every story. While getting my second masters degree, my thesis director told me with disgust that my grammar and punctuation were as bad as a freshman's. (They probably were.) So I bought a grammar book and sat down to teach myself what no one else had. Now, as a professor, I sympathize with my students. Perhaps I'm not as patient as I should be, but I try to meet them where they are and teach them what they need to know.
During the Literature in Translation class, I outlined Tsarist and Soviet history, gave them notes on the cultural background of the texts, showed a video clip about Stalin and a documentary on the Ukrainian famine, assigned small groups to identify the narrative techniques, and gave them hands-on writing assignments. I worked to bridge their knowledge gaps in any way I could think of—to transport them to Russia or to bring Russia to them. I often made ranch analogies: Literature is like a fine horse, I told them. A child can ride any horse and love it, but it's not until a cowgirl is older and has ridden many that she will appreciate a really fine one.
My family raised registered quarter horses on our ranch. I adored all my childhood horses: Chester, a chestnut with thin skin who was forever covered in mosquito bites; Diamondhead, an ex-roping horse, who always wanted to run and would chomp at his bit and prance if forced to walk or trot; Shooting Star, a striking gray colt I raised and broke myself, who died unexpectedly in a lightning strike; Sparky, my quirky little colt who would buck me off two or three times on a crisp fall morning when he was feeling feisty; and Gorgeous, my black mare with a white star. Twice as ornery as all the others put together, this mare would grab the bit in her mouth and run away with me. She only produced one colt during her long life and finally died this past winter, the last of my horses, at the age of twenty-nine.
When my younger sister, Karen, and I were still in grade school, we'd spend time with our horses in the pasture if we weren't working with Dad. Sometimes, we'd just go visit them with a bucket of oats. Other times, we'd bring a halter or bridle and climb on bareback and ride them around the pasture. When we got a little older, ten and twelve, we began jumping ditches. We'd find a place with a few ditches in a row and run our horses so they would jump them in succession. We'd hang on tight to their manes and squeeze our legs around their midsections. We'd come home with sweat and horsehair caked to our Wranglers, tired and maybe a little muddy from falling in a ditch, but satisfied as could be with our play.
Likewise many of my students either ride or rodeo, so I'm interested to see their reaction to Tolstoy's short story, "Holstomer: The Story of a Horse." The text is told from the point of view of a black and white skewbald gelding who had a long stride and great bloodlines but who was rejected because of his unusual markings. He was born into the stable of a nobleman then sold to various owners who misused him until he broke down in his old age. Tolstoy uses the story to weave in his own ideas about private ownership and the superficiality of the high society he was a part of. It's a well-written and engaging text—I wasn't expecting it to spark an argument.
"This story was a little over the top," Meredith said when she came into the classroom and sat down at the table.
"I liked it," Dakota responded defensively.
"But it's written from the point of view of a horse," Meredith said.
"Exactly. I like that. I've seen horses do all those things—like when that young filly was mean to him. It's just what they feel."
"Horses don't feel."
"Mine does. Mine is my best friend," Dakota said, her voice pitched high. "He has to be, that's how I pay for college—off my rodeo money." She opened her book and ignored Meredith.
"Well," I said joining them. "This might be an interesting discussion." I waited until the rest of the students showed up and we tackled the story as a class. Several people supported Meredith's negative response and others united with Dakota in praising the story.
Later, I mused on the strong reactions to "Holstomer." I've taught in Alaska, Idaho, and New York. Many of the stories we read had animals in them and my students hadn't had such strong responses. I realized that for Dakota and the rest of us who grew up on a ranch, a horse is much more than just an animal. Tolstoy understood this as well, and his apt descriptions of equine behavior captured our sympathy. Tolstoy had bridged the gap between Russia and Dillon. At least for one class period. And I hoped it would give my students new impetus for the rest of the course.
I must confess that there were times I was astounded by my students' lack of knowledge of history and their inability to grasp a plot, but more often I was amazed by their tenacity in struggling through the texts: Bely's dense language, Bulkakov's unreliable narrators, and Ilf and Petrov's dry humor. Some thought the Kulaks deserved to have their land taken from them as in Sholokov's story and others were offended by the lover in Chekhov's "Lady with a Lapdog." Still, they all kept reading the stories and completing their assignments. No one dropped the class. I told them their hard work was refreshing and rewarded them with more bad chocolates and Russian kitsch.
To make the problems of translation understandable, I thought up as many hands-on activities as I could. I showed them a Russian cartoon and had them guess at the story, then replayed it in English. I started with a paragraph in English, had Google translator put it into French, German, and Farsi and then back to English. By the fourth translation, the paragraph was hilarious. We watched movie "translations" and read poetry set to music and images. We translated a story we made up in class from cowboy drawl to hip-hop to valley girl.
Some of my favorite moments in class were watching Dakota finish an assignment. In rodeo, the event she excels at is breakaway roping. On a good day, she will catch the calf a few yards into the arena. When the loop settles around the calf's neck, she throws both hands up in the air. This means "time" or "stop the clock." The fastest cowgirl wins. In class I've noticed her finish an assignment or answer a question and then throw her hands up in the air, as if to say, "I've caught my calf!" This celebratory gesture got a laugh out of me every time.
Six years ago when my husband suggested moving back to Montana, I was reluctant. We were living in New York at the time. On the weekends, we went to readings, art shows, and museums. I cherished visiting a new ethnic restaurant every Saturday, attending a Russian-speaking church, and teaching ESL to a group of Japanese exchange students. I finally agreed to move to Bozeman when Kreg got a position as an architect at a good firm. I hoped to write full-time. When the economy crashed two years ago, it left us scrambling for work. Kreg procured several projects in Dillon and the position in the English Department opened at Western. I grudgingly agreed to apply. "I hope my students' attitudes are better than mine," I told Kreg.
They are. Much better.
But I'm coming around.
Their enthusiasm is infectious. Without realizing it, I had grown out of a cowgirl into a snob. It's poetic justice, I suppose, that it took a few cowgirls to show me this.
On the last day of class, I told my students a special guest was going to join us. "She's from Russia and only speaks Russian," I said. "So it will be a good chance for you to ask her questions and also see how live translation works." I didn't tell them the special guest was my twelve-year-old daughter. When my husband brought her to class, she stood in front in her pink pearlesque glasses, clasping her hands behind her back, a little nervous but excited to be there. Mano had met Kreg before and waved at him. I greeted Angelika in Russian and introduced her to the class.
"You only taught your daughter Russian?" Mano asked in shock.
I laughed but didn't answer. I directed the class to write down several questions for Angelika and to give them to Paige. When they were done, I invited Paige to sit facing my daughter.
"The way this works," I explained to Paige, "is you look at her and talk to her, but listen to how I translate her words." She nodded.
"Hello," Paige said, "My name is Paige."
"Previet," I translated, "Menya zavoot Paaj."
Paige laughed to hear her name at the end of this phrase.
"How long have you lived here?" Paige asked.
"Potchtee tree goda..." Angelika started to answer.
"Wait," I tell her in Russian. "Remember, you're not supposed to know what she's saying. So wait for my translation."
"OK, Mama," she said.
"Almost three years," I told Paige in English.
Paige asked her what she liked about Russia and America respectively, the differences between the school systems, weather, and animals. I translated back that she misses her friends, her favorite foods—sardines and pelemeni. She said the schools in Russia have much stricter discipline. It's also colder in Russia, and there are no hedgehogs here. My students watched these exchanges leaning forward in their chairs and listening carefully. Finally, I let them in on the secret: Angelika speaks English, too. She was just pretending not to understand so they could see what live translation was like.
"That was really cool," Mano enthused.
"It was weird to talk like that," Paige said. "But I understand much better now how hard it must be to translate a book."
We all thanked Angelika with a round of applause, then I asked my students to make a final entry in their journals critiquing the class. Back in my office with their journals piled around me, I read through them. I was not surprised by the gripes and comments: the texts were difficult, the Russian names impossible to pronounce, and the reading list too long. I was interested to see how divided they were on the story selections. Some said the stories they liked best were "Holstomer" and "A Meek Woman." Others chose these as their least favorite. They all recommended using the same anthology and the now-familiar interactive methods to engage with translation problems.
One student wrote, "Most American writers are scared.... Some of us as students cannot afford the big trip to Europe and probably will never leave the US but reading these books gives us a sense of 'outside the box' thinking we wouldn't have otherwise." Another said, "This is a very good required class, especially for somewhere as small as Dillon. Outside, big-world events are easy to forget or ignore in such a sheltered place. Not so when the books you are reading transport you farther than yellow plains and Wednesday night bar fights."
I suspect more experienced professors already know many of the things I've discovered teaching at Western. For my students, I found I needed to provide as many bridges or angles into a foreign subject as possible. They enjoyed being exposed to Russian literature with all its quirks and strangeness. Yet they often needed ways to understand and grapple with the same qualities that make this literature both great and difficult. Background information, analogies, personal stories, hands-on activities, and the occasional bad candy bar all helped. In the end, they appreciated most the texts that were challenging but within their grasp. As an educator, I recognized teaching is a mixture of hard work and creativity, and it's important to maintain a balance. And the serendipitous teaching moment—that Tolstoy moment—cannot be planned, though you can prepare for it. Something along the lines of Thomas Edison's notion that genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration. Finally, I learned that to know the world without is to know the world within—and the world without just might be the hometown you thought you knew but get to discover afresh through the eyes of your students.
I'm going to miss these cowboys—but I look forward to teaching Tolstoy more in this cow town. I might even dig out my cowboy boots and sit on the back porch with a cold one as I prep for next semester.
[The Montana Professor 22.1, Fall 2011 <http://mtprof.msun.edu>]