Oh. My. Gravy. The day after returning from my site visit to my new home in Tartar, I get a phone call from my LCF (language and culture facilitator). He practically never, ever calls me, so he’s definitely got my attention. The conversation was deceptively casual….what are you doing? Where are you? How long will you be there? And all the while, I’m wondering when he’s going to get to the point. But he never does…he just says he’ll call me later. Huh. Okaaay.
“Later” comes and no mention of anything he wanted to speak with me about. (Hey! I’m in Azerbaijan; English grammar rules are out the window, okay?) We’re a good couple of hours into language class, in fact, when there’s a knock on the door. This was kind of expected, as he’d warned us that the head of the department of language and culture for Peace Corps in Azerbaijan would be popping by to deliver a package which had come in for someone in our group. So he invites her in, she delivers the much-coveted package (we each laid hands on it, just because we could), then she stays. Nooooo!!!! She’s actually going to ask us questions and surreptitiously ascertain whether or not our language has improved? *whimper… Then she looks at me and asks if she can speak with me in private.
Oh. My. Gravy.
Heart in my throat and thoroughly confused and bewildered, I follow her into the school’s hallway. Ever culturally appropriate, she kindly asks how I’m doing, etc, as I just wait for her to hit me with whatever it is she’s got. Then, BLAM! She’s wondering if I will be willing to present a speech, representing the entire AZ11 group of volunteers, at the swearing-in ceremony. The 10-year-anniversary of the Peace Corps being in Azerbaijan swearing-in ceremony. In front of the country director, the American ambassador to Azerbaijan, representatives from several Azerbaijani Ministries (Youth and Sports, Economics and Education), brand new work counterparts, current volunteers and staff and host-family members. In Azerbaijani.
I don’t have to, she says, if I’m uncomfortable. I ask if she has others she intends to ask and she says yes, she does, but if I say yes she won’t bother asking them. I ask if I’d have to memorize the speech or if I could read it, and she says she’d like me to try to memorize it, but I can have a written copy to refer to. It’s only about two minutes, she says. You’ll have help, she says. We’ll help edit your speech in English, help translate it into Azerbaijani….you’ll have our full support. It won’t be just your speech. It should represent your whole group, and since at the time you give it you’ll be sworn-in as a volunteer, it shouldn’t just be about your training experience. You’ll have our full support.
I thought of the honor this meant. Not necessarily for me, but for my LCF. If I can pull this off, if I can do this without completely falling on my face, man! That would be so great for him! To have taken someone that far through all of the ups and downs and blank stares and complete and utter mangling of his native language….to have brought someone so far in just over two months to be able to stand up and give a two-minute speech in Azerbaijani, what a feather in his cap that would be! This young man has been so patient with me (and all of us). He’s laughed with us, been there for us with tension-relieving soccer games, with sympathetic ears, big shoulders and even bigger hugs. He’s been the one rock here I have been able to count on. I thought of him. I thought of him and I told her I would do it.
Oh. My. Gravy.
I tried turning to my fellow trainees for input regarding their experiences and expectations. A handful responded to my pleas, but most, understandably, were busy with their own studies, making lesson plans and business plans and planning day camps for local children. I found out who gave the swearing-in speech for the group which is two years ahead of us and asked her for advice on where to start. She turned out to be a wealth of information, inspiration and support (thank you, Leah!), and bade me turn to my own writing for inspiration and ideas. Huh. Why didn’t I think of that? Turning off my computer, I lay down and tried to go to sleep, a wily mosquito buzzing intermittently around my head. (Apparently this is a new and improved brand of mosquito, as she has thus far eluded my wickedly quick slapping attempts. I shall not divulge the numbers of bruises on my own face and arms I am bound to see in the mirror tomorrow.) Much to my frustration, my brain just would NOT leave the speech thing alone. And then suddenly the speech started writing itself in my head. This, apparently, is why my laptop lives on the floor next to my bed. So in times of need, my speeches will have someplace to be born.
Having been translated into Azerbaijani, and having just received said speech and looked in disbelief at the seventeen endings attached to basically every fourth word, I'm starting to question my sanity. The department head told me today, "You're going to be the most impressive speaker at the ceremony!" I asked which other volunteers were speaking, and she said, "Just you!"
She's right, then. I most certainly WILL be the most impressive speaker. Since I'll be the only one.
Oh. My. Gravy.
Oh. My. Gravy.
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