In Ukraine, during training, we had to learn how to wash all
of our clothes by hand. (An unnecessary side note: During training, though
hardly in an official lesson, we also came slowly to discover that Ukrainian
students of English often pronounced the word “clothes” as “clothe-is”. Where
did this come from? Ukrainian teachers of English, most often.) My host mother,
Tamara, found this handwashing requirement somewhat entertaining. Yes, she and
her daughter did handwash some items, but they also owned a washing machine.
The fact that an American should come to live with them was a source of
constant cause for interest. Although they had volunteered for the opportunity,
I sometimes wondered if it was simply for their entertainment, or even out of
simple curiosity. They were wonderful to me, though, and put up with both the
requirements of Peace Corps—a lock on my door, my own key to the apartment,
etc.—and my own strange personal habits—not eating meat, not drinking alcohol,
practicing yoga, writing a book, and, the focus in this case, insisting on
washing my own clothes. If I was going to have to wash my clothes at my own
site, I would have to learn to do it myself here, I insisted. Tamara would
shrug, smile, and leave me to it, turning back to her own endless work in the
kitchen.
If we’re going to be honest, and I know I’m trying, I will
admit that there are a few times Tamara insisted on washing my jeans. It’s not
that they were particularly dirty, although I only did bring one pair of jeans
with me to Ukraine [the warning that ‘people will judge you based on your
appearance constantly and your clothes will get dirty from regular handwashing’
resulting in a suitcase stuffed with black professional clothing]. Tamara is a
stubborn woman. I am a stubborn woman, too. Undoubtedly. Handwashing jeans,
however, is an unpleasant business. She was washing jeans anyway. Come on.
“Davay!” she
ordered, briskly.
“Hai bude,” I
said. Once, maybe three times. Let it be.
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