I started assembling the collage of photos for this post on March 30th, and then abandoned it.
The title, which I decided upon before writing anything, was meant to allude to the commencement of the переезд ('moving') from the old, historic conservatory building to the new one a block away, also to my turning twenty and officially leaving the teens behind. Perhaps, also to the feeling I experienced at that time of finally "settling" into the new semester.
Subconsciously, I was likely also thinking of the transition from my illusion of what it was that I would find at the conservatory, and what was waiting for me when I eventually opened my eyes.
In a way, the moving from the old building to the new aptly fits this feeling I began to experience at that time. The beauty of the historic building stripped away, I began to notice the shallow, prejudiced, closed-minded attitudes prevalent not only in the lectures I was attending, but in the general culture of my art in the city.
I noticed the professors bleat political propaganda. I overheard anti-semitic "jokes" between students, one of which quickly lapsed into uncomfortable silence when a member of their conservation dryly mentioned that they had a Jewish grandfather. I learned that a certain abhorrent racial slur is in common use in Russia, and though I was assured it was not used maliciously, I was still shocked. I also discovered that I, who have always been considered Caucasian (read: white) in the US, am in Russia often confused for being Caucasian - as in, from Georgia, Armenia, or Azerbaijan, the countries through which lie the Caucasus Mountains. I avoided writing any more on this blog, I think, because the heaviness that settled on my shoulders did not seem to lend itself much to inspirational wanderings and musings on this city and its culture. "If you can't say nothin' nice, don't say nothin' at all..." I thought wryly to myself . Then I got very quiet for a very long time.
I no longer felt the desire to take a Sunday and a new patch of Petersburg and explore it with my camera. There was no energy left for moments of spontaneity and new discoveries. Even trips to the Hermitage, or my beloved Mariinsky became (I hate to say it) practically a chore - a dose of culture I took weekly, grimacing, wondering if I could live with the guilt of rushing through the Raphaels or skipping the third act of Swan Lake to get home, shower, and forget about things for a while.
When I try to think of what it was exactly that seemed to have defeated me, I think of an event that occurred in the week leading up to our final exams.
Ninel Alexandrovna Petrova (my teacher in specialty classes) came in one morning, and asked which one of us spoke English. Everyone looked to me. Oh boy.
Ninel Alexandrovna had with her a copy of Ann Hutchinson Guest’s text and Laban notation (notation of dance movements, like music notes) of the ballet we had been intensively studying that semester . Ninel Alexandrovna wanted someone to read what Hutchinson-Guest had written, and explain to her the difference between the version staged with Hutchinson-Guest’s research, and the slightly later version which is in the repertoire of most other ballet companies (including the Mariinsky Theatre's) currently.
I immediately consented, barely containing my excitement. Finally! Here was my chance to prove myself, to show them how diligently I had studied Russian. I am not a seasoned ex-soloist with a famous ballet company, like some of the others in my class, but this project was one that required different skills, and it was a way I could show that I was smart and could be a valuable member of the class in my own way.
Ninel said, “But I’m afraid you can’t take the book with you. The author’s autograph is in it, made out to my late husband, and I don’t want…”, she looked up at me almost suspiciously as she clutched the book convulsively to her chest, as though protecting the autograph from the oil of my prying fingers. “It’ll be in the concert-meister’s safe, with the music notes for class, so you can translate it while you’re at the conservatory. Just ask the pianist when you want it, and she’ll get it out for you.” I looked to Lena, our pianist, and she leered sourly at me, apparently scandalised at the idea that she would be ordered to open the safe by this 'unmusical, dull-witted American girl', as she calls me. She’s such ray of sunshine, Lena is.
Panic began to set in. The image of myself working by candle light bent over the book, dictionary in my trembling hand, Lena breathing down my neck waiting for me to finish, burned in my mind. Just then, I had the thought to take photos of the relevant pages, and work on my assignment at home. Wow, kiddo, thought of that one all by yourself, did you? Умница...
I remember how painstakingly I double and triple checked all my translations, and spent several hours fretting over the grammar and complicated case-endings. I colour coded, denoted crucial stressed syllables (in Russian, a word stressed on the wrong syllable alters its meaning completely), and practised reciting the translation under my breath while grocery shopping, and in the shower. When my moment came, I was determined that it seem as natural as possible.
A few days later, at the next lesson, Ninel hobbled in the room and squawked, “Sonya!”, (she’s called me Sonya from the beginning, it’s still a mystery to me as to why) "Did you translate it? Will you tell me what Hutchinson-Guest said, now? Read it to me, my eyes are bad.”
I carefully read the translation I had written.
“Well, yes, good, it’s clear, we all understand the difference, I think. Although, it’s a pity there’s a lot of words she didn’t know, we didn’t get the full meaning, a pity…” She said, after I had finished explaining. It would have done no good to remind her I had only studied Russian for six months - four months, if you consider that I returned home for most of December and all of January. But I still rather childishly wish that someone had tried.
I hasten to add, that I am truly fond of her. Such is the usual attitude here towards the foreigners (although, I suppose I should only speak for myself), that at this point I do little more than sigh, smile a little, and convince myself that thank-you’s are overrated anyway.
During our exam, a week after the translation was read, one of the professors on the examination panel asked about the ways a ballet like the one we had been rehearsing could be revived, if after many years of being forgotten only notation and sketches of it remain. My closest friend here, Katya, quickly answered the question. She used the exact words I had, when I had half-translated and half-explained the passage from that book for Ninel a week previously. “Very interesting, good for you, Katya.”
She glanced at me, then quickly looked away, and thanked the teacher. I expect there is some logic behind that uncomfortable moment, such as “well, you’re foreign, so you can’t get any credit in the exams anyway - so what’s the harm in me taking it instead, after all?”. At any rate, I convinced myself afterwards that it's good to know they were all listening as the American bumbled her way through the translation, "missing so much of the original meaning”, eh?
It was not the event that took the spirit out of me, but for me that anecdote captures the essence of what happened in some way or another on a daily basis. A thousand drops of acid rain sizzling on my skin. A thousand steely scabs that grew over the tender spots as they healed.
I was, as they said, not своя ('one's own') but чужая ('strange, alien, foreign, belonging to another'). Свой/своя is also used colloquially to denote affectionate familiarity and fondness. Whereas, чужой/чужая can have a negative connotation, denoting something not of the place that brings confusion, unfamiliarity, and strife.
It was, then, with a heavy heart and a head full of troubles that I left St Petersburg.
I hope that with the time away that this summer at home offers me I will be able to rekindle the light that went out, rally the scattered troops, and discover a way to be my own kind of чужая that can live happily and quietly beside the others without needing or wanting to ever be entirely theirs. Perhaps, I shall find that I enjoy being the only one of my own species...maybe even dragging behind me a little of the happy mayhem and unfamiliarity that they seem so sure I'll bring.
But, impossible, cold, and infuriating as they often are, I never seem to be able to stay angry at them for long.