Estonian Children

In a comment on one of Justin Petrone's blog posts (click here for post), after stating that Estonian children are taught not to talk to strangers and frowned upon if they do, Marko ends with:

"So, the other day when one of the kids said Tere on the street near where I stay, I just turned my head away and kept walking. God knows what their parents are like and it's best not to get involved."

My tiny experience with Estonian children has been under different circumstances. One 9 year old boy was very shy, but I met him as a friend of the family so he didn't have the stranger danger.  When he did open up, he spent most of the time sharing historical facts about Tartu and Estonia, playing strategic board games with me, or reading. Once we sat on top of the book of the Jakob Hurt statue and he stated that it was the place where he read his favorite book of all time.

One little girl was two years old and very sure of herself. She was better at using an ipad and a smartphone than I was. Her confidence was magnetic and it was never a dull moment with her. I couldn't understand what she said, but she didn't need me to. She was narrating her own world and my participation was not needed.

One 7 year old boy was quite childlike and open. When I told him that I will be staying in Estonia for another 2 weeks, he replied without hesitation, "I know. I can see the future. I have seen it." He was also very intuitive and sure of himself. He picked out a necklace for me 5 seconds after walking into a store, after which his mother, who is also sharply intuitive, combed the store and came to the conclusion that she would have picked the same necklace he did. When I first met him at age five, he spent 20 minutes running circles around the room behind me while screaming like a monkey and slamming a cushion against the couch, which sounded like a beaver slapping its tail on the water. His uncle completely ignored it and calmly explained that he just doesn't know how to be around me.

Another child I met just once at an event was very friendly and confident and demonstrated his passion for learning the English language. His knowledge was quite extensive for being so young (age 6 or 7) and having self-taught everything he knew. Then he politely asked if I had any warm clothes, because he wished to invite me outside to the garden. There he exhibited his arrangement of about 2 dozen snails he had placed in a group on top of the white picket fence. I was in such shock by all these snails on the fence that I didn't even think that I could have saved those snails a lot of time by putting them back on the ground. Later, before he and his mom left, he sat next to me and laid his head on my shoulder, then said in English, "We are friends."

Diversity of Estonians

As an American student in Tartu, Estonia for two years, I went through some stages of perception toward Estonians. The first thing that popped out were the differences between Estonian and American communication styles. Dr. Lawrence T. White provides a nice description of these in one of   his recent articles. These differences were important to me in helping me understand my disorientation as I clumsily navigated social situations. Then I saw Estonians as better than Americans, and I wanted to assimilate. Luckily this was not possible (the poker face must be genetic),   because things became even more interesting when I felt comfortable being a weird foreigner in the company of Estonians. I started noticing not only some profound similarities between Estonians and Americans, but also a wide range of diversity within Estonian communication styles themselves.

Such diversity is one reason why they can be so reserved. In a comment on Justine Petrone's blogpost Von Trappe, Marko explains why his mother was very cautious toward building relationships with other families: “ Estonian society is very fractured. Different families can have very different values etc. ‘We are not that kind of people’ must have been the most used phrase during my childhood ...” 

Here is a (much too simple) list of ways that Estonian communication has differed from my perspective:

Geography: Quite a variety of Estonian culture and language exists in different parts of the small country - for example, there is the completely different South Estonian language, the distinct language and culture of Setu people in south-eastern Estonian, the border-towns along Lake Peipsi with old believers who aren't quite Estonian or Russian, and the unique accent of the island of Saaremaa. :)

Age: Younger Estonians tend to be more open than older Estonians who grew up in Soviet times. Also, Estonian children can be so open and playful that they don't mind that you can't understand what they are saying. 

Weather: It's common knowledge that people are more closed while suffering through the long. Estonian winters and more friendly in the summers. I can see this in Colorado too, when everyone is a bit grumpy during shoulder season, the gap between summer and ski season.

Closeness of relationship: Estonians seem to have a thick shell that can be broken through, rendering cultural differences almost meaningless, but it takes a lot more time than I'm used to, and the process of getting closer flows more in terms of a punctuated equilibrium than it does gradually. For example,   the first year I knew one Estonian guy, he was quite closed and our communication was awkward and   prickly. Seemingly overnight, he opened up like family and we were both comfortable being ourselves.

Rate of communication: Those living in neighboring countries mention that a common stereotype of Estonians is that they are “slow” (meaning slow to react or respond in conversation because they are giving their speech more thought). I spent two weeks living with two energetic and talkative Estonian   families, who explained that while some Estonians are “slow,” they themselves are "quite quickly." I've also heard this dichotomy used toward older and younger Estonians.

Estonian semioticians: It seems that Estonians who do not study semiotics have some kind of idea in their mind about Estonians who do study semiotics, and it always amuses me. Whenever I tell a non-semiotician Estonian that I study semiotics, they all give the same look, like 'Oho...one of these..' One asked, "So do you believe it?" Another stated that semioticians are on a different informational plane than other Estonians and that I should not use them as representative of Estonians in general.

Everything above is essentially a context, and here is one more example of a contextual difference: when I am meeting Estonians as a friend of their family, they seem to be consistently friendly, open, and interactive with me. However, when I meet Estonians as a friend of their friend, they may not introduce themselves or approach me.

During my first week in Tartu at the orientation for international students, an Estonian speaker encouraged us to keep communicating with Estonians, because they are interested in us even if they don't seem like it. I am happy she was there to tell us this, because the more I learn about Estonians, the more interesting they become. 

Three degrees of separation in Estonia

"6 degrees of separation" (originally from a Hungarian author, Frigyes Carinthy, in his work Chains) is the idea that you know everyone in the world through a chain of 5 'middle-men' at maximum. Estonians say that in Estonia, this number is three. It's interesting for an American to see that Estonian celebrities - even the President or the Prime Minister, can enter any grocery store without getting harrassed or even spoken to by a stranger. I had so many Estonians tell me about times they saw the President or some celebrity in an everyday place, and wanted deeply to say something to the person, but ultimately did not, due to shyness or not being able to articulate what they wanted to say.

I had a funny experience with the 3 degrees of separation in Estonia on Jaaniõhtul this year. Jaaniõhtu is the evening before St. John's day (Jaanipaev), and is celebrated with large bonfires all night among other festivities. It comes second only to Christmas.

Märt and I started the drive to south Estonia. We planned to visit his friend Eston first, stay for a short time, and then go to his relative's place in Utita where his parents and sister's family would meet us, among others, as we did last year.

His mother asked us to bring fresh potatoes. After we had departed Tartu we realized we forgot to get these. Shortly after our realization we spotted a car parked at the side of the road with a cardboard sign for fresh potatoes. Problem solved.

Further on, there was a white stand next to the road advertising smoked eel, sült, and strawberries. The strawberries were a bit expensive so we purchased 3 smoked eels. They filled the car with an intense and delicious smell.

Later on, we entered an area surrounded by strawberry fields. Märt spontaneously called to his friend, the owner of these fields, and asked if we could trade a smoked eel for some strawberries. His friend agreed, and as soon as we arrived at the barn where they were stored, we were told that another friend of Märt's, who I had coincidentally met over coffee at his parents' house a few days ago, had already found out that Märt was buying strawberries here and not from him, as he also had strawberry fields. Märt joked that he only buys the best strawberries.

As we loaded them up, another car pulled up. It was Tanel and his family. We had spontaneously (literally, on 24 hours notice) gone to Thailand with them last winter and had quite an adventure there. Somehow Märt convinced me to go, even though we didn't yet have a place to stay, and had two people in wheelchairs in a country with limited accessibility options. That turned out to be even more interesting than I expected, because Chinese tourists had booked nearly everywhere full due to Chinese New Year.

Anyway, there was Tanel, who also happened to be going to Eston's place, and was buying strawberries from the same person.

Kids after sauna on Jaaniõhtul

Trash Compactor

This is a story about the time I got locked out of my studio apartment in Tartu for 3 nights. It's not very interesting, but I remember every detail so vividly that I had to get it out in writing, which will hopefully result in this memory leaving me alone now.

I had watched a movie at the theater in Tasku with a colleague and then walked home. When I got home I couldn't find my keys and had two different locks to unlock - the outside door, and my studio apartment door. I walked back to the theater but another movie was happening. They advised me to return at 9:30 the next morning. I searched for my keys on the ground the whole way home but did not find them, and wound up calling that colleague who I had watched the movie with to sleep on his couch.

I returned to the theater in the morning and someone helped me comb the aisles and rows in search of my keys. We found nothing. Eventually I had to give it up as they needed to start seating for the 10:00 show.

The next stop was the broker's office on Raekoja platz, to whom I gave rent money. She didn't have any keys but she kindly searched the landlord's office for me. We didn't find any and she told me that the landlord was on vacation and that I might try to call her and ask.

Before taking that step I went back to my apartment to make sure that it actually was locked, as maybe I had just left my keys at home. I waited for another tenant of the building to open the outside door and I slipped inside behind him feeling like James Bond. My apartment was indeed locked.

I finally called my landlord, to whom I was also separated by two doors - we didn't speak a common language, and she was on vacation in the Canary Islands for another two weeks. I could only understand that she was very angry and that she could do nothing for me, as the keys were locked up in her empty country home hours from Tartu.

A close friend let me stay with her for the next couple of nights. My books and laptop were in my apartment, and I didn't enjoy the library atmosphere much, nor did I enjoy spending lengthy amounts of time in any public places, so I spent most of the time aimlessly wandering on the outskirts of Tartu and listening to trains go by. It wasn't too cold yet, and the days weren't so painfully short. This time was nice in some ways, but it also felt like being stuck inside a box that is slowly getting smaller and smaller and will eventually crush me, like on Star Wars Episode IV when they get stuck in a giant trash compactor:

Star Wars Episode IV - A New Hope (1977) Trash Compactor scene

Eventually I asked a helpful colleague to please translate for me and my landlord and see if there were any more options. She relayed the message that I could go through a specific company to get a duplicate key made to the outside door, and then I could call a locksmith to break the deadbolt to my apartment and install a new lock and key, which could be a bit expensive. I headed straight for the company with no hesitation or care about cost, feeling a huge burst of adrenaline.

We also didn't speak a common language, so I called another friend who kindly came and translated the situation. The key wouldn't be able to be made until the next day. I stayed at my friend's a third night.

The next day the person who could help me wasn't in that morning, so I needed to come back in mid-afternoon. I went to the secret beanbag deep in the corridors of the library bookshelves and took a long nap, as I was starting to feel dizzy after missing a few days of medication. We were able to order the key later that day. I needed to travel across town to pick it up in exactly one hour, shortly before they closed. My friend called the locksmith for me and even drove me to pick up the keys. He then dropped me off at my apartment to wait for the locksmith.

45 minutes after the locksmith was supposed to arrive, he called. He told me "There is no Turu 6. Where are you!?"

I replied that I am actually on Tiigi 6, not Turu 6. He said,"Do you even know what town you are in!?" Then he said that he would be there in half an hour. 1.5 hours later, the locksmith arrived. He broke apart the whole lock system on my door (it was pretty cool to watch, all things considered) and replaced it, then gave me 3 keys for it. So I didn't get crushed by a giant trash compactor after all! Lõpp.

What being a woman means to me

Update: This entry got published in the 2015 issue of Rocky Mountain Reflections, vol 5, an art and literary journal published by Colorado Mountain College: http://library.coloradomtn.edu/rmr

In Tartu, a close friend tried to teach me how to be a lady and carry myself with grace. After two years, we established in good humor that I had not picked up any of these traits. :-) Another laughed at my clothes when we first met, and said that we American women must think very highly of ourselves if we feel comfortable wearing no make-up and old hiking shoes. I remember being in awe of those particularly wispy, elegant Estonian women clicking strongly down the streets in high-heels, walking even faster than me! 

In middle school, a group of girls tried to teach me how to walk properly by shaking out my hunched shoulders and undoing my tightly folded arms so that they'd swing by my sides. At a running camp in high school, I was duct-taped to a wall in order to learn how to move my hips and only my hips when dancing. In college, I was introduced to the world of dangly earrings, lip color, and clutch handbags. In my adult life, other women speak of sex, and I still don't understand the joys of this generally awkward exchange of bodily fluids. In another light, I recently read a book by Sheryl Sandberg, the chief operating officer of Facebook. With the goal in mind of men and women holding an equal amount of leadership roles in the world, she calls for other women to "lean in" and be more aggressive/less ashamed of seeking power. 

....Theoretically, I am a woman. But I don't even know what that means, if anything, to me personally, which inspired a goofy poem of things that come to mind when I think of being a woman.

What being a woman means to me

It’s the salted caramel smell of my skin after being in the sun
a smell I first noticed on my mother when I was young.
It's the way my grandmother laughed loudly at herself when a bug went down her shirt
and how my younger sister is wiser than me.

It's the steadfast silver watch that never leaves my wrist

my tiny purse that manages to swallow everything but crumpled receipts

and the gas station coffee responsible for those receipts - half french vanilla, half regular.

It’s the day I stop chewing my nails!

It's those three original muses who first enchanted me
to draw mustaches on our faces
and play cards in the dormitory lobby.

It's the day Mica and I drove to the top of Independence Pass
for no reason other than to be there for a minute.

It's the proper, diligent, and focused Estonian
who secretly loved McDonalds
and gave me a leather bracelet before I left.

It's the dragon inside my friend called Krraka
whose clever mind and wild eyes gave only hints
of the danger we were all in if she got bored.

It's the countless creams my roommate applied each night
to take care of her skin
filling the room with heavenly scents.

It's the Lucky Strike cigarettes
that a friend brought in bulk from her home country of Georgia to Tartu
so she wouldn't have to smoke anything less.

It's the way my friend stated
"I am not made for this world"
when the discussion turned to formal balls and dresses.

It's my frightened friend who was born as a male
and wants nothing more than to be a female.

It’s when I paint music or dance at home alone

or stay in bed on a sunny day.

It’s writing with no inhibitions,

                                                 w

                                                    h

                                                          e

                                                         n

                                                      e

                                             v

                                              e

                                                  r      and   h

                                                                        o

                                                                     w           r    it       w 

                                                                       e       e                  i

                                                                            v                      s

                                                                                                h

                                                                                            e

                                                                                            s

                            

                                                                               to come alive.

Ghost of Christmas Past

I don't remember when the Christmas decorations start going up in Tartu, but it started crawling around in my mind today when it snowed. They were very elaborate and evoked no uprising from the people (as I would expect in America), despite the fact that the country is mostly atheist.

I never wrote about my second Christmas in Tartu, which turned out to be a traditional Estonian Christmas tucked away in a country home in Valgamaa. On Christmas Eve I had politely refused Märt's offer to come to the country home and spend Christmas with his family, because I felt too shy. I had met him in an English conversation course for Estonian adults.

He called again the next morning and somehow convinced me to go, and it turned out to be very nice. From my perspective it seems like children get to participate in Christmas more in Estonia than back home. Santa visits them at their home and they each perform something for him, whether it's reading poetry, singing a song, playing an instrument, etc. He rewards them with their presents.

Santa came to Märt's country home in Valgamaa. The kids performed several pieces, some of which involved a recorder. I performed a poem. I had been learning Estonian but I still chickened out and read the poem in English. He gave me a small white box. The little 6 year old boy beside me pointed at my box and then pointed at his very large box to make sure I was aware of it. This made me laugh a lot.

Then we had an Estonian Christmas dinner with blood sausage and jam, potatoes, and sour cabbage. There was also some lamb from the neighbor's flock. Everyone always asks how I like blood sausage - I feel pretty neutral toward it, as I do toward most food in Estonia. It tastes fine and it's suitable fuel for the body.

There are a few Estonian food items which I really enjoy - pretty much everything Märt's parents made, always homegrown/home-made/self-hunted, etc. Before I left, his dad gave me a deer sausage he had hunted and prepared, which had a very good flavor that I hadn't experienced before. Some of my favorites were their smoked fish and homemade liver paste.

Here's a picture from that Christmas in Tartu. Their pet bird, Uku, is there in the background. He died before I went back to America (R.I.P. Uku).

You know you're a semiotician when...

• you make models of models for a living
• you know the difference between a horse and a white horse
• you establish your disciplinary history by labeling certain scholars and theories, who make no reference to semiotics, as ‘crypto-semioticians’
• you're not only part of a discipline, you're part of a metadiscipline
• people think you study traffic signs or religious symbols
• you dread family reunions because you’ll have to explain what it is you study
• you dread family reunions because after failing to explain what it is you study, you’ll have to explain what you'll do with it (which is EVERYTHING, you do EVERYTHING with it)
• you literally study the meaning of life
• abduction doesn’t mean kidnapping
• you begin most of your papers by justifying why your approach is necessary, and what it adds to the discussion already being had by other more developed and recognized disciplines for likely a much longer time
• ad hoc methodology is your modus operandi
• you hate Richard Dawkins
• natural scientists generally hate you, if they even know about you. which they don’t
• your hypothetical club-house would read: “no logical positivists allowed!”
• you could recite peirce’s definition of a sign in your sleep
• one of your biggest pet peeves is when scholarly entrepreneurs borrow semiotic terminology and then mess it all up
• you can count the number of places in the world you could possibly study your discipline proper on one hand
• when someone tells you to ‘replace’ your cigarette smoking habit with another healthier habit as a means of quitting, you criticize the approach for being quantitative and have another cigarette
• the meteorologist on tv is anthropomorphizing weather patterns
• you feel exhausted after reading 20 pages from your field
• ‘isomorphism’ is one of your favorite words
• you think one of the most important things we must do in life is distinguish the meta-language from the object-language
• sometimes the sheer arbitrariness of it all is just....SO COOL