Archive for category Life in Romania

Ia mai lăsați-mă cu mândria voastră națională!

A venit și vara în Anglia, în sfârșit, iar țara asta e atât de frumoasă în zilele însorite, de nici nu-ți mai vine să faci altceva decât să te plimbi pe câte o faleză, într-o pădure de-asta molcomă și îmblânzită de-a lor, sau pe un chei cu multe bărci acostate la mal.
Dacă tot a venit vara în Anglia, și dacă tot am un job nou, și dacă tot mă pregătesc de concediu în țară (a mea de acasă) în curând, oare de ce să nu se încingă spiritele din nou pe interneți cu ceva foarte actual? Foarte actual și vechi de când durerea mea, România.

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Simona Halep a jucat, se pare, magnific în turneul de la Roland Garros, clasificându-se a treia în lume, după ce a pierdut în fața Mariei Sharapova. Cei care au văzut meciurile ei au numai cuvinte de laudă, povestesc cum au urmărit totul cu inima sărindu-le din piept o dată cu fiecare minge decisivă, cum Simona a jucat ”grandios”, ”incitant”, ”tulburător” și ”catarctic”, și a pierdut frumos. Eu îi cred, pentru că nu am urmărit meciurile, din câteva motive: nu am televizor de vreo 8 ani și nu mă prea uit la sport. Singurele sporturi pe care le pot urmări pe ecran sunt patinajul artistic și echitația (obstacole, nu curse).
Nu mă pricep la tenis, nu am gustul de a urmări sport la tv, dacă mi s-ar oferi ocazia să urmăresc live probabil aș accepta, doar pentru experiența în sine.

Dar în valul Halep care a trecut ca un mic tsunami pentru întreaga românitate am prins și eu ceva care m-a atins. Am găsit textul lui Andrei Vulpescu, Nai’gh’Ba de la Da Hood, un tip inteligent, ușor caustic, nu foarte cinic, un hip hoper calm, controlat, mai degrabă cuminte decât supărat. Nu știu dacă el se va regăsi în descrierea asta, dar așa l-am cunoscut eu la FânFest prin 2007, unde eram cu Ovia Herbert. Am stat într-o dimineață cu el la masă în tabăra invitaților, ne-am luat micul dejun într-o atmosferă umedă, posacă, de zi rece și cu ploaie la munte, am fumat și am vorbit despre câteva lucruri, printre care frontul comun de protest pe care ne aflam. Când am revenit în București i-am luat un interviu pentru pagina ”Pe val” a suplimentului de cultură al ziarului Cotidianul, un proiect excelent, dar pe care nu au vrut să-l finanțeze suficient, și a murit prematur. Pagina asta de interviu trebuia să aducă nume calde, tinere, de pe scena artistică, fie din muzică, literatură, sau arte vizuale.

Povestesc astea pentru că înjurătorii ultragiați ai lui Andrei, după articolul său Nu-ți mulțumesc, Simona Halep!, folosesc toată artileria grea a mahalalei internautice românești: omul e fie frustrat sexual, fie invidios, fie și-a făcut doar rating pe spatele tenismenei, fie denigrează (wtf??!!!) o valoare românească, etc etc etc. Mai s-a trezit și un ex-fan, cică, să spună că l-a avut ca model pe Naigh’ba, dar acum gata, s-a terminat, nu mai poate fi nimic între ei, fanul pleacă cu inima zdrobită.
După cum spune chiar în primul rând al postării, Andrei e conștient de risc, și-l asumă chiar. Probabil că mesajul pe care a avut să-l transmită a meritat riscul. Eu zic că a meritat, și uitați de ce.

Am crescut într-o Românie unde ni s-au împănat capetele cu faptele de vitejie ale strămoșilor noștri, strămoși care, culmea, așa viteji și grozavi cum au fost ei, n-au reușit niciodată să fie suverani. Teritoriul pe care azi îl numim România nu a avut niciodată unitate, și să o lăsăm mai moale cu Burebista și istoria comunistă.
Întreaga mea copilărie am fost cititoare pasionată de ”Cutezătorii” și de cărți de-alea mari cu povestiri istorice cu Mihai Viteazu și Ștefan cel Mare și alți iluștrii domnitori români (sic!). Nu zic, unii dintre ei au fost cu adevărat remarcabili. Vlad Țepeș, cel mult plâns și invocat astăzi, era fără doar și poate un sadic, explicabil, ținând cont de istoricul vieții sale. Toate poveștile astea cu care am crescut și în care cumva credeam s-au dovedit a fi, în bună parte, pompozități comuniste. O populație care împărțea aceeași limbă (mai mult sau mai puțin), același fond cultural, aceleași zbateri istorice, a avut câțiva conducători care au reușit să se opună dominației străine. Wow, ungurii, austriecii și rușii trebuie că se simt undeva pe niște mega-piedestaluri comparativ cu aceste mari realizări.  

Îmi mai aduc aminte de toată parada de calități atribuite românilor de regimul comunist, un nou popor ales sub soare, nu alta! Și harnici, și dedicați, pasionați, plini de entuziast, optimiști, loiali, veseli, primitori și iubitori de tradiție și cultură, oricând gata să-și pună viața pentru semenii lor și pentru patrie. Și toate astea ni se băgau în căpșoarele noastre de pionieri, cu atât mai mult celor care aveam ceva talent la scris și eram pregătiți asiduu de profesoarele de română să putem scrie la olimpiade povești despre patriotism și frumusețile țării, încât contradicția flagrantă cu realitatea nu avea cum să nu ne otrăvească.
În realitate, părinții, unchii și mătușile, vecinii noștri și părinții colegilor noștri de la școală furau cu toții de la serviciu și se ascundeau, că nu se știe cine te putea da în gât și ajungeai exemplu negativ. Așa a fost de prin anii 50, când oameni ca străbunicul, scăpați de la deportare, mai făceau câte o lună, două de pușcărie pentru o plasă de porumb luată din avutul CAP-ului ca să ducă acasă la păsări, și asta pentru că nu au acceptat ofertele făcute de a se alătura regimului. Restul CAP-iștilor furau fără probleme. Bine, alții au sfârșit și mai rău, dacă știu bine o rudă de-a lui Alex Potcoavă, amic și coleg scriitor din Timișoara, a plecat la Craiova să i se ofere post în sistemul comunist și s-a întors cu o gaură în cap.

Nu am scris o singură poezie/pagină dedicată conducătorului ilustru. Ca fată, nepoată și strănepoată de preot în Banat, o regiune întotdeauna periculoasă pentru regimul comunist, nu mă atingeau deloc căcaturile propagandistice de la tv, din școli, de pe toate fațadele. Știam că totul e minciună, știam bancuri cu Ceaușescu spuse la lumina lumânării când luau curentul, în perioada de economie, știam că mama, la fel ca majoritatea femeilor din sat, născocea metode ingenioase ca să ducă lenjerie și alte mărfuri căutate la sârbi, să le treacă ilegal granița, și să ne aducă ciocolată, Eurocrem, Cipiripi, caramele, muzică și blugi. Ascultam Europa Liberă cu bunicul la un radio vechi în bucătărie și ne întrebam dacă Securitatea ne ascultă prin gaura de aerisire din cămară.
Și totuși nu știam. Am crezut toate poveștile despre o istorie care nu e a noastră, toate născocirile cu poporul român cel care excelează la toate, minunea lumii, cei mai buni între cei mai buni. Asta am crezut și mi-a otrăvit sufletul. Cum să cazi din asta la ”românul e hoț”, spus cu necaz în anii 90 la o vorbă după slujba de duminică, în curtea bisericii? Tata obișnuia să atragă atenția oamenilor că ”te rog frumos, nea Vasile, și eu sunt român și nu sunt hoț”. Bineînțeles, veșnica, jalnica și ipocrita scuză ”persoanele de față se exclud”.

Am fost printre cei care credeam că vom putea schimba țara, pentru că am luat toate examenele pe merit, pentru că am avut cea mai mare notă de intrare la facultate și am încheiat prima din an, rămânând cu cea mai mare medie pe fiecare dintre cei patru ani de studiu. Asta mă gândeam că fac când am participat la studiile culturale ale Fundației ”A Treia Europă”, când am lucrat ca profesoară în liceu și încercam să-i fac pe puști să gândescă, să înțeleagă și să accepte că, fără să-și dezvolte mintea, toată șmecheria și descurcăreala din lume sunt nimic murdar și măturat sub preș. Am zis că eu nu voi pleca niciodată din țara aia.

Apoi am ajuns în UK. Am ales să venim aici pentru că nu mai credem într-o posibilitate de a face ceva, pentru noi sau pentru alții, stând în România cea care există doar printr-o minune geopolitică. Poate de aici reușim chiar să facem ceva, și ca dovadă eu una acum știu clar ce urăsc și ce iubesc la ceea ce am lăsat în urmă, m-am putut desprinde cumva de povestea românească, iubesc România ca moștenire culturală și urăsc România ca entitate socio-politică azi.
Aici am putut vedea, cu ochii mei, că tehnicile de manipulare sunt aceleași, că acel capitalism, opusul comunismului, nu este decât o altă mână a aceleiași puteri, că democrația este un fel de a încerca să-i împaci (prostești) pe cât mai mulți, în timp ce tu îți vezi de ale tale sau de fapt n-ai nici mai vagă idee ce dracu faci acolo unde cică ar trebui să fii leader. Urmărind de peste un an presa englească, cu nopți pierdute grămadă și cu taste tocite pe interneți, am văzut cum omul de rând, frustrat și prea comod să facă ceva pentru el însuși, se aruncă în brațele primul oportunist politic de cea mai joasă speță care promite că-l va scăpa de bau-bau (românii, bulgarii, imigranții în general, și bineînțeles că vorbesc de Farage și UKIP).

 

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  Și așa, după toate astea, am ajuns să cred că noțiunea de nație și cele derivate din ea, naționalism, mândrie națională, sunt niște chestiuni induse, care să ne facă mai proști, mai manipulabili, mai ușor de ținut în lesă, să ne facă masă de manevră pentru orice li se va năzări lor. Uitați-vă la succesul tuturor partidelor de extremă dreapta din Europa, TOATE NAȚIONALISTE. Vedeți ce promovează ei: MÂNDRIA NAȚIONALĂ. Acea mândrie națională de a face parte dintr-un popor special, care uite ce vârfuri dă, și toți ceilalți merită ce-i mai bun pe lumea asta, doar pentru că au părul și ochii de aceeași culoare cu Simona Halep, că vorbesc aceeași limbă și că în pașapoartele lor scrie România.
Da, ca un om iluzionat și deziluzionat de atâtea ori cu naționalismul ăsta gol de tinichea, copil care scriam despre sentimentele patriotice și eroismul unui popor care a înfruntat hoarde și hoarde de dușmani (”dușmanii îmi poartă pică, că n-au valoarea mea” – hai că ați auzit și voi versurile astea prin piețe, măcar), tânăr pregătit să pună umărul la saltul pe care țara lui avea să-l facă înainte, acum, acum, mai puțin, of, poate la anul, îmi vine să spun tuturor așa, lipsit de orice reținere și eleganță, cam ce să facă ei cu mândria aia a lor națională.
Ce? Ștreang, aia să-și facă, să poată muri mândri, liniștiți și împăcați. Poate ajung și ei în raiul românilor de pretutindeni, prezidat de sfânta adunare a conducătorilor iluștrii: Mihai Viteazu, Ștefan cel Mare, Vlad Țepeș, Mircea cel Bătrân (”eu îmi apăr sărăcia, și nevoile, și neamul” – se aude, da? nu MÂNDRIA NAȚIONALĂ), și, de ce nu, Vodă Împușcatu, că a făcut locuințe și a dat de muncă și biletele la mare la oameni.

Așa că să nu mai aud pe nimeni cu spoiala asta de mândrie națională atâta timp cât, ca nație, suntem nimeni, un popor adunat de pe drumuri, care s-a agregat și a fost capabil cu adevărat de ceva doar sub conducere străină. Să nu uitați că niște capete încoronate germane au făcut pentru țara aia mai mult decât toți conducătorii voștri locali laolaltă.
Până nu văd că vă lucrați voi pământurile, și nu americanii sau italienii care v-au cumpărat jumătate de terenuri agrare, până nu văd că vă mai scuturați de taxele care vi se îndeasă pe gât mai rău decât unei prostituate la un gang-bang, până nu văd că stațiunile românești sunt repuse în circuitul turistic internațional și începeți să scoateți țara din rahat cu veniturile aduse de turiștii străini (da, da, se poate, la ce resurse naturale și balneare avem, fir-ar ea să fie a naibii de treabă!), până atunci să mă lăsați cu mândria voastră națională.
Simona Halep a jucat bine, e tânără, poate ajunge numărul unu în lume. Voi între timp încercați să faceți și altceva decât ce face neamul ăla de când este el, nesigur, supus, oportunist, prietenos și gata să bată oricând în retragere.

Între timp, eu fac ceea ce fac eu mai bine: scriu, critic, supăr, stârnesc ceva ape, încerc să mișc ceva prin instrumentele cu care pot eu opera. Dacă fiecare își face treaba sa, vom ajunge undeva, poate altundeva decât în raiul românilor de pretutindeni.
Sau poate e nevoie ca întreaga lume să se schimbe înainte ca România să ajungă să însemne ceva. Dar, despre asta, altă dată.

 

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Yet just another Bank Holiday

If it wasn’t for the radio yesterday, I wouldn’t have realised it was St. George Day. And thanks to my favourite morning show, I found out St. George is the patron saint of England and his celebration day, National Day of the country. You can see my family name is George as well, and I find this to be a funny coincidence, me having moved to this country.
The fact didn’t come as a surprise. Thinking of his knightly figure, fighting and defeating the dragon, it feels only natural that he became the emblem of England. On the other hand though, the real story of this Christian saint seems to say that his faith was so strong that he gave up his life as a Roman soldier, with all the privileges that came with it, and risked facing the consequences of practising a faith considered dangerous or unacceptable in his times. It’s a life story of passion, dedication and humility.
The roots of the name though are Greek, meaning “the one who works the land”. Georgos is derived from ge = earth and ergon = work.

I can say I celebrated my family name day, England National Day and the patron saint of the church where my father serves as a priest (another happy coincidence) by holy and sacred work search. Not that I mind.
What I haven’t celebrated properly is Easter.

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Easter Sunday roast, on 2008, with my foster brothers, over dad’s shoulder

While Christmas became such an overwhelming holiday in the whole of the Western world, prone to criticism that it’s more of a commercial happening, a rush to buy, overeat and stress about decorating your house, cooking, organising parties and families getting together, Easter seems to be more of a quiet one. For people who don’t practice the Christian faith or just do it as a family tradition, Easter might not make a lot of sense anyway. Jesus’s story is impressive, for many it might be just fiction, some might not be interested at all, or practice other religions or religious beliefs.
I don’t know so much about how Easter is celebrated in the UK, but some things seem obvious: lamb roast, family meals, chocolate eggs, and chocolate egg hunts or other activities for the kiddies. For me, as a Romanian living in the UK, Easter is something I’ve lost when moving here, but I intend to take it back starting next year.

In Romania, as a country with a population still quite attached to the old Christian Orthodox rituals and traditions, Easter is as much a celebrated and well prepared holiday as Christmas. Respecting a set of rituals and doing things in a certain manner, every year, gives a sense of continuity, builds a feeling of community and meaningfulness.
To fast prior to a sacred day means to prepare yourself by abstaining from the consumption of certain foods, which can only have the psychological effect of enjoying everything even more when the time comes. It’s worth to mention that consumption of more vegetables, while pushing aside meaty and dairy products, is a great way of purifying your body of toxins. Well, it used to be, as people in old times wouldn’t have so much veggies available over winter and had to rely on meat and flour, plus potatoes for the season.

In the week of Christ’s Passions, starting Thursday evening, church services commemorate what happened each day before He was crucified. People go to church for the evening, then next day they start making preparations for the celebration. Friday and Saturday are mostly baking days, preparing the base for the cakes, making cookies, getting the meat ready to be roasted, and dying the eggs.
Talking to mum the Saturday before Easter she told me while she was boiling the 50 eggs to be coloured later she thought of me, as this used to be my preferred task since childhood.

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Making red eggs for Easter, in 2008, and wearing my mum’s fleece coat, hahaha!

There is another tradition quite dear to me and meaningful, if you think of it. On Easter Sunday people would go and visit relatives, taking with them a gift of sweet bread, red eggs, and cake/cookies, to share. They would stay over for a chat, a drink and a snack, then take home the gift their relatives gave in return. Next thing, they would take another pack of treats from home and go to other close relatives. So they could spend the whole day visiting, chatting, having treats, and getting together with grandparents, cousins, uncles, which also strengthened family bonds and the feeling of community.

A story told and retold in our family involves my father’s second cousin, who used to be a very funny boy, well-loved for his humour, but also quite cheeky at times. After church and Easter roast dinner, he was sent by his nan (they all lived in the family house) to one of his uncle’s family with the packed treats. He left and then she waited for him to get back home bringing the sweet bread, red eggs and cake from uncle’s. And she waited. And she waited. Four hours later she was fuming, when he finally got home.
– What were you thinking, boy? Do you know what time it is? How on Earth are you going to get over to your other uncles now, when it’s so late in the day?
– Nan, don’t worry, I’ve already been to all of them.
The poor old lady’s face must’ve turned ripe tomato red. It was such a shame, unimaginable. The gift from others in the family must always be brought home, where you would have your packed treats cooked and prepared in your house, to be taken to the next relatives. They would probably know what came from whom. So that year nan had to apologise to many in the family for her grandson’s cunny way of sorting out things with less effort, sparing him to go back home every time.

Now reading about this one could ask: right, but if everybody visited everybody, what if you found nobody at home? No, it wasn’t chaotic, everybody took turns, some would wait for visits this year, while returning them the next. It was a cycle that had to be completed, and as we know, completing a cycle gives us a feeling of fulfilment, of security and of belonging.

All of these add to the feeling of a sacred time, of valuing people’s efforts and participation, as well as giving meaning to things beyond just stuffing one’s stomach with food and drink, and mind with entertainment. There are many other rituals and traditions, depending on the part of the country. Some of them involved young people getting together so that young men and women could meet, get a chance to chat and know each other, as a first step towards marriage and new families. But all of it meant they would get involved, organise and, above all, do things themselves. They would prepare the house, themselves and, in the end, family or community meals from scratch.
In contemporary society, buying everything ready-made, even the entertainment, is a source for a feeling of alienation. There is little, if any, direct connection between us and the chocolate Easter egg we’re eating. The only effort put into it ourselves is probably just going in an overcrowded Tesco or Salisbury and cueing long lines to pay for it. Being dependent on comfort has the effect of cutting people from a reality that used to be immediate, touchable, colourful and needed attention, for a virtuality that we are not even sure where it comes from anymore.

Finding again something that can revive those sacred rhythms, that feeling of being part of a meaningful reality, in a meaningful world, structured, beautiful and amazing at the same time, might be crucial for humanity now. It’s probably time for reinventing our relation to everything, which human beings have proven so far they can do so well, with all the challenges and difficulties and even catastrophe in their way.
I will conclude with a greeting I missed this spring, more than before, one being used on Easter Sunday if not for a week in Romania: “Hristos a inviat!” (Christ has risen!).

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Being a teacher in Romania

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Just the other day, going to a small local coffee shop, I had a nice chat with another costumer. He was sitting at the table next to mine, so he overheard me and the owner (serving in the café at the time) talking. Probably he noticed my accent. It wasn’t the first time I got asked if I was from Poland, and every time people add that they have a friend or a friend of a friend or a relative who’s Polish, as to explain they didn’t ask a provocative question.

He also asked for how long I intended to be in the UK, adding in a breath he wasn’t meaning anything like when-are-you-going-back. Apparently, it was nice to meet an actual Romanian person, first one ever to talk to face to face, opposed to all the nasty media propaganda. Well, indeed, there was a Daily Fail on one of the tables, but then I could see the weekend issue of the same named pitiful piece of media in my favourite and the best coffee and cake place around, where I had a fabulous chocolate cake slice last Saturday.

 

I don’t find it surprising that many people here, in the South, haven’t met (many) Romanians so far, or maybe they didn’t know they walked right passed them in the park, round the big shops or on the beach. Real Romanians might not fit so well with the most widespread pattern they’ve been “blessed” with. Then British people could meet Romanians in more than one way, from having a chat in a café with them to working with them or being neighbours with them. And as writing is my thing, I’m going to do as promised: write about myself, the people I love back in my home country, and life in Romania as I know it. By doing this, I can actually add up colour, shape, feeling and real life stories, of real people, some fascinating, some sad or even tragic, some sweet and fresh and vibrant in the details that make them unique, yet very recognisable and similar to other similar experience lived every day, by millions of people around the globe.
Such an experience would be that of being a teacher.

 

Back in Romania, after graduating University, prospective teachers can register for a national exam for filling in the available jobs. They are advertised through local education administration, and the graduates will be sitting in written exam competing against each other. When the papers have been marked and the results are ready, they can choose the jobs available starting with the person who scored best, then the second and so on. Fortunately, I had the third best score in my county, Timis, so I could choose from about 7 jobs available at the time only for the city of Timisoara, going for a High School position, to work with teenagers aged between 14 and 18. The school had a professional industrial profile, mainly training students for working in chemical industry (from making plastic and dyes to pharmacy work). It wasn’t one of the fancy Computing, Mathematics-Physics or Humanities big schools in the city, but not a low standard school either. And the truth is that, once I met my colleagues, I wouldn’t have traded it for the most prestigious ones in the whole country if I could.

 

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The actual student dormitories, seen from a renovated sports field. I staid for one year
in those dormitories. The good part: I could take an afternoon nap, in gaps between classes,
and be woken by the bell ringing for the break. 

Not a big school, but not small either, Azur is located in the neighbouring quarter from the one I used to live in with my grandparents for 12 years. And the young team of Social Studies Department is one of the best I was ever part of. We didn’t only discuss work matters during breaks and official meetings, but always had a friendly chat and offered each other good advice. It was so great to know you can always go and have a talk to your colleagues, especially that all of us were genuinely interested in helping our students and not only doing it like any other job whatsoever.
Not to mention the department informal tea parties we used to have in our staff room at every term end, and not to forget that at proms our table was the most cheerful teachers’ table in the whole place. Our chief of department, Psychology and Sociology teacher I.J., and one of the colleagues who joined later than me, A.T., Economics teacher, were the most loved in the whole school, according to surveys. We could really see and hear who the best favourites where in our everyday experience with the students, no surveys really needed for this.

 

All these happened in the early 2000s, going to 2005. So far you might think I’m idealising a work place which I have decided to leave for taking over the capital as a beginner journalist, with no education or experience in the field whatsoever. But I’m not. Of course I haven’t erased out of my mind the fact that my payment was laughably poor, that at a certain point I came to ask the principal of the school for a room to rent in the students dormitories (a spare room, with a small separate kitchen, and use of the students’ common showers) because of financial difficulties. That I was tutoring during weekends and still I can barely afford the clothes and cosmetics I wanted, not to say the books, concerts, cultural events I was craving for.
Also, there was little government help I could access to improve my skills and knowledge, starting with further training and continuing with educational materials. Us, religion teachers, didn’t even have school books to teach by, as all the other ones, but this I regard as a positive thing. Today’s religion school books in Romania are full of horrible accounts and examples which are apparently meant to be educational, but are just wrong, in whichever light one might look at them. What teacher can win students over with tales such of the one of George, a boy who is mean to animals, and that’s why God punishes him to fall off the ladder and end up in the ER? Mean, stupid and lacking any real sense, if you allow me.

 

Nevertheless, the teaching experience I gathered then, as well as having such great colleagues (not all of them, but at least in the department), left those years in my mind enveloped in an aura of the same kind of light that engulfs everything in the brightest morning hours. Yes, I know how it sounds, like a soapy dated comparison, but that’s how I see those years looking behind.

 

But what about the students? Well, they were from all kinds of social and family environments, young people from the countryside seeking some sort of an education and training into a profession, many from the same part of the city the school was located in, who chose to come here just because it was handy, many of them distrustful in the educational system and quite negative about their prospects, so you could probably guess the underlying rebellion that burst out regularly.
Most of them came from families with mediocre financial means at best, but then us, teachers, didn’t earn much more either. So many of them had no real parental supervision, their parents toppled under the weight of everyday worries, of poor paid jobs which tomorrow could vanish in a puff of ashes and smoke, hunched, figuratively speaking, under the heaviness of debts many times accumulated only by excessively high bills (the Romanian Governments’ gift to all) and buying house appliances. And some of them came from families with a better situation, such as a boy adopted at the age of about 8 or 9 by a mother who was a psychologist at a centre for abandoned children.

 

We did have some brats as well. The most infamous of them was this lady in her late 20s who missed doing High School (might have been too busy to party), married to a hotshot and daughter of another local businessman, who was attending evening classes and bothered so little to show up in class and always brought over what we suspected were GP certificates which weren’t covered by real health issues. Apparently, our principal had her hands tied, the local education government (inspectorate) strongly advised to help this student. Luckily, I could ease the other kids’ frustration regarding her (she was very cocky, back street style) by the fact that the woman could only get the lowest marks and, allegedly, she was working and a mother (at least this one was true), so we helped her finish school like we did with all other students who were supporting themselves while  studying at the same time.
Not a good memory at all.

 

There are plenty of memories I’m fond of though, even if some of them involved sadness and tears during a private talk to some of my students whom I was doing my best to counsel. I can’t say how much I helped them on the long run, but they were good kids and, at the time, even talking and taking it off their chests was useful.

The one talk which really impressed me was with a girl from the class I was a head teacher for. In Romania, all classes had a head teacher, responsible of counselling the students, of discussing behaviour and offering psychological and ethical guidance. When they were misbehaving, it came into this person’s responsibility to approach them, to discuss and to offer solutions, and if there were no results, to take the matters over to the principal and the school council. I never had to do any of that, fortunately the kids I was working closely with weren’t causing any big trouble at all.
As a head teacher, I did take my role seriously and arranged for a private discussion with all of the students in my class, so that we could talk about their situation in school, positive aspects and some that needed improving/attention, as well as about their concerns. And this girl I mentioned before started crying while she was talking to me. It came out that she had a very sad situation, her parents more or less abandoned her into her grandparents care, although they were living in the same neighbourhood, and the old people were quite poor, low pensions, struggling to feed, dress her and send her to school. It did tear my heart to hear her story and, although it wasn’t much I could literally do, I tried my best to comfort and support her. She had little contact with her parents, but however they weren’t willing to take responsibility for their daughter. Contacting any social services wouldn’t have changed the situation, it would’ve only acknowledged that the 15 years old girl was in the care of her grandparents.

 

This was not the worst social case we had in our school. Some students were left behind by parents who went to work in the Western countries, mainly Spain, and couldn’t take their kids with them, while working in agriculture, construction or house-keeping. Yes they were sending money home, but money couldn’t make up for their absence for years on a row. The parents used to leave their kids in the care of uncles and aunties, grandparents, or even neighbours, and one could only imagine how much supervision they had. And may I remind you that this used to happen in the early 2000s already, when Romania wasn’t even part of the EU. We could be tempted, Romanians and people from Western countries together, to blame these people for the choice they made, but what else could they have done? Stay at home, where they could barely provide for their kids anything else than a place to live, food and basic needs for educating them? Most of them did it actually because they were thinking: “right, I will work for 2-3 years, save money and then go back to send my kids to University or find them a good job, while being able to keep them at home after school”. This after they paid for all the debts they accumulate for buying a car, fridge/freezer, TV set, or a computer. Yes, and inflated bills.

 

Now the level of poverty and financial difficulties I’m talking about doesn’t necessarily involve starving and not being able to take the bus to school. There are very poor areas of Romania where this happens as well, but I was teaching in Timisoara, not in a bad quarter of the city, and the kids here had, generally speaking, an average situation. Not a high percentage of them had parents working abroad and leaving them more or less on their own, but there was a tragic case. One girl who always seemed the shy type, not the brightest, but a well behaved sweet teenager, died a tragic death in the 11th grade, at the age of 17, one year before graduating. Yes, she was one of the kids left in the auntie’s care. None of us really knew how bad it was until she got stabbed by a… client. Apparently, she started having sex for money and she got stabbed by one man who was paying her for sex. It was so shocking sometimes I wouldn’t believe it to this day, although these are the facts uncovered by police investigation.

 

Not to end in such a grim note, I’d say that in my first year of teaching I also had one student who really would’ve belonged in one of the best Humanities specialised High Schools. He was bright, he was reading a lot, he could hold an intelligent discussion on philosophical, history and literature matters with any well-educated grown up, and he got to the professional school with a slip of the system (I might explain in another article). With this one, I used to spend every break after hour in their class, some other students stayed with us as well, to discuss further the subjects I presented in class. Well, isn’t this any teacher’s dream, really?

 

(to be continued)

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