Shoot the Dog
During our time off, I took the opportunity to reacquaint myself with my neighborhood. My conclusion, which might be not very surprising to anyone, is that, while Ukraine’s official language is Ukrainian, this, like so much else here, remains only on paper. Ukraine really runs on three languages: dog Russian, Potemkin village Ukrainian, and pidgin English.
Consider the last first. The state in its wisdom has decreed that all schoolchildren will be instructed in a foreign language beginning in the second grade. Yet each time I ride the bus to the Podil section of Kyiv to teach I pass a store proudly sporting the sign SCIC in English and shyk in Ukrainian(?). I have often been tempted to drop in and see what they offer, Schick razors or chic clothes. Obviously somebody could not (and evidently still cannot) tell the difference, and if they can style themselves as translators, who is going to teach schoolchildren English for the $40 a month that teachers in Ukraine are paid?
Then consider Ukrainian and Russian. The other day I saw that a computer firm (my antediluvian 386 needs to be replaced), had opened a nearby store. I stopped in and asked in Ukrainian for a price list.
“I don’t understand,” the clerk replied in Russian.
In the streets of Kyiv one gets so used to the interplay of languages that one simply forgets which language or mixture of them is being spoken. I thought it might be my accent and made sure my Ukrainian was as good as I could get it.
“I don’t understand,” and the manager was called.
“I don’t understand,” the manager said.
Lacking the presence of mind to ask in English, I summed up my best Russian and asked again.
“Now I understand. They haven’t brought it yet.”
Then I decided it might be nice to have orange juice for the next day’s breakfast, dropped into the local grocery store, and asked for that commodity, again in Ukrainian.
“I don’t understand,” the clerk replied in less than impeccable Russian.
Again I thought it might be my accent and repeated in my best Ukrainian, but the answer remained unchanged. When I switched into my admittedly rusty Russian, everything was understood, and I set off with my juice.
“Please give me two packs of Marlboro Red,” I asked at a kiosk along the way. And she promptly produced Marlboro Lights. I began to get angry and even raised my voice.
Finally the girl produced the desired cancer sticks and said, “What language is that, Polish?”
By then my stepdaughters had dropped by with their puppy purchased a few months ago. The canine was trained to respond to seven basic commands, only in Russian, of course. Then I turned on the television to hear how Russian speakers were under such threat without Russian being proclaimed a state language alongside Ukrainian — in a land where you have to talk even to the dog in Russian. So I switched channels only to hear George Michael sing, “I’m gonna shoot the dog.” Fortunately for the animal that the girls call Good Puppy Brad, I have never owned a gun.
