Becoming Lithuanian
I went to ballet lessons on Saturday mornings. My cousins went to Lituanistine mokykla. They always sang “Happy Birthday” as “Ilgiausiu metu,” and I never understood them. My mother was a typical American blend of Irish and German immigrants, making me a child of the melting pot. I grew up dreading Christmas Eve and found the portrait of my namesake that hung in my grandmother’s hallway utterly depressing. I wasn’t Lithuanian. My father was.
After my mother died and before mociute became too sick to travel, my father brought us to Lithuania. Rather, my father dragged us to Lithuania. We protested. It would be a country full of pickled herring, wrinkled relatives, an alien language, funny toilets, and a tantalizing sea too cold to swim in. We were teenagers. We just wanted to go to Paris. As it turns out, Paris doesn’t hold a candle to Vilnius. Paris doesn’t have Dede Vytautus and cousin Andrius. Paris doesn’t have Trakai, Kriziu Kalnas, or the family farm in Kacergine . Paris doesn’t have Saltibarsciai. I cried the entire flight to Paris.
On Christmas Eve, seven years later, over my plate of untouched pickled herring, my aunt’s brother half- jokingly asked, “Hey you’re a teacher, wanna come to Lithuania with me this summer?” Six months later we were on one plane across the Atlantic and another across the Baltic. I agreed to present at the APPLE[i] program at Camp Viltis because I believe in the power of education. I have been working with students with special needs for 10 years and even in our “land of opportunity” in the US, I don’t see them treated equally to their peers. When I learned that students with disabilities don’t often even go to school in Lithuania, I felt a strong tug to get out and investigate and contribute to the change that is beginning there.
As part of the APPLE team that volunteered at Camp Viltis, I spent two weeks working with students with disabilities, their families, and a group of Lithuanian teachers. This was simultaneously one of the most rewarding and frustrating experiences of my life. I immediately fell in love with a handful of the children I was working with. They wanted to play games, ask questions, and sing songs. I couldn’t understand a word they said. I had a translator with me for my lectures, but these were kids, they don’t have time to wait for someone to give your words meaning. They want you to pretend to be a meska and chase them around the lawn. Initially, I felt like a failure. I felt like I had a disability. Feeling disabled, while frustrating, actually proved to be a valuable learning experience. I could put myself in my students‘ shoes for a moment—so much to say and no words to communicate with. Eventually, we found ways to communicate that were language neutral. Smiles, laughter, dancing, and hugs are all sincere ways to express affection and build friendships. Some of the kids knew a few words of English, and I picked up enough Lithuanian to scream “As Meska” as I chased Karolis in and out of the bushes surrounding the dining hall.
While I was content being a bear and singing nursery rhymes, my purpose for being at Viltis was not solely to befriend the children at camp, my job was to teach the teachers. A small team of us from the US and Canada was charged with putting together a program that would bring new ideas and understanding to a group of education professionals from Lithuania who had some contact with students with special needs. I thought this would be easy. I knew teaching, I was full of creative ideas, and I had a translator for the language barrier, what else was there? I quickly learned that many of the women who had come to camp didn’t actually believe that these special children were capable of learning, and most of them were even more discouraged by the bureaucracies of their schools than I. Many of them distrusted us as Americans, weren’t interested in change, and were steadfast in the ways they knew, the ways they were schooled, the ways of the Soviet’s. I now had living portraits to go with the physical pictures of Soviet occupation that I’d known previously. I began to understand. Why grandpa had to leave his oldest children to be a freedom fighter and could never look back when forced to flee. And why he never talked about Lietuva. What it means that Dede was buried in uniform with 3 other soldiers. Why Vytautus’ portraits are so sharp and shadowy. My purpose for being there became all the more clear and important. Our purpose for being there became clearer, and I felt it in my blood.
Education is a huge part of rebuilding a nation. It is an honor the Ministry of Education in Lithuania invites American teachers there year after year to share our educational philosophies and techniques. All I wanted to do was sit with these women and hear their stories, share experiences and ideas, listen to their beliefs, and maybe argue mine a little, but again, I was blocked by language. The translators tried, but it wasn’t sufficient. I understood enough to know that there were big conversations happening there in those weeks. I could translate the emotions and enough words to get the gist, but could only be a silent observer. Sure, I got enough lecture time in and did some activities with the teachers that I’m proud of. They have some new tools from me for their classrooms and a few new windows from which to look at their students. But I wanted to be a part of the bigger picture. I still do.
Something happened to me last summer. Maybe it was the baptism in the Baltic or the pickled herring that finally made its way down my throat, but somewhere between Vilnius and Giruliai, Kaunas and Druskininkai, I became Lithuanian. I have a long way to go, especially in learning the language. But if at 7 years old, Isodorious can be the first student with a disability in his entire town to attend a mainstream school with his peers, than I can do my best to learn a new language at 28. I can’t say how things would have turned out if I had gone to Lithuanian school instead of ballet class, but I can say that my father gave me the greatest gift when he “forced” us to visit Lithuania in 2000. There is something remarkable about being rooted in a culture that truly values its freedom and equally so about the moment I breathed in the Baltic Air and finally felt whole.
[i] A.P.P.L.E is the American Professional Partnership for Lithuanian Education. More information can be found at http://www.applequest.org/
