Tri-lingual All-star

Last week a friend of mine came by for help (he bought a new phone and all the instructions were in English) and mentioned that my name came up in a recent all-region meeting with the akim (the local governor). To my surprise, I was not held up as a model teacher or praised for my active involvement in local sports and music events. Instead, my name was raised regarding the tri-lingual society that Kazakhstan so dearly craves. Most people in Kazakhstan are on their way to being bilingual – kids from Kazakh families learn English or Russian to competent levels in their school, and Russian kids, though they struggle with Kazakh, seems highly motivated to learn English. The trick is convincing Kazakh students that just Russian and Kazakh are not enough and convincing Russian students that it is their best interests to learn Kazakh. I speak all three languages daily, which I guess means I’m living the dream, and the locals like to talk that up.

Kazakh is an easy language, don’t let the Russians tell you otherwise. It has a few funky consonants, yes, and a wide range of vowels that all sound about the same, but the grammar is a breeze compared to the convolutions of Russian. Russian usually makes the list of most difficult languages to learn for three reasons. One, pronunciation is darn tough: stress changes, hard and soft ways to pronounce most consonants (which still trips me up and is a prominent feature in the American Russian accent). Two, the grammar is ridiculously complicated and mastering it involves a brutal amount of rote memory or a long stay abroad until you start to feel that here one ending goes and there a totally different one. Three, exceptions to the rule are the norm.

In Kazakh, exceptions are rare, almost nonexistent in the grammar and only occasionally appearing in pronunciation. I appreciate that. Plus it has some very neat linguistic tricks, like borrowing phrases from Arabic and sticking Kazak endings on Russian words. And it’s logical. Take the cardinal directions in Kazakh, for example. East is shughus, which is similar to the word that means to go out, or leave. So imagine you are the sun, and naturally you leave from the east. And where are you going? West, or batus, doesn’t really mean “to go to”, but it has the same first syllable as that verb and is only one letter removed from batir, which means warrior, and who usually rage from East to West.  South and North are a piece of cake, too. If you are the sun, with your back to the East and walking towards the West, what is on your right side? North, or ongtustik, which in my totally unscientific etymological breakdown means “right-colored-place.” South, similarly, is “left-colored-place” or soltustik. It’s brilliant.

Don’t get me wrong, I love breaking down Russian words, too. I hope I’ll long remember the day I reasoned out “inevitable” without using a dictionary. The word in Russian looked like “un-run-away-able.” Makes sense, in its own way.  

Still cold, but life goes on. My second and third graders still cheer when I enter the room and my fourth graders squabble over who gets to carry my materials to class.  And planning for Frisbee in the summer warms my thoughts and gets me motivated.

Speaking of which, those lesson plans won't write themselves...