I Feel... Pretty?

I walked home yesterday from school planning on writing this in the afternoon, but our day was consumed by an "English Seminar," complete with teachers from all around the raion (like a county), observers making our students nervous during over-planned mock lessons, a big long concert-like production, a long evaluation and assessment session, and then a feast. By the time I actually made it back, there was really only one thing on my mind--



To be frank-- and I can be frank here, of all places, right?-- I'm just glad it's done. It didn't strike me as especially valuable, because nothing involved in the whole production was authentic, and I see no place for the affected in a school. I think it's just a personal preference. I can't help it-- if I'm in a classroom, I want to see real learning and real kids doing real activities within real lessons. I think there's something about the general noise and messiness of working with kids that appeals to me in itself, and it's not something much value is placed on here.

I do look forward to seeing it again someday when I get back to America, but for now, I'll just enjoy the little unapproved bits of it that organically arise in the times when students aren't doing quite what's expected in a Moldovanly frumos (read: beautiful) classroom.

Anyhow, on to what I meant to write about. I had sort of a crazy realization yesterday. Because we'd be having loads of visitors at the school and many of their eyes would, unfortunately, be on the token American who's not really a fan of being the center of attention (and also because I was up way early and had nothing better to do with my time) I got pretty well dolled up for class. I mean, by my standards for how I looked for most days of school in America, it wasn't much. By the time I walked downstairs in my skirt and turtleneck, no makeup, my host mom was telling me how pretty I looked, probably trying to boost my confidence for the seminar. It was nice of her.

I washed up and added my most Moldovan sweater (it's not something I'd have sported to school in Pennsylvania, but it's pretty stylish here), minimal makeup, and a pair of decent looking shoes. Really, it wasn't much, but I've got to say, it was a noticeable difference from how I usually look here. Thing is, I didn't feel especially good about myself all spruced up like that. I got, for the first time ever, the strange feeling that my appearance wasn't at all for me but for those watching me, and I didn't like it one bit. I felt unnatural.

Before arriving here, no one emphasized to me the importance of being frumos. No one thought that my appearance was a reflection of my respect for others, and no one was offended by my looking how I saw fit. I wore makeup more often than not, and it was because it made me feel good. I dressed up for school, and it was because that's how I was most confident. I bought pretty jewelry or new clothes from time to time, because I liked the way they made me feel.

There's a very peculiar focus here, though, on appearances, and I've found myself (sometimes unconsciously and other times very knowingly) bucking the system. Dress pants and a top under a cardigan are sufficient for school, and my hair's down when it's clean, pulled up on the day that it's going to need washing in the evening. Add that to the fact that most of what I packed to come here is now a tad too big for me, and by comparison to the other teachers here, I'm nothing fancy.

That's when I feel pretty.

See, I had this really awesome moment early in the school year when I visited another volunteer's site, and one of her high school age girls came in complaining that her feet were killing her. When the volunteer asked what happened, the girl showed her the pair of spike-heeled, pointy-toed shoes she had worn to school. They were standard Moldovan girl attire, nothing that I'd take much notice of here by that point, but they even looked painful.

"I don't know what to do-- I want to be healthy, but I also want to be beautiful," she explained.

Her explanation struck me in a way I didn't like one bit-- that's not a healthy way of thinking! I wouldn't have known how to respond, but the volunteer who I was visiting did.

She gestured to her worn out sandals and said simply "You don't need to pick-- I wear ugly shoes, and I'm beautiful."

Wow. So matter of fact? So sure?

Sure. That's what we're here for-- we're an example. We're an element of different in a culture full of same, and maybe we can get girls here thinking there's more to beauty than high heels and short skirts. Maybe there's more to self-worth than what others see in your clothes.

I figure I'll go back to America someday only slightly less focused on my looks than before-- I'll probably still look my best for school and put on my makeup even to go to Wal-Mart. I'll probably feel best that way.

Here though, I feel really good about taking a stand, in my own quiet way. I like that in my sensible American shoes, I walk like I'm on my way to do something good. I love that when my students see me walk in the room, they notice my smile before my lipstick. I feel beautiful here, because I think that the way I see myself, the way I carry myself, might be the example that lets some student here feel certain that conforming isn't what will make her impressive.

A seminar full of an audience when we're given specific instructions to look how we're expected to every once in a while? Okay, I'll follow orders.

Still though, in reality, I and the little girls I do believe are growing to look up to know that I come to school simply looking like me-- I show up however I feel best, shy of traipsing in in my sweatpants, and I'm not working to impress anyone with my looks, but still, when I look like myself, feel like myself, and am a reflection of a tiny bit of strength I hope can grow in them, too, well... I feel pretty.