Proud To Be an American

“From a distance, you look like my friend,
Even though we are at war….”

She introduced herself as Elena Fedorovna when we met nine months ago at the public library, withholding her surname in traditional xenophobic form until she knew more about me. Hailing from Akadem Gorodok near Moscow, Russia, Elena immigrated to the U.S. almost a year ago, a seamstress by day and student citizen most nights, taking courses in English, U.S. history, government and the like. Synchronicity brought us together that first day. She knew just enough English to ask simple questions, but her eyes would glaze over as soon as a response exceeded the confines of the dialogues in her basic English textbook. The Russian-language newspaper I was reading that day was like a neon sign to her: “Information Desk – Russian Spoken Here.” After a brief introduction and assessment of my ability to help her in her native tongue, this matronly 45-year-old product of Soviet society engaged me in conversation and we soon warmed up to each other. By the time we left that evening, she had somehow recruited me as her English language tutor – gratis, of course. For the next six months, the library was our Little Red Schoolhouse two and sometimes three evenings per week. Each session always started with a review of her most recent homework assignment.

On one such evening last October, Elena slid her assignment sheet on the table in front of me, purposely lingering her neatly manicured hand for a few seconds to make sure I noticed the U.S. flag design she had placed neatly on each nail. A little overdone, but cute - in an “in-your-face” kind of way. I chuckled.

“Dobryj vecher,” she greeted me with a Russian “Good evening.”

“Uh-uh, speak only English, Elena. Don’t you have a language test coming up?”

“OH-kay, Meesterrr Bob.” Speaking Russian for 45 years had engrained a weird sense of where to accent words in other languages. “I MUST converrrrse with you at this moment rrregarrrrding this homewehrrrrk assignment. You know how language is easy for me, but this one stumps me.” I was convinced she would always trrrrill herrrr rrrrrs.

I glanced at the instructions. They were straightforward: “Fill in each blank with the proper adjectival form of the State name. For example: Phillip, from Oregon, decided to donate blood at the Red Cross with his fellow ______________ to help victims of the recent national tragedy.” The answer was given as “Oregonians.” 20 similar sentences followed. I winced.

“Why on earth would they give you an exercise like this? I would think they would have you researching geography or history.”

“Meesterrr Bob. Pleeeez.” Elena tried to hurry me with a sense of urgency. I felt like I was being plowed under by a Russian tank driver during a frenzied potato harvest. “I have only 15 minutes with you tonight. I must go visit cousin in hospital beforrre doors close. You must check assignment now. I have no time forrr jokes.”

Ignoring my obvious annoyance at her brusque approach, she plowed ahead: “First check the ones I have done and then help me with these two blanks.”

I checked her penciled-in entries. She would always use a pencil until consulting with me, then would neatly erase and replace her answers in ink, Waterman fountain pen, indelible peacock blue.

“Joseph and his Californian family decided to contribute two hours every Saturday to help clean up national memorials in downtown San Francisco.”

Pretty good, so far.

“Bobbie Sue likes to donate her spare time teaching English as a second language to future Kentuckians in her home town, Louisville.

Oh, this was too easy. Several entries later, it got a little tougher. I encountered Elena’s first “stumper”:

“Clyde was one of the first _______________ to suggest that little flags be displayed from every street sign in his neighborhood. This was such a popular idea that it has now caught on in several neighborhoods in his home town in Maine.”

“All I could think of was Mainiac for theees one.”

I looked at her incredulously. She had to be joking. She finally gave a little chortle.

“I was hoping you were kidding. I knew you were too smart to be serious about that answer.” To be truthful, I myself was stumped at this one. I was suddenly sidetracked by the ingenuity of this little exercise.

“Elena, do you see what all these sentences have in common?”

She furrowed her brow in a silent, quizzical expression: “What arrrre you talking about?”

“Look, Elena, look at this next one you left blank: François recently returned to his native New Orleans to work with his fellow ________________ for Habitat for Humanity.”

She paused, glanced at that and the rest of the sentences on the sheet, then scooped up the paper and dashed off, shouting behind her: “I think I see the patterrrrrn. Verrry cleverrrr.”

I watched bemused as she scurried off to an adjoining table and began erasing her previous answers, bits of rubber flying everywhere as she blew on her paper. At one point during this frenzy she suddenly stopped, looked me squarely in the eye, silently directing me to look elsewhere. I obliged and returned to my own reading.

Within minutes she had finished, gathered up her belongings, plopped her paper in front of me and dashed out of the library, my words trailing after her like airborne orphan eraser bits: “But, Elena, don’t you want to wait until I…?”

Then I glanced at her revisions and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Our dear Elena had erased all her previous answers and carefully replaced each one with the same word. That word, neatly filling all 20 blanks in ink, Waterman fountain pen, indelible peacock blue, was:

“American.”

I don’t know about her instructor, but I gave her an “A+”.

“From a distance, I cannot comprehend,
What all this fighting’s for.
From a distance, we live in harmony,
And peace echoes throughout the land.
It’s the hope of hopes;
It’s the love of loves;
It’s the song of everyman.”

-- Bette Midler
© 2002 Robert R. Cole