of syntax and other mechanisms

And I, so weak in language! And a child of words! In examination of a student, do we not observe the slow progression, the shy world divulging itself? Or is this not the purpose of our study? Many have said to me that the smelter of immergence programs in the States cannot compare to the hard steeling of a time within the borders of this nation. And what comparison can I make?

The final summer exams peak their heads and cast rays down the long land. And where are we? We (and I say this off of my mind and the minds of others with whom I’ve spoken) have learned much and nothing. If the essence of education should find anything at its heart, I would imagine it to be humility. I note the bare contrast between the comfort (if not the ease) of my speech now and the unease I knew the night those rubber wheels nipped the tarmac. That is to say, in the eyes of my fellow students there has been a two month smiling. Though with those that have studied the language long, there has been a pervading ease, in those of us that are children to it, a confidence slowly wells.

But how then can I say we have learned nothing? I say that (though it has been long known) in every act of learning the chief part is a learning of the void. That is, for every piece we know, we know its boundaries. At beyond each boundary is a new fog that dances in the skin.

A Russian lock system is complex. When you arrive at a Russian lock system, key in hand, you must open the door to enjoy the comforts therein. Perhaps you have already pressed some small yellow circle to the reader, and the brown metal door opens to a staircase before you. You have climbed the stairs, dirty as they are. And you are at a lock system.

There are always three or more locks. The bronze key is in the lock and it turns seven hundred twenty degrees to the left. Now there is a flat rectangle of a screwdriver that pushes in. The bolt clicks and another door waits behind. It too awaits a screwdriver. Soon you will be home! And click! you are home. It is a small apartment, but it is most certainly a home. There is a gas stove that licks at matches when chai-desires request of you. There is space for your exhaustion. There is a toilet, there is a shower and sink that share the same nozzle.

Once you are comfortable on your yellow couch and watching kanal kultura, it occurs to you that every apartment must be thus flung open. Scrambling to open the building, you learn of another building nearby. And neighbors upon neighbors. All neighbors must be known, and all apartments! You run through the dark and bright streets of Petersburg with every key that can be found, and then beyond Petersburg.

We want to be native, but know that we cannot. That is, with the sinews of our hands and minds our striving is for the perfection of language that is owned by the man walking in the dust of the street. But it is beyond us, those of us not born unto it. But it is so near we might almost run it through our dusty fingers like a fifty kopeck piece and a grey bus receipt.