Los Angeles is a very diverse place, one of the most diverse cities in the United States. There are 224 different languages spoken here. I can't imagine how they deal with this in the schools. I kind of like it, especially when it seems that most of them have attempted to learn English. Well, I guess they have to...somewhere beyond Spanish, they aren't going to be able to function very well. I mean, who else around here knows Gurani? (That is one of the languages spoken in Paraguay.) While I am not really all that good with learning foreign languages, if I moved to another country where they spoke something other than English, then I definitely would have to start taking lessons! That's what I do even when I travel, even though I admit that my success is minimal and I haven't had to do it very much. I learned how to do some basic "tourist" speaking in Spanish, French, German, Italian, and even Tahitian. I pretty much failed even the most basic in Japanese, but fortunately I managed to find some very friendly Japanese people who understood some English. I was spoiled in Sweden and Finland by the fact that they are all so good at speaking English. It was funny in Sweden to go into a McDonald's kind of shop to get a hamburger or something and have the workers there NOT understand English. I thought to myself, I thought they all new English! But then I figured it out...duh! They were young, probably young enough to have not yet learned all that much English in school yet. Heck, I had three years of German in college and I know I wasn't as good at speaking German in Germany as these young guys spoke English in Sweden!
Oh, here's something that amused me. Many, many years ago, at the very beginning of even having an Internet, on "Compuserve" I met a young Swedish man who was a Baron. His father owned a Scandinavian tobacco company. Beyond their house in Stockholm, his parents also owned a castle out over the water, where they went to live only during "crayfish season". We hit it off on line and lo and behold, he said that he always wanted to come to see San Francisco, and since I lived not that far from there, I said, "Well why don't you come visit me and I will show you California?" He took me up on that offer, he came to California, and we had a great time. He spoke perfect English, probably better than I even spoke my own language. He spoke English with an upper class British accent. Well, he was a snob anyway, all that tobacco money and his noble title, you know, but that only added to the uniqueness of his character. Years later became the Secretary of State of Sweden, but he explained that Secretary of State of Sweden wasn't quite equivalent to that position in the United States. But pretty impressive just the same.
One day I asked him, "Why do you speak English with an English accent?" He said, "Well, in school, when we are getting ready to start learning English, we can choose which accent we want to have, British or American". (I understand that kind of choice. If I want to learn Portuguese, which I do, I could choose a Brazilian accent or a Portuguese accent. I would choose Brazilian, because I would be learning it because I want to go to Brazil. Also, I want to be able to understand the lyrics of Brazilian music, which I love.) He continued, "Depending upon which accent we want, that will be the English language class that we will have for our studies." And then he looked at me and said, "Which one would YOU have chosen?"
Ha ha, he had me there! Of course I would have chosen a British accent myself!
Although nowadays, frankly, I much prefer my own American accent (which, based on the places where I grew up, from birth to graduation from high school, I would say that my accent is 55% California, 40% North Carolina, and 5% Boston. My brother and I had the discovery that we preferred our own accent over anything British at the exact same moment. It was early in the morning in England, we were on a Narrowboating trip that I had set up for some family and friends, and we had been tied up on one side of the canal where we all had slept that night. It was our turn to walk into the nearest town to get some bread and milk, which had to be bought every day fresh, because we discovered that in England they did not fill those items with preservatives (much more healthy), but they wouldn't last past one day (the bread would be stale and the milk would be sour). As we walked along the canal, there was a man walking toward us, and as we passed him, by brother and I said, "Good morning!" He was very nice, but his return greeting sounded to us like "Awyeay aiai!" My brother said to me, "What did he say?" I answered, "I guess he was saying 'Good morning' back to us." But it sounded like just a guttural gibberish that was honking up from the bottom of his esophagus. Frankly, it sounded kind of ugly, especially in comparison to our beautiful, solid, clear, proud "Good Morning". I said to my brother, "Doesn't our accent sound much better?" He said, "Well, at least you can understand what we are saying!"
I hasten to add that I realize that there are all sorts of classes of British accents and who knew exactly where that one rated along the class continuum, plus we were on the brink of going into Wales, and that might have had an influence, too. And, after, all, one of our guests on this trip lived in England, too, and his accent was very clear and elegant. He later became a member of Parliament, so there you go. But I enjoyed preferring our own accent, now, and gee, we can hardly watch any British television of movies anymore without wishing we could see some subtitles. And a Scotish accent is the worst, that is hopeless for me, I have to have subtitles for that!
Okay, now that I have angered the British, I must leave that and get into what this entry is about (so now I can anger the Russians!).
In my marvelously diverse apartment complex, which is about 1/4 of a large city block in size, the majority of the residents are Hispanic (that's true all over Los Angeles), Whites are next, Blacks after that, and I can't think of a single Asian in this complex. However, for some reason, the majority of the Whites are RUSSIAN, and almost NONE of them know a word of English. And not one of them is the least bit nice. All the Hispanics and all the Black are extremely nice, they are truly wonderful to be sharing this place to live, but as a White person, it does sometimes feel a little bit lonely due to so many of those White people being Russian.
My first experience with one of the Russians living here...it sort of waylays me, because simply looking at them, I can't tell that they are Russian. My apartment has a two-story high ceiling in the living room and I had a large, heavy tapestry that I wanted to hang high up on he upper reaches of one wall. I didn't have a ladder that was two stories tall, but I saw that a man living in this complex had a huge ladder on his big truck, so one day I saw him down at his truck and I went over to him and asked him if I could borrow, or perhaps "rent" his ladder for about an hour sometime. I explained what I wanted it for, to hang a tapestry high up on my two-story hight wall.
He said, "No."
I said, "I would be happy to pay rent for it, which is what I would have to do if I rented one from Home Depot or some place, but I can't see how I could fit that into buy car."
He said, "I don't loan out my ladder. Only I can use my ladder."
I said, "Well then, could I hire YOU to work with me to get this tapestry hung up on the wall. I could pay your normal hourly fee for whatever you normally do in your work."
He said, "I am a plumber."
I said, "Okay, but this time, you could just climb up a latter for your plumber's fee."
He said, "I only do plumbing. I do not climb up ladders unless it has to do with plumbing."
Hearing him saying these things made me realize that he was Russian...he had that guttural Russian voice, but at least he knew English. He clearly had no intention of helping me in any way. Well, that was his prerogative, but certainly was not very nice.
So to heck with him. I happened to find a multi-folding ladder at Home Depot to buy, much better than his ladder, and, folded up, it even fit into my car's truck, so I installed up high up on the wall the gorgeous tapestry. That is always the best way anyway, do things your self.
Over the years, I might run into other Russians there in the complex, such as in the laundry room or getting their mail. They are the ones when I say "Hi" to them, they ignore me completely. I am just being friendly, they can't even smile and say 'Hi" back? Maybe it's that thing of not knowing English, they haven't even bothered to grasp what something as simple as "Hi" means.
About half a year ago, I was sitting in my balcony (which is on the third floor) and I saw down below at the gate an elderly woman and man. The woman was pulling behind her a folding grocery cart, and the man was very rustily shuffling along pushing a walker. It looked like he was in agony, that possibly his legs were riddled with arthritis, like every step hurt but he continued anyway. I thought to myself, poor man, what are they doing? Surely they couldn't be walking to the grocery store...I myself wouldn't walk that far.
An hour or more later, I was still out there and that couple came back, the man agonizing shuffling along, the woman pulling what was now a cart packed solid with groceries. I was flabbergasted, they actually had shuffled their way all the way to the grocery store and back.
Maybe a month later, I was out on my balcony again and down below was that couple again. Same situation, her with the grocery cart, him agonizingly shuffling along pushing his walker. I deliberately stayed out there until they came back hours later. I greatly admired them, those two, going through that routine again and again. Clearly the woman was supporting his exercise, trying to keep him moving, rather then degrading, yet was patient with his slowness, never seemed to hurry him along, but tolerated his slowness and accepted that was their situation. I wanted so much to tell them what I felt, how inspiring it was for me to see them...that I thought they were heroes, unsung heroes.
Well, a couple of months ago, I was down on the walkway and who should come shuffling along but that couple! So I immediately launched into telling them about how I had seen them from my balcony and "wow, how wonderful you two are", saying to the man "you bravely continue with this great effort" and to the woman saying "you are so patient with him", telling them that they were both heroes to me. But they just stared at me, the woman with annoyance creasing her face, the bowed down man looking up at me with watery eyes as if I were a madman. I didn't understand, why were they acting so peculiarly to what I was saying, but fortunately Nancy, a Black lady who is a friend of mine there, walked by and she said, "They are Russian, they don't understand what you are saying." I was so frustrated, I wanted them to know what I felt, how much I admired them, but there was no way to get through to them, they might as well be zombies in an insane asylum, which is what they seemed like to me now. They went on their way down the walkway to the gate, their brief interruption with what was obviously a deranged man meant nothing to them, "don't pay it any mind, he won't trouble us now".
At least Nancy understood. She said, "They are everything you said they are, but you just can't communicate with them. I see them all the time and she's a tough one! He had lots of trouble going up the stairs, you can imagine. But I've seen her, she doesn't help him at all, she makes him do it no matter what, she doesn't want him to get soft. Sometimes he is too tired to go another step, but she just shrugs her shoulders and goes on inside the put the groceries away. After a while, he finishes the last few steps and goes back inside." I said, "What else do you know about them? Their names, their history?" But Nancy just says, "I don't know them at all. Only what I have seen, that's all. I don't think anybody knows them." Well, if Nancy doesn't know them, she is right, nobody else them.
Just yesterday, the weather was so wonderful, everybody around seemed excited and happy about that. I brought out a book to read and a bottle of water to drink. I got onto the chaise lounge and saw an elderly couple also outside, out on the patio of their condo, in the complex across the street from our complex. The woman wore a pretty pink blouse. I felt like waving to her, like we are two kindred spirits outside enjoying this balmy evening. The sun would soon enough set and that would be a glorious sight. But I didn't wave even thought I had a strong impulse to do so, it felt downright rude to not do it. Most people don't see things the way I do, so I didn't...she wouldn't have a clue as to who I was and my distance from her was probably far enough to make it not seem to her that we had any kindredness with each other. So, in frustration, I just read my book, and when it got dark, the elderly couple across the street got up, went inside, and closed the blinds. As for me, I got up, turned on my party lights which I can read with and read for another hour.
Today, around the same time as yesterday, I picked up my book and my bottle of water and went outside to the balcony again. And guess what, that elderly couple was outside on their patio again! This time the woman was wearing a yellow blouse. I was so excited to see them again, I turned on my party lights so that my balcony would be clearly delineated. I decided that I was going to get up and go across the street to the sidewalk a little below their patio, point out my party-lighted balcony over there and explain that I know this probably seems crazy, but with us all enjoying this wonderful evening after having been in this nearly two whole months of Lockdown, that with this minor escape I feel a kinship with them, so if ever I seen them again like this, I will wave hi to them and that is why I am doing that.
I put on my shoes, got my keys, and went down the three flights of stairs and out through the parking gate and across the street to those people's patio. When I got to where she was sitting, I gave her my spiel. "See that balcony over there with the lights, that is mine," and I explained why I was there talking with her at that moment and halfway thorough my speech, through the mouth in her stone cold face with no expression on it at all, the woman uttered only one word. "Russian." That was it, that was all, that was all she had in her and that was all she felt she needed to say, could say. "Russian".
I felt the same frustration that I had with the shuffling old man and the grocery cart toting woman, that hopeful expression of sharing a feeling from one human to another human, to express that awareness that that normally we live in this culture in such isolation from and misunderstanding of each other, but here I am, someone wanting to throw off the imposed solitude, wanting and willing to reach out and share a recognition of our common kinship...all I got was yet another RUSSIAN.
I was so wound up that I said my whole speech anyway, gesturing to my lightened balcony, telling the woman my name and indicating with my sweeping arm her in her balcony with a hope that understanding might break through, but I might as well have been attempting to act out the Declaration of Independent in a game of charades. I was met not even with a stare, but a stone face looking straight forward, not at me, In her desire to get me to scram, since the one explanatory word of "Russian" didn't do it, then maybe pretending that I wasn't even there might do it.
As I walked back to my apartment, I saw that the Hispanic woman who lives with her husband in the apartment directly below me was out on their balcony. They are out there a lot; I usually see them when I come in and park. The woman doesn't know English fluently, but she can understand enough of it, so I told her about my frustration with the woman across the street and her not understanding a word, but then I said, "But you are also enjoying this great evening and we share this kinship even if I can't even see you. I bless you, and hope you continue to enjoy yourself like you do. Keep yourself well." English was not her native language, but she understood me. And I do mean it...I bless her.
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