An Homage to Dorm Babushkas

I’d like to take a moment to express my gratitude for and adoration of the babushkas who work in the dorm, cleaning after and keeping track of the students who live here. They act in part in a role similar to that of the RH’s in the University of Chicago dorms, insofar as they look after everyone and keep them in line, but their job goes much farther. They’ve been looking after me with particular care since I got here. They understand that, particularly at the beginning, it’s difficult to live in a foreign country, and they’ve been wonderfully willing to act as a resource for me and to help me. For example, when my toilet broke during my first week and I had trouble communicating the urgency of the problem (and was stressed out and homesick besides) they calmed me down and sent someone to help. About two weeks in, one of the women came up to my room to encourage me to socialize with the students in the dorms more and to not be shy and hide in my room. She also took an inventory of the food I had in my little kitchen to make sure I was eating well enough and promised to teach me how to make soup some time, because apparently I don’t eat enough soup. She was actually the first person with whom I had a relatively lengthy conversation in Russian. About a week later, another woman came to my room with fresh linens and towels and cleaned my floors. This week, when I asked to use the laundry machines to wash some jeans, another woman simply did my laundry for me (and even hung up my clothes and returned my detergent to my room when she was done). They all know who I am and know that my Russian is not perfect and are very accommodating. They call me “Sarochka” (the diminutive form of my name) and say I’m “molodets” (which can be roughly translated as a “good fellow/girl”) and praise my Russian.

The dorm also has a general manager, a middle-aged man who, honestly, looks like he came straight out of a mob movie, but he has also been quite wonderful to me. Every time I see him he invites me to his office for sweets and cognac and conversation (though I’ve not yet taken him up on his offer). He seems like quite an intriguing character. He can also speak a little English, which I only found out recently, though he’s a little hesitant to speak in English with me, but does when something goes wrong (for example, when my toilet broke again) and I’m visibly distressed (and if you know me at all, you know that I’m a very anxious person…) so that I don’t have to go through the additional stress of speaking a foreign language. Again, incredibly accommodating.

I’m pretty sure that the students who live here don’t get all of the special treatment that I’ve been getting, however. I also noticed this week that I seem to have a bit more freedom than the students (seeing as I’m, you know, not a student here). I spent a few nights this week enjoying tea and company with some of the first year students, and I discovered another role of the dorm babushkas: around 10:30 each night, they come around to every room to make sure that all of its inhabitants are accounted for (the dorm has a curfew of 11pm). A little after 11, they come by again and kick out all of the boys from the girls’ room. I have to say, it’s interesting to me to see how little freedom these students have in comparison to students at American colleges and universities, in terms of their education and their living situation. They can’t choose their classes, they’re not allowed to leave the classroom before the bell rings, the structure of the classes themselves are more reminiscent of high school lessons than college lessons (in terms of homework and teaching methodology), and they even only take notes when the teacher specifically tells them to (I tried to explain how American students, from primary school through college, are expected to decide for themselves when to take notes, and they were shocked—“But how do you know what’s important if the teacher doesn’t tell you? How do you know what you will be tested on?” Dictation is huge here). They can’t have guests in the dorms, they can’t be out past a certain hour, they can’t stay in their friends’ rooms until all hours at night, and I don’t think all of them even have keys to their own rooms—there’s a wall of keys in the laundry room and they get their room key from there when they need to unlock their door. But no one checks up on me and I have my own key. Another bonus of being a teacher!

To top it all off, it’s apparently cheaper to live here than anywhere else (I’ve asked, but still haven’t gotten a specific answer as to the cost of the dorm). It’s a pretty nice setup, I have to say—although I am looking forward to returning to the days where I don’t share a wall with a seventeen-year-old boy who likes to listen to techno loudly and at all hours. Small sacrifices for the convenience of the arrangement, I suppose!