"Ding, ding, ding!"

I close the final pages of Maya Angelou’s “The Heart of a Woman”, and I am inspired. The wind looms loudly among the trees and a chain on a metal gate just outside clanks violently in a demanding rhythm. I close the book on my bed and, as it sits on top of my blue and yellow busy floral bedspread, I gaze at my hands as they rest on top of the book. My hands are young and, at the moment, look as though they might belong to a teenaged schoolgirl. The chipping red nail polish splotched across my unkempt fingernails desperately needs to be removed before I lose a certain amount of respect among the impressively dressed, neat, and clean Kyrgyz teachers at school. Respect… this term has been brought to my attention increasingly in the past several days in ways that cause me to ponder it’s weight in this culture, which I currently call home.

In Kyrgyz culture, a person’s age is the ultimate determining factor in terms of respect. A person’s age will determine how they are to be called, their place at the table, which parts of an animal they will eat at a Toi (party), whether they sit or stand on a Marshrutka, and the list goes on. What I have recently discovered is the abrupt reality that age, regardless of experience, determines much in the work place as well. In my case, this means that age determines the picking order of the teachers at school. Of course, because I am a volunteer and a guest, I am treated differently from my fellow young teachers (who are all older than I with more practical teaching experience) and I am honored, listened to, and respected. This interesting reality with which I have bumped shoulders will be a steady companion, I’m sure, throughout the next 2 years.

As the wind continues to race through the trees outside my protective window, I think back to this past Saturday’s “First Bell Ceremony” which took place at my school. Nearly 1,500 students along with over 100 teachers collected in the school’s courtyard, dressed to the nines, anticipating the coming school year. Multicolored banners were strung above the concrete yard and the students collected in a three-sided square awaiting the beginning of the ceremony. A long table stretched the length of the fourth side of the square and placed neatly on it were pinkish purple iridescent vases bustling with roses and greenery. At the table were seated some of the older teachers, the director of the school, the mayor, and other school administration.

“Amanda, you will speak, won’t you?” My counterpart, Kushtar, asks me expectantly. I had been warned that I would be asked to speak and, though I hadn’t prepared an official speech, I politely obliged. “Of course I will speak. Will you help me to translate?” I asked Kushtar, knowing what her answer would be. “Yes, yes, no problem.” After some hushed questions to some fellow helpful teachers on the pronunciation of Kyrgyz introductory phrases and congratulations, a microphone was thrust in my direction. I barely made it through “Salamatsizdarbuh” before a few girls approached me with roses. These students knew what it meant to have a volunteer, they were grateful and an obvious appreciation of my presence preceded me. I said a few words on the importance of attaining knowledge and even used a cheesy line like “this school year marks a new journey on the road of knowledge for all of you” which I’m sure did not translate into Kyrgyz. Five of the youngest students walked the inside perimeter of the populated square with a bell in tow. "Ding, ding, ding!" Was the sound that resonated from the bell and the crowd clapped and cheered. The school year had begun with the simple dinging of a bell. Like the flurry with which it had begun, the ceremony ended and the students dispersed to their first lessons.