We went to parent teacher conferences last week (my kids are doing wonderfully, by the way).
My daughter's teacher mentioned that there was a student who started out the school year not able to speak English. Now, this student is at the top of the class. And, they translated the conference for their parents.
I have mixed feelings about this. There's a part of me that is proud of this young person, and glad they have this opportunity. I hope they continue to learn English and to learn so quickly. It will be a great advantage to them as they get older.
There's another part of me that's a little wistful - it's a lot of responsibility for a child to translate for their parents.
I've written before about my grandmother, whose parents never learned English. I don't know how she felt about translating for them - or how her siblings felt.
Being a translator has a lot of power. There are nuances that are difficult to translate. You get to decide what to translate, and what not to translate.
The teacher can say "Aerin needs to tuck her shirt in more" and I could decide to translate that as "Aerin does a good job of dressing appropriately". A kindergartener is probably not going to attempt to re-translate. But as they get older, they might.
There are school employees whose job it is to translate between the parents and teachers. Probably for just this situation. Language has a lot of power, the person who has command of a language has a great deal of power. I'm assuming since the student was doing so well, the teacher didn't feel that a translator was important to call in (other than the student themselves).
I remember my French teacher (back in high school) talking about her experiences translating. An important person from France was visiting, and she was translating. One of the things the French official was extolling about was the virtues of French milk and French cows. My French teacher translated this (word for word), and resisted the urge to smile or laugh. She felt that American cows and milk were just fine, and the chances of us buying French milk instead of midwestern milk was unlikely.
Showing posts with label ukranian. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ukranian. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Kasha
One of my all time favorite breakfast foods is cracked wheat. It must be the Ukrainian in me. I was shocked, while in Russia, to find this dish called something else (kasha). From what my host family said, there are five different types of kasha (which wikipedia supports). I knew about wheat, corn and oats, but not the others.
Cracked wheat is pretty much like mainlining fiber.
My parents had lots of wheat lying around, so they would use a home grinder to make flour (or cracked wheat). You can also buy pre-cracked wheat packaged at most grocery stores here in the states (I've been able to find it there).
The worst part about it is that it takes around twenty minutes to cook, which is around nineteen minutes and thirty seconds too long for me in the mornings. Like oatmeal, it can also be messy.
You can add honey or jam (with cream) but I prefer plain old granulated sugar and milk.
Not sure why I was thinking about cracked wheat or kasha this morning, but I was. Now I'm wondering if my kids would try it.
Cracked wheat is pretty much like mainlining fiber.
My parents had lots of wheat lying around, so they would use a home grinder to make flour (or cracked wheat). You can also buy pre-cracked wheat packaged at most grocery stores here in the states (I've been able to find it there).
The worst part about it is that it takes around twenty minutes to cook, which is around nineteen minutes and thirty seconds too long for me in the mornings. Like oatmeal, it can also be messy.
You can add honey or jam (with cream) but I prefer plain old granulated sugar and milk.
Not sure why I was thinking about cracked wheat or kasha this morning, but I was. Now I'm wondering if my kids would try it.
Friday, June 29, 2007
My Ukrainian Grandmother
My maternal grandmother is Ukrainian. Her parents immigrated to Canada near the beginning of the last century - in an amazing story I'll post about at some point.
A few weeks ago, we had a heritage pitch in at work. Everyone was encouraged to bring in a family dish or recipe.
I brought in kolachky.
Kolachky are a small jelly filled cookie/pastry. They are common in the Czech Republic, Poland, Ukraine and Russia. My home town had many Polish/Eastern European immigrants, so dishes like kolachky were more common. I'm used to kolachky that are sugar cookies with jelly filling, not pastry - donut like.
Yes, I wimped out and bought kolachky from a local Russian bakery instead of making it myself.
Partially because I've been a little stressed out recently, and spending time baking didn't sound like something I was up for.
But mostly because my grandmother never made Ukrainian food for us while I was growing up. Except borscht (with beets).
She didn't make a lot of Ukrainian food, despite living near her family. Her parents never learned to speak English. Her sisters made amazing Ukrainian food - my Aunt Mary would make the full Easter feast (with 12 different dishes) each Easter. But they both married Ukrainians.
My grandmother married a Scotsman/Norwegian. He died before I was born, but I know a few things about him. He liked to golf. He was very religious - even before he and my grandmother joined the mormon faith in their late twenties. He had a temper and his eyes would get incredibly blue when he was angry.
And he disapproved of all things Ukrainian. I'm sure it was more than that. Growing up in an immigrant family, I've realized that there is a certain dynamic that can happen. Typically, the immigrants are not respected (Ukrainian neighbors of my great grandparents were put in camps in Canada in WWI). They don't speak the language. They have different religious traditions (my great grandparents were Ukrainian Orthodox). They are the "other" - in all senses of the word.
So often, what happens is the family does whatever they can to prove themselves - to prove that they are good, Christian, hard-working, normal people. This is at least what my grandmother's brothers and sisters ended up doing. Sometimes it is at the cost of family history and traditions.
I don't know why my grandfather didn't want my grandmother to cook Ukrainian food. And yes, my grandmother had to cook - they had a very traditional 50s marriage. I don't know if he just didn't like the food, or if he had ever even tried it. I don't know if he associated it with her family or with being lower on the social food chain.
So my mom never learned how to cook Ukrainian food from her mom. My grandmother made no cabbage rolls, perogi, perishke, kasha - nothing. And my grandmother is typically an amazing cook and baker. She has a strawberry pie to die for. So I learned how to make the strawberry pie - not the traditional dishes.
I've asked my grandmother to cook Ukrainian since then, and she will make borscht. When she's feeling up to it, she may make cabbage rolls. But these things seem to make her uncomfortable - she'll admit that she can't cook/bake like her mother. It's just not the same.
A few weeks ago, we had a heritage pitch in at work. Everyone was encouraged to bring in a family dish or recipe.
I brought in kolachky.
Kolachky are a small jelly filled cookie/pastry. They are common in the Czech Republic, Poland, Ukraine and Russia. My home town had many Polish/Eastern European immigrants, so dishes like kolachky were more common. I'm used to kolachky that are sugar cookies with jelly filling, not pastry - donut like.
Yes, I wimped out and bought kolachky from a local Russian bakery instead of making it myself.
Partially because I've been a little stressed out recently, and spending time baking didn't sound like something I was up for.
But mostly because my grandmother never made Ukrainian food for us while I was growing up. Except borscht (with beets).
She didn't make a lot of Ukrainian food, despite living near her family. Her parents never learned to speak English. Her sisters made amazing Ukrainian food - my Aunt Mary would make the full Easter feast (with 12 different dishes) each Easter. But they both married Ukrainians.
My grandmother married a Scotsman/Norwegian. He died before I was born, but I know a few things about him. He liked to golf. He was very religious - even before he and my grandmother joined the mormon faith in their late twenties. He had a temper and his eyes would get incredibly blue when he was angry.
And he disapproved of all things Ukrainian. I'm sure it was more than that. Growing up in an immigrant family, I've realized that there is a certain dynamic that can happen. Typically, the immigrants are not respected (Ukrainian neighbors of my great grandparents were put in camps in Canada in WWI). They don't speak the language. They have different religious traditions (my great grandparents were Ukrainian Orthodox). They are the "other" - in all senses of the word.
So often, what happens is the family does whatever they can to prove themselves - to prove that they are good, Christian, hard-working, normal people. This is at least what my grandmother's brothers and sisters ended up doing. Sometimes it is at the cost of family history and traditions.
I don't know why my grandfather didn't want my grandmother to cook Ukrainian food. And yes, my grandmother had to cook - they had a very traditional 50s marriage. I don't know if he just didn't like the food, or if he had ever even tried it. I don't know if he associated it with her family or with being lower on the social food chain.
So my mom never learned how to cook Ukrainian food from her mom. My grandmother made no cabbage rolls, perogi, perishke, kasha - nothing. And my grandmother is typically an amazing cook and baker. She has a strawberry pie to die for. So I learned how to make the strawberry pie - not the traditional dishes.
I've asked my grandmother to cook Ukrainian since then, and she will make borscht. When she's feeling up to it, she may make cabbage rolls. But these things seem to make her uncomfortable - she'll admit that she can't cook/bake like her mother. It's just not the same.
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