MidReal Story
Love in Russian Class
Scenario: A love story between a Russian Language teacher and an unfunny student
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Matryoshka dolls lined the shelves.
A life-sized cardboard cut-out of Vladimir Putin stood in the corner, his eyes ever watchful.
I was a teacher of Russian language at the local high school, and I loved my job.
Though the students sometimes thought he was a little creepy.
It was my mission in life to teach these kids everything I knew about my mother country, from its language to its customs, its food and its history.
The classroom was adorned with traditional Russian items, from samovars to khokhlomas to nesting dolls.
It made for an immersive experience that I hoped would help the kids feel more engaged with my lessons.
I took great pride in my work, and I was always looking for better ways to help the kids learn.
My methods went beyond simply teaching grammar and vocabulary, venturing into culture and history as well.
Today’s lesson was on Russian literature, a subject close to my heart and one I’d used time and time again to hook the students in.
“Good morning, class,” I said as the students settled into their seats, shoving their bags under desks and rifling through their notebooks.
“Today we’re going to talk about some of Russia’s most famous authors, Dostoevsky and Tolstoy.
I’ll give you a brief overview of their lives and works, and then we’ll delve into one of their stories together.”
A hand shot up from the back of the class, and I smiled at the eager student.
“Yes, Alexei?”
I said, my enthusiasm only slightly clipped by his scowl.
He sat at the very back of the class, his desk crammed into an odd little nook by the door.
He looked less than thrilled to be there.
“Can’t we just read something in English?”
he asked, his voice doleful as he stared at me with those big brown eyes.
I couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him.
His long messy black hair fell over his face, obscuring his eyes, and he seemed perpetually lost in thought as he gazed down at his notebook.
“Russian literature is some of the best in the world,” I said, trying to be patient despite the scowl that never seemed to leave Alexei’s face.
“It’s important to be able to appreciate and discuss it in the original language.”
“Besides,” said Olga from the front row, her short blonde hair bouncing as she turned to smile at Alexei over her shoulder, “it’s way more interesting than anything you have back in the USA.”
Olga was one of the few students who got along well with Alexei, perhaps because she was so outgoing and he was, well, not.
She spent most of her time trying to make him laugh, which was a difficult task, given that he was the least funny person I’d ever met in my life.
Olga had tried almost everything, from telling jokes to pulling faces to sending him funny pictures on Instagram, but nothing seemed to work.
It was like he just didn’t have a sense of humor at all.
