Guns ‘n Russians
250,000 Ukrainian refugees
Two of my students in 6th period physics speak Russian. Sasha is a tall, full-figured loudmouth who dies her red hair maroon and runs food at the Mexican restaurant under new management (better now, but Cheryl still withholds approval: margaritas so-so, salsa no-go) within walking distance of our house. Maxym sits behind Sasha. He’s a dark, lanky stick in a rush to learn so he can deal cards and socialize.
One day, Max informed a skeptical class, “I can dance,” and proved it by grabbing Sasha by the elbows and — chin raised, stiff back — stepped her through the Viennese waltz. The dance disallows lifts, but Max tried anyway. He was charming enough, while failing, to get away with the claim “Sasha’s too big,” by quickly reframing Sasha-earthbound due to his musculature, “I’m weak, okay?”
To prove his point, he attempted to lift a slight, wiry kid, Henry, who is roughly half-Sasha.
Max approached Henry from behind and, to my surprise, Henry, the class smart-ass fascinated by magnets and free energy, was agreeable. Henry calls me sir (due to a summer stint in military school), yet his respectful ways haven’t kept him from an upcoming appointment with the judge in juvenile court. Last month he loaded a few friends into his Jeep Cherokee, left campus at lunch, and shot at pedestrians in my neighborhood with something called a splatter gun. I had seen the grainy picture of Henry’s car — at publication, the Jeep’s owner was unidentified — in the police blotter section of the free local that lands on my doorstep once a week. The article detailed the harm that splatter guns can pose. Eye danger and deep bruising. Max looped his arms under Henry’s, bent him back, and drug him by the heels until he yelped.
Max and Sasha speak fluid Russian though neither has an accent. Max uses the f-word and Sasha scolds before letting fly herself, suggesting, out of respect to me, “Let’s swear in Russian.” Max says in Ukraine that students aren’t allowed to curse but teachers are. Sasha and Max practice Russian curses on each other giggling at the other’s pronunciation.
Sasha is first-generation who only recently claimed, “I’m not Russian. My parents are.”
Max speaks Ukrainian too, the language similar, yet distinct to Russian, like French to Portugese. He still has family in Ukraine. Five years ago Max came to the US with his father. He has not mentioned a mother. Max’s seat has been empty the last two weeks.
500,000 refugees
About the time Max disappeared from 6th period, Aleksander entered 5th period. Aleks is new to Milton, new to my study hall roster. Strong Russian accent, he keeps his head down, loud music on his ear buds. My study hall is twenty-five minutes, precedes a twenty-five minute lunch. Seniors, a dozen or so, twenty-four listed on my roster, but half have scattered, finding better places to be. It’s quiet, a treasured sanctuary in my day. Sometimes too quiet.
When I hear tinny, grating sounds, I motion to the oblivious offender, moving my index finger in a circle (an anachronism, dating to my iPod days, and yet instantly understood) to lower the volume. On Aleksander’s first day, as students filed out for lunch, a student volunteer entered to escort him to the cafeteria, presumably to sit with him. The volunteer was drop-dead gorgeous. Aleksander, reluctant to move, uncoiled like a snake in the shade. He turned to the rear of class where two girls sat with their brown paper bags, removed his ear bud and said, “Is ok if I stay?”
A few, the independent, the lonely, the shy, the nerd, the goth, the goth nerd, the book nerd or rare band kid who finds the band room alternative too loud, forego the cafeteria for my room. I eat my lunch at my desk. I never see Aleks eat and am afraid to ask if he packs. His black jeans hang loose on his slight frame. His Vans are black and new and every day wears the same blue and red plaid shirt buttoned to the collar, skin as absent of pigment as you’d expect of someone from “about 500 kilometers south of Moscow.”
1 million refugees
The Donbas region is south of Moscow. I don’t know what city Aleks is from, I’m concerned with overstepping, but he’s nineteen, more mature than his American peers, and has refugee status. Donetsk is a city within the Russian controlled Donbas region in eastern Ukraine. Google maps it 1000 km south of Moscow, or about 600 miles. Closer than Atlanta to Cleveland, 15 hours by car, perhaps longer due to closed borders. And tank traffic. And indiscriminate shelling.
After three days of spare communication, Aleksander raised his head from the crook of his elbow and spoke, initiating conversation for the first time, “The guitar, is yours?”
The guitar cost me $400, a short-lived experiment of a nephew. It has a nice sound. It hangs behind my desk in a corner between the Pink Floyd and Kiss posters and a futuristic painting of a kaleidoscopic earth suspended beneath a guitar-wielding fish.
“Would you like to play?”
He mumbled, looked at the floor. I removed it from the hook.
His face lifted as he stood, “I play. A little.” At the lab table nearest my desk, he hunched over the guitar with intent. I told him it needed tuning, but he didn’t acknowledge. I returned to my computer screen.
I braced myself, wondering what I had done.
Click here for a post on my prior experience with study hall guitar practice
2 million refugees
I bit into my sandwich, swiss on sweetbread, and listened to Aleksander, my new Russian student in study hall, play the strings with a fine delicousy. He warmed up awhile before a faint melody wafted through the room.
So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from hell?
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd, 1975
“Sounds good,” I said.
Head bowed, he let the guitar rest in his lap, hands flat on its body. “The guitar. It helps with my emotions. Especially now, with everything.”
The bell rang. He passed me the guitar. I hung it back on the wall behind my desk, “Help yourself,” I said, “anytime.”
The next day, Aleks took his seat and didn’t look at me. I stood, gestured over my shoulder.
“Please,” he said.
Aleksander practiced a Metallica riff. “I prefer electric. Guitar is my passion. I like aggressive. Metalcore. In Russia, metal not so popular. My father introduced me to rock. His favorite band is Pink Floyd.”
“I saw Metallica in Atlanta a few years ago, before COVID.”
Aleks said, “Yes, they come to Moscow in 2019. I missed them. My sister still in Russia, she likes Green Day, music from the 90s. She has boyfriend, a ring,” he held up the back of his hand, “but she’s not married, she’s — hmm, the word — how do you say?”
“Engaged.”
“I take guitar class here at Milton. I don’t like guitars in band room. I like yours. The strings are, hmm, I’m not fighting to play.”
“Better action,” I said.
“Yes, I used to practice three, four hours a day. Now I have no guitar. We have no money.”
3 million refugees
“Do you know Joel?” Joel played guitar in my study hall a year ago. I’d seen him recently in the hall.
Aleks shook his head, “I have no friends. I am new.” He played something I didn’t recognize. “It’s very difficult. I work on arpeggio.” He pronounced the name of his favorite Russian musician, a collection of raspy, gurgled syllables I recognized no part of, then showed me his phone, a Russian rapper, Ivan Aleksandrovich Alekseyev, who goes by his stage name, “NoizeMC. Very famous in my country.”
Per Wikipedia, NoizeMC performed in Lviv in 2014, a large Ukrainian city farthest west, near the border with Poland, about 500 miles from Krakow. He played with a Ukrainian flag on stage and dedicated his set to all the victims of information warfare. He is a classically trained guitarist and wrote a song called Lenin Has Risen.
“What age group does he appeal to?”
“All ages. His music and lyrics are very important to Russians. Political messages.”
Russia has sent tanks and missiles across the border toward Kyiv, Kharkiv, Mariupol, other eastern Ukrainian cities.
4 million refugees
The next day Aleks sat and initiated eye contact. A first. I motioned to the guitar.
“Please,” he said.
I asked, “Was that Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door?”
“Yes, Guns ’N Roses.” He played pieces of different songs.
“What was that?”
“Hendrix. All Along the Watchtower.”
“Bob Dylan songs,” I said.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “Dylan greatest songwriter ever.” His tone, straddling the line between dismissal and agreement, reminded me of my colleague, the other physics teacher, Dr. Silvestrov, a phD in physics from the University of Moscow.
Aleks said, “I started three years ago. Really, I play for two, how do you say?”
“Committed,” I said, “You started three years ago, but the last two, with serious intent.”
Aleks said “You have old strings.”
I picked up the package of light-gauge acoustic strings from the top of a filing cabinet underneath where the guitar hangs. A gift last May from a student with California surfer looks who would play at the end of my AP environmental science class. He also gifted me its strap, a cheery flower pattern, neon orange, yellow, and lime green hibiscus.
“I like the Japanese Yamaha. I don’t own. The Gibson I owned in Russia was Chinese. A struggle to play. The Japanese, better, don’t know how to say.”
“Feels right?”
“I really want a Gibson, American-made. I can’t afford. Maybe someday I buy Epiphone,” he showed me $800 Gibsons on his phone. “Which color do you prefer?” Aleks asked me.
“I like the gold one, like Slash plays.”
“Yes, Guns ’N Roses came to Moscow in 2019. Missed them too.”
Mama, put my guns in the ground
I can’t shoot them anymore
That long black cloud is comin’ down
I feel like I’m knockin’ on heaven’s door
Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door, Bob Dylan, 1973
“Americans don’t understand Putin. It is not because of geopolitical conflict. Putin does it to look strong for his people.” He looked at the floor and shook his head, “Russians are brainwashed by him.”
“Happens here too,” I said. “Brainwashing by Trump propaganda.”
Aleksander said, “When Trump was elected, I was very young. I don’t know him. We don’t like his support for Putin.”
In 2016, Aleks would’ve been about twelve. I took my guitar from him, the bell about to ring. I played what I could of Wish You Were Here.
“My father’s all-time favorite song,” Aleksander said, “He plays it all the time.”
After a two week absence, Maxym has returned to physics class.
“What have I missed?
“A quiz. But I can excuse you from it.”
“No, no. I can take it.”
I couldn’t like this kid more. I asked “So how is everything?”
“It’s fine. It’s good,” he shrugged, trying to dismiss, an edge of stoicism he couldn’t possibly contain, before adding off-handedly, “I have family living in bomb shelters now, so there’s that…”