#myBudapest

#nowthatsfunny

#hipsterhumor

perspective

There are two parenting styles at the playground. One views a slide as uni-directional. The other style is espoused by a parent whose kid challenges such one-way linear thinking.

My kid proved today that there is more than one way to shimmy down a fire pole.

#videobyhissister
#letthemfail(fall)
#blesshissoul

#passthewine

One Billion Rising Budapest 2016: Theater and Dance (video)

This year's event featured the Break the Chain dance followed by an innovative theater piece created to explore sexual consent.

The play focusses on the idea that sexual violence is often committed by acquaintances who use other methods than physical coercion.

A theatre performance, website (www.nane.hu/kerszteat), and short films send messages to perpetrators, victims and the society: 

no means no, and only yes means yes.


View the dance below:

#rise4revolution
#vday
#kerszteat
#Budapest
#breakthechain

Egymilliárd nő ébredése (One Billion Rising) 2016

„Egymilliárd nő bántalmazása gyalázat, egymilliárd nő tánca forradalom” (Eve Ensler)

Meghívó

Egymilliárd nő ébredése (One Billion Rising) 2016, Budapest – új forradalom a nők és lányok elleni erőszak ellen

Szeretettel meghívjuk a Magyar Női Érdekérvényesítő Szövetség, a NANE Egyesület és a Nőkért Egyesület közös rendezésében tartandó eseményre!

Időpont: 2016. február 14. vasárnap, délután 3.

Helyszín: Bálint Ház. Budapest, VI. Révay u. 16.

Idén negyedik alkalommal kerül megrendezésre az Egymilliárd nő ébredése (One Billion Rising) világméretű kampány. Az esemény a nők és lányok elleni erőszakkal szembeni fellépésért mozgósít a tánc és a művészet erejével, jótékony kollektív energiák felszabadításával. Minden évben, így idén is, eltáncoljuk a Törd szét a láncot! (Break the Chain!) dalra koreografált figyelemfelhívó táncot. A tánc után bemutatásra kerül a NANE Egyesület „Kérsz teát?!” című darabja. A rendhagyó, egyetemista fiataloknak készült színházi előadást Bánki Gergely és Sipos Vera írta és rendezte, a NANE Egyesület felkérésére és szakértői támogatásával. Az előadást a színészekkel és szakértőkkel folytatott beszélgetés követi, melyet Bombera Krisztina, a mozgalom önkéntese vezet.  

14.30  Érkezés, információs stand

15-15.10 Megnyitó

15.10-15.20 Közös tánc

15.20-15.30 Terem átrendezése

15.30-16.15. Kérsz teát?! színházi előadás

16.15-17.00 Vezetett beszélgetés. Moderál: Bombera Krisztina

A programra a belépés ingyenes. A darab alatt kisgyermekek számára az Éden Játszóház ingyen áll rendelkezésre. 130 fő feletti létszám esetén csak állóhelyet tudunk biztosítani a karzaton.

Magyarországon milliós nagyságrendű a nők elleni erőszak áldozatainak száma. Az EU Alapjogi Ügynökségének reprezentatív kutatása szerint a 15 éves koruk óta a fizikai és/vagy szexuális erőszak valamely formájának áldozatává vált nők aránya a 18–74 éves korosztályban 28%. Ez a 2011-es népszámlálás adataiból kiindulva több mint 1 millió 124 ezer magyar nőt jelent. 

Mi ezért táncolunk, ezért állunk ki magunkért és másokért.

Érezd te is a táncból eredő erőt és energiát! Csatlakozz az összes kontinenshez!

https://www.facebook.com/events/1530788603880738/

#rise4revolution

#Budapest

One Billion Rising Budapest 2016

One Billion Rising Hungary 2016 Campaign

Across Hungary the One Billion Rising campaign escalates its call for the end of violence against women. Fundamentally the movement is a call for change within communities--structural, systemic, long term change. It makes these demands for change by raising awareness about domestic and sexual violence and challenges us to find the right ways to respond.

The One Billion Rising movement encourages creative and artistic expressions so a wide variety of people can enter into the conversation and work toward solutions in our communities. There are rational ways to respond to violence, but often we find rational solutions after we develop our moral courage through artistic play. Thus we once again take part in the worldwide dance phenomenon, “Break the Chain.” This year Hungary is proud to participate in the global movement by presenting an original theater piece, “Kérsz teát?”  (May I Offer You a Tea?), written and performed by Bánki Gergely and Sipos Vera. “Kérsz teát?” explores the idea of consent and provides a rich theater experience for audience members. It will be followed by a discussion about how we understand consent in own relationships.

“Kersz Teat” is a powerful tool to understand a complex, sensitive issue. Audience members walk away from the event with an awareness that may radically change the way they think about and engage in violence-free relationships. The actors, who created the play in collaboration with NANE, hope to use the piece in high schools and colleges.  We especially invite high school teachers and university staff who want to get a first-hand experience of the play before introducing it to their communities.  Introducing a discussion about violence-free relationships to our next generation can dramatically impact the future of Hungary and the safety of its women.

The One Billion Rising Hungary 2016 campaign is thrilled to dance and showcase “Kérsz teát?” The movement invites artistic energy to create new ways of responding to the problem of violence against women.  We look forward to how this energy will produce new ways of responding to those most in need in our community.

What is One Billion Rising? http://www.onebillionrising.org/

Join the Budapest Event: https://www.facebook.com/events/1530788603880738/

Learn the "Break the Chain" dance: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mRU1xmBwUeA

#rise4revolution

#Budapest

Parent Child Interview

I asked Izabella and Leo a series of questions that were part of a Facebook meme. Here is the result:

Izabella, 7 (almost 8)

1. What is something I always say to you? I love you.
2. What makes me happy? clowns
3. What makes me sad? Leo hitting me.
4. How do I make you laugh? putting on my clown costume or saying a funny joke
5. What was I like when I was a child? like a clown
6. How old am I? 41
7. How tall am I? 228 cm
8. What is my favorite thing to do? go shopping
9. What do I do when you're not around? go shopping
10. What am I really good at? funniness or shouting at Leo
11. What is something I'm not good at? bicycling
12. What do I do for a job? write books
13. What is my favorite food? rice casserole
14. What do you enjoy doing with me? cuddle

Leo (6 ½)

1. What is something I always say to you? Isn’t it a beautiful day? Or, I love you.
2. What makes me happy? When I am really nice and not fussing and I don’t eat with my hands
3. What makes me sad? If I hit you or I am angry or I hate you or say I don’t love you
4. How do I make you laugh? Saying funny jokes and tickling me
5. What was I like when I was a child? nice
6. How old am I? 42
7. How tall am I? How would I know?
8. What is my favorite thing to do? go outside and have fresh air, cuddle
9. What do I do when you're not around? go shopping, clean the house
10. What am I really good at? Cleaning the house, loving people, being nice, being cute
11. What is something I'm not good at? Lego
12. What do I do for a job? Write a book and take care of us and I think you said you are a teacher
13. What is my favorite food? French fries
14. What do you enjoy doing with me? Cuddling, go shopping

Iza was then inspired to write her own original interview questions for me:

1.Mia kedvenc színed? blue
2.Hány barátod van? 3
3.Hány éves vagy ha 10 évet elveszel? 31
4.Hány éves vagy ha 10 évet hozáadsz? 51
5.Hány gyereked van? 2
6.Hány éves vagy? 41
7.Hányadik osztályban vagy? :)
8.Van 5 almám megetem 2 vásárolok még 2 hány almám van? 5!
9.Mikor születél? November 18, 1974
10.Mia kedvenc éneked? Happy Birthday
11.Mia kedvenc élményed? skydiving with Jason
12.Hol születél? Hutchinson, KS, USA
13.Mia neved? Janet Kay Francesca Kelley
14.Kia kedvenc barátod? Debbie
15.Kika barátaid? Debbie, Akesha, Ashley, Jason
16.Hány éves vagy ha 10+1 évet elveszel? 30
17.Van 6 kutyám 3 kutyám vetem még 1 kutyát hány kutyám van? 9
18.Van 9-3 db gojom kaptam még 6+9 db gojot hány gojom van? 21
19.😀+😄=? Happy!
20.🎁+💖=? Birthday

Gender Tales: Pink Tax in Budapest

Hold on, I will get to the Pink Tax.

When my daughter started first grade in Budapest in 2014 there was a steep learning curve for both of us.  My expectations about the first-day experience were not met and I was I was deeply shocked by what I considered to be profoundly misguided traditions inconsiderate of children's needs when entering the care of a new school and a new teacher.

Over time I developed a love-hate relationship with the system. No school is perfect. But those striving toward perfection earn my respect. I worry about a system that doesn't seem self-aware, self-critical, or open to the changing needs of its population. However, it should be noted there is a growing teacher rebellion against the nationwide reforms imposed three years ago. The movement is worth your attention and support. Teachers are revolting and parents are revolting by turning away from the public system to open independent new schools.

Back to my local school and my kids. I think it is fair to say that a public school is a perfect microcosm of its culture. (And this will lead me to the Pink Tax, pinkie-swear.)

My current analysis of Hungary is that at the center of its cultural identity is this word:  Tradition. My theory about America is that its central word is:  Independence. These words function in ways that are fascinating to explore and tease out from the news and the arts. These identity tags function.

At the center of the Hungarian school is the notion of tradition with a capital T.

One example of this is the required sports class and its requisite uniform. I was instructed at the parent's meeting to purchase for my daughter a "torna ruha," white socks, and gym shoes with white soles. I get the gym shoes requirement, as it keeps the floors clean.

My first task was to understand "torna ruha." It translates to "gym clothes." However, in the Hungarian tradition (Tradition), this means the girls wear a leotard and the boys wear gym shorts and a white t-shirt. In a classroom of thirty kids they all strip down to their Star Wars skivvies and put on the gym uniform. Right away this signals the gym class is not a play class but a workout. Physical fitness is another lesson, as rigorous as math or reading. I have theories about this too. Seriously, how effective can that be? I know my husband learned to skip gym classes as soon as possible when growing up in a Hungarian school system. But let me stay focussed on the Pink Tax. We are getting there.

After much discussion about the gender imbalance related to requiring girls to wear body-revealing leotards while boys wear comfortable sports clothes, I dutifully went to the sports store. I had resigned to buy my daughter the leotard as well as the shorts and t-shirt. I would pack both and let her decide what worked best for her.

I found the display for the gym clothes. And there it was: The Pink Tax. The leotard cost 2,999 forint (about 10 dollars), which is not cheap. The shorts and the t-shirt combined cost 2,789.  A lesson in the marketplace before the first day of school: It is expensive to be a girl and have the "right" outfit! Granted, the price was only slightly more for the girl outfit. But there it is. Not only does the Tradition expect her to wear a body-revealing costume, it expects her to pay more for it (for less material).

It still makes my blood boil, roiling with pink bubbles of indignation.

#worldwidepinktax
#ugh
#gendertales
#budapest


FYI: More on the pink tax:  http://time.com/4159973/women-pay-more-everything/

F.art

as seen in a Bartok Bela utca gallery window:

#Budapest

Budapest Games

Berlin: 1936
Roma families are taken from their beds and detained in a camp outside of the city where visitors to the 1936 Berlin Olympics will never see them. Later they would be taken to death camps. Hitler had ordered Berlin transformed and perfected for the world to see his ideas made real on its streets. Anti-Semitic signs were removed (stored, and then replaced after the games). The Der Stürmer, a newspaper whose slogan was “The Jews Are Our Misfortune” was removed from newsstands.

Budapest: July, 2015
Budapest and the Hungarian Olympic Committee officially announce their intention to bid for the 2024 Olympic Summer Games.

Budapest: Nov. 7th, 2015
Excerpt from Viktor Orban’s Speech to his Diplomats: Hungary’s historical given is that we live together with a few hundred thousands Roma. This was decided by someone, somewhere. This is what we inherited. This is our situation, this is our predetermined condition…. We are the ones who have to live with this, but we don’t demand from anyone, especially not in the direction of the west, that they should live together with a large Roma minority.

Sources:

Description of Berlin: adapted from The Boys in the Boat by Daniel James Brown
Orban’s speech: English translation taken from the HungarianSpectrum, a blog written by Eva S. Balogh

What This Hutchinson Woman and Her Family Learned from the Syrian Migrants in Budapest

My essay as it appeared in the Hutchinson News:

http://www.hutchnews.com/news/what-this-hutchinson-women-and-her-family-learned-from-the/article_aa32ef44-feb6-5449-a6d9-9d0d1e936bd0.html

School started Sept. 1 in Budapest, but one of the most important lessons my kids will learn this year happened the night before.

My husband and I took my kids, ages 6 and 7, two metro stops down to see the migrants gathered at the Keleti Train Station. We had passed out oranges to the Syrians we found gathered there a few weeks ago as we boarded our train to visit Transylvania. We returned to the station this past Monday afternoon empty-handed to spend time walking among them.

The reality is that I am a migrant, too. I am an American living in Hungary. While I am here by choice and reside legally, the people we saw are trapped. They are not welcome here.

I didn't worry about taking the kids to see the squalid conditions at the majestic 19th-century station, nor did I wonder about our safety in a frantic crowd of refugees traveling with only what they carry and desperate to find a safe haven in Europe. When we passed through a few weeks prior, the refugees were a peaceful crowd. It was a sad campground set up in the modern corridor of the newly renovated metro station hallways.

That night, a few trains were allowed to leave for Germany, but shortly the entire station would be closed to all migrants and international train service suspended as Hungary struggled to create a safe environment for all passengers. Days later, they would start their march on foot toward Austria and Germany before Hungary shut down its border, forcing people to find another route to escape the violence of their homeland.

We were in a hurry then as we had flown in from the States the day before and wanted to make the overnight train to visit Grandma in Transylvania. I bought two shopping bags of oranges along with our snacks for the train, and we left in time to drop the oranges at the migration aid station.

Jet-lagged and cranky, we lugged our bags through the metro and toward Keleti station. When we arrived, however, we didn’t see the volunteers, who would soon be fully organized. Instead, I simply handed an orange to a family with small children. They smiled. I smiled. My kids, who had been reluctant about the idea, saw the exchange and reached for their own oranges to share.

It was my husband’s idea to leave the security of our neighborhood and return to the station the night before school started. It seemed impossible to go about my calm, ordered, privileged routine while hearing the stories of their suffering at the station.

My kids didn’t have much to say while we walked through the crowds, stepping over discarded blankets and filthy toys. Weaving a path around piles of belongings, we made our way to the central crowd. Volunteers passed out food. Another group had brought blankets and art supplies and sat, their laps filled with warm, eager little people happy to play and color even though they didn’t share a common language. A musician had set up and soon a crowd gathered to sing and move their bodies in the release of dance.

This is what I wanted my children to see: the refugee family, clutching only what they can carry, in a foreign land. This is deep down courage. This is what it means to be human. And our response to their plight defines us.

Later, we explained to the kids that these people were trapped at the station because the trains were not running to Germany. We said they had left their homes and all their belongings behind because of war and poverty. They wanted to find a safe home and a chance at a better life.

We were in awe of these people who had risked their lives to escape war. Their futures were uncertain and would be decided on the whim of which train might leave or which rumor they take as truth guiding them along their route.

The next day, my 6-year-old son, entering the first grade, came home from Keleti station and began work with some paper, scissors, tape and colored pencils. I was impressed with what he did. He had drawn a train, cut it out and taped it together using six sheets of paper. It was a long, beautiful train.

He told me he thought we should take it down to Keleti and give it to the kids there. He wanted to give them what they deserve, a chance to grow up in a safe place.



--Janet Kelley grew up in Hutchinson and lives with her family during the school year in Budapest, Hungary. She is a 1993 graduate of Trinity High School. Follow her on Twitter @hutchkelley5

#Hungary #Refugees #Keleti

Orban: Defender of Christian Europe?

Orban clearly states that he is defending Christian Europe from a Muslim invasion.  I began to wonder if their is a warrant for self-defense in the Christian tradition.  I found the following argument (verbatim):

By the time Jesus came to earth, the leaders of the most religious group on earth, those who had been "Chosen" by God to exhibit the character of God and to preach the Good News of God to all of the surrounding nations of unbelievers, had so perverted and distorted the Word of God they had been given, turning it away from a focus on God to a focus on themselves as "Special" above all men, that it was necessary for God to come to earth in the form of man, Jesus, to reveal the exact and complete character of God, to show that God was vastly different from what men believed about Him.

But even the religious leaders were in such darkness, they did not recognize Jesus as God. They were looking for the Messiah to come in the image of "man," THEIR image of "man" - an earthly king who would destroy their earthly enemies, the Romans, and set up the Jews as the rulers over all other nations, an earthly kingdom, ruled by force by a "Messiah" who believed in destroying His enemies.

When Jesus refused to do this, when Jesus refused to destroy Israel's enemies, when Jesus refused to exhibit the emotions of vengeance as humanity does, the Jews refused to accept Jesus as their Messiah. They worshiped a "killer God," a God who destroys His enemies. Therefore, they would not believe that Jesus was the Messiah because He wouldn't kill!

In fact, their hearts were so severely darkened, because they worshiped a God who, they believed, kills His enemies, that they also felt justified in killing those THEY decided were God's enemies. By worshiping a "killer" God, they became like the one they beheld, they became like the one they worshiped. Therefore, in their obsession against One who claimed to be God but refused to kill, they murdered Jesus - they murdered God!

The above text is taken from the following article:  "Is Self-Defense a Right and a Duty? Does God Approve of Christians Protecting Themselves 

and Their Families with Weapons?" By Lorraine Day, M.D.

And this is what I read between the lines:

By the time Orban came to power, the leaders of the most religious group on earth, the Hungarians of Europe, who had been chosen by God to exhibit the character of God and to preach the Good News, had so perverted and distorted the Word of God, turning it away from a focus on God to a focus on themselves as special above all men, that it was necessary for God to come to earth in the form of the refugee, to reveal the exact and complete character of God, to show that God was vastly different from what men believed about God.

But even the religious leaders were in such darkness that they did not recognize the refugees as God. They were looking to their Messiah, Orban, an earthly king who would destroy their earthly enemies, all non-Hungarians, and set up the Hungarians as sovereign unto their own earthly kingdom, ruled by Orban who believed in destroying his enemies.

When the refugees refused to behave and to listen to Orban, when they exhibited their humility and suffering and asked for nothing but to pass through his land, Orban refused them. Instead he cultivated worship of a killer God, a God who destroys his enemies. Therefore, the Hungarians could not believe that the refugees were God at their borders.

In fact, their hearts were so severely darkened, because they worshipped Orban, their great defender, who himself uses force against his enemies, that they too felt justified in maligning, insulting, and imprisoning Orban’s enemies. By voting for a killer, tough-guy Orban, they became like the one they worshipped. Therefore, in their obsession with the refugees who claimed to be God but refused to use violence and only showed a deeper threat to Orban—raw human vulnerability—they murdered the refugees.

A Lesson in Courage at Keleti Station, Budapest

School starts in Budapest on September 1st. One of the most important lessons my kids will learn this year, however, happened the night before. My husband and I took my kids, ages 6 and 7, two metro stops down to see the refugees gathered at the Keleti Train Station. A few weeks ago we had given oranges to the Syrians we found gathered there as we boarded our train to visit Transylvania. We returned to the station this past Monday afternoon empty-handed. We had come to see with our own eyes and simply spend time walking among the refugees.

Did I second-guess our decision to take the kids to see the squalid conditions at the majestic 19th century station? Did I wonder about our safety in a frantic crowd of refugees traveling with only what they carry and desperate to find a safe haven in Europe? Frankly, no. When we passed through a few weeks prior, the refugees were a peaceful crowd. It was a sad campground set up in the modern corridor of the newly renovated metro station hallways.

We were in a hurry then as we had flown in from the States the day before and wanted to make the overnight train to visit grandma in Transylvania. I bought two shopping bags of oranges along with our snacks for the train and insisted we leave in time to drop the oranges at the Migration Aid station. Jet-lagged and cranky we lugged our bags through the metro and toward Keleti station. When we arrived, however, we didn’t see the volunteers (now they are fully organized) and instead I simply handed an orange to a family with small children. They smiled. I smiled. My kids, who had been reluctant about the idea, saw the exchange and reached for their own oranges to share.

It was my husband’s idea to leave the sanctuary of our neighborhood and return to the station the night before school started. I was more concerned with dinner time and a peaceful evening. Yet I agreed to go along. It seemed impossible to go about my calm, ordered, privileged routine while hearing the stories of their suffering at the station.

My kids didn’t have much to say while we walked through the crowds, stepping over discarded blankets and filthy toys. Weaving a path around piles of belongings, we made our way to the central crowd. Volunteers passed out food. Another group had brought blankets and art supplies and sat, their laps filled with warm, eager little people happy to play and color even though they didn’t share a common language. A musician had set up and soon a crowd gathered to sing, dance, and move their bodies in the release of dance.

We explained to the kids that these people were trapped at the station because the trains were not running to Germany. We said that they had left their homes and all their belongings behind because of war and poverty. They wanted to find a safe home and a chance at a better life. We didn’t say all of this at the station, however. This explanation had come out in pieces over the weeks as the refugee crisis grew. At the station we were mostly observant. It was a kind of reverence. We were in awe of these people who had risked their lives to escape war. Their futures were uncertain, and would be decided on the whim of which train might leave or which rumor they take as truth guiding them along their route.

These people, no matter your opinion about the correct political response to this worldwide migration event, define courage. This is what I wanted my children to see. Courage is not the larger-than-life, testosterone-charged American football hero. This is courage: the refugee family, clutching only what they can carry, in a foreign land. Courage is their powerful vulnerability, and their irresistible urge to seek a better life. This is deep down courage. This is what it means to be human. And our response to their plight also defines us.

I have no idea what my children understood or felt as they walked among the refugees. Some of our deepest emotions are ineffable. But when we returned from the Keleti station, my six-year-old son, entering the first grade the next day, set about constructing a project with paper, scissors, tape, and colored pencils. When he showed me the result, I was impressed. He had drawn, cut out, and taped together six sheets of paper to make a train. It was a long, beautiful train. He told me that he thought we should take it down to Keleti and give it to the kids there. He wanted to give the kids a train. Something deep down in him recognized the courage and dignity of those bedraggled kids. He wanted to give them what they deserve, a chance to grow up in a safe place.

In the following days, my son often suggested that we give some money or oranges to the destitute we see on the streets. Living in a modern urban city means my kids see the majestic beauty of Budapest's architecture and it's carefully cultivate parks as well as homeless people everyday. They recognize the local drunk who weaves down the sidewalk, wet with piss and talking rapidly to the sky.  We do often, but not always, give our spare change to those who ask. I have stopped and helped those in need of medical care. But I am left to wallow in the murky moral waters of modern urban life. We witnessed the courage and dignity of the refugees at Keleti station. How should I respond daily to the local people in need? And how do I explain to my kids the difference between the refugees and the destitute we see everyday? Is there a difference?

Back to School Lessons at Keleti Station, Budapest

School starts in Budapest on September 1st. One of the most important lessons my kids will learn this year, however, happened the night before. My husband and I took my kids, ages 6 and 7, two metro stops down to see the refugees gathered at the Keleti Train Station. A few weeks ago we had given oranges to the Syrians we found gathered there before we boarded our train to visit Transylvania. We returned to the station this past Monday afternoon empty-handed. We had come to see with our own eyes and simply spend time walking among them.

The reality is that I am a migrant too. I am an American living in Hungary. While I am here by choice and reside legally, the people we saw were trapped. They are not welcome here. That night a few trains were allowed to leave for Germany, but shortly the entire station would be closed to all migrants and international train service suspended as Hungary struggled to create a safe environment for all passengers. Days later they would start their march on foot toward Austria.

My kids didn’t have much to say while we were at the station. In the past weeks, however, we have often remembered the only family we know who had to flee empty-handed from war, but we don’t know their names either. It is the fictional family in Uri Shulevitz’s picture book “How I learned Geography,” published in 2008. I remind them that kids at the station are just like that little boy who had no toys and no food.

In Shulevitz’s tale, based on his own experience, the father spends their last coins not on bread, but on a map. The boy was furious and hungry. The next day the father hangs the colorful map, which covers a wall, and the boy learns to forget his hunger and travel freely to faraway safe lands as he stares at the map. The story ends when the boy forgives his father because he understands that it was right to choose the power of imagination over a few morsels of bread. If he had bought the bread, they would still be hungry. But now they had hope, on which they could survive.

The worst thing about the current situation in Hungary is that the government has no message of hope for the children at the station. They have not even offered bread.

The good news is that Hungarians have found the courage to respond to the refugees in an impressive act of volunteerism. Migration Aid asked for people to temporarily stop bringing donations because they ran out of storage room and capacity to organize and distribute the goods.

Was it gross of us to go to the station with our children merely to see? Was I conflicted as I reached to fix my lipstick in the metro before we arrived? Did I feel a strong sense of privilege as I left the station and took the metro home to my apartment facing a park? Yes. The only thing more uncomfortable would have been to go to school the next day, the kids gorgeous in their first-day clothes and new backpacks, having ignored the kids at the station.

My six-year-old son, entering the first grade the next day, came home from Keleti station and set about constructing a project with paper, scissors, tape, and colored pencils. When he showed me the result, I was impressed. It was a train he had drawn, cut out, and taped together using six sheets of paper. It was a long, beautiful train. He told me that he thought we should take it down to Keleti and give it to the kids there.

Magyar Irodalomóra

The following is both my first attempt to write fiction in Hungarian and my first attempt to teach in Hungarian.  My language class asked us to prepare a presentation on the topic of our choice.  Other students presented on wine-tasting, Japan, marriage, and tourism in Hungary.  I choose to create the beginning of a story and develop a lesson plan around it.

It was fascinating to write fiction in another language.  My vocabulary is very restricted which shaped the story I created.  But it also forced me to infuse every sentence with action.

I post it here mostly for my own sake as a way to preserve my little language learning efforts.

*********************************************************************************

Magyar Irodalomóra

Olvassátok el a szöveget. Amikor találsz egy új szót, írd a táblára.

***

Rejtély

A munka után a barátok bementek a kávéházba. Leültek és rendeltek. Nyugodtan beszéltek a napjukról.
Szilvia csak nézte a telefonját. Hirtelen felállt és szó nélkül kiment az utcára. A többiek halkan és gyorsan beszéltek róla.
--Kepzeljétek el, a férje komolyan beteg lett. Azt hallottam, életveselyes.
--Ne mondd már! Kitől hallottad ezt? Nem beteg! Elvesztette a munkáját két héttel ezelőtt.
--Na, ne mondd már!  Nem igaz! Azt hallottam, hogy új munkát kapott, de az új cég arra kötelezte, hogy költözzön el valahova Dél-Koreába.

Szilvia odalépett az asztalhoz. A barátai kíváncsian felnéztek. Meg akartak tudni az igazságot. Nem kérdeztek semmit mert megijedtek az arcától. Az arca holt sápadt volt. Az egyik keze remegett. Majdnem elejtette a telefonját.  Nem ült le.

Ott termett a pincér. Letett az asztalra egy drága üveg pezsgőt és négy magas poharat.

Szilva kezébe vette az üveget és kezdte kihúzni a dugót. A barátok féltek a dugótól. Ki is jött belőle halkan és finoman, mint egy kielégitett nőből a sóhaj.

A többiek csak bámultak egymásra.

Szilvia az asztal körül sétált. A pezsgőből töltögetett a barátainak, végül magának is.

A barátok nem tudtak mit mondani. Ilyenkor sütit és kávét szoktak fogyasztani. Most nem tudták, mi történik.

Szilvia felemelte a poharát. Lassan a többiek is.
--Igaz, ugye, barátaim, hogy süt a nap? Én rendeltem a különleges buborékost mert...

Nem tudta folytatni. A barátok már tűkön ültek.

--Igyátok meg --súgta Szilvia.

A barátok kiitták a poharakból a pezsgőt.

A pincér odament és letette a számlát, mert már egy ideje a terem másik végéből figyelte a jelenetet. Úgy döntött, hogy jobb ha fizetnek és távoznak.

Csengett egy telefon. Szilvia ránézett a telefonjára és kikapcsolta.
--Barátaim, nincs sok időnk. Hallgassatok meg és csináljátok, amit mondok. A kabátotokat a táskátokat, mindent hagyjatok itt. Fussatok el!

***

Kepzeljétek el a végét! Válaszoljatok a kérdésekre. Önálló munka.

Hány évesek?

Hol dolgoznak? Együtt?

Kivel beszélt Szilvia telefonon?

Miért szól sok pletyka a ferjéról?

Miért nem ivott Szilvia a pezsgőből?

Mi a te véleményed, milyen baj van?

Szilvia jó ember vagy rossz? Beteg?

Mit fognak csinálni a barátok? Mit fognak mondani? Tényleg birkák lennének?


***

Mit történik ez utàn? Rövid legyen! Nem kell a mese végét tudni.
Mondjátok el!

An American Reading Hungarian

A while ago I went to a literary event for children with my kids. Someone asked me to "read a story" and I understood that someone was going to read out loud.  We happily followed the young person into the next room. Before I knew it, I was being videotaped cold-reading a Hungarian tale. It turns out I had volunteered for a program that makes these videos and shares the stories with kids in the hospital. Here you go, me cold reading a modern Hungarian Christmas story:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AytGcYM1S9U#t=18

Hungarian Love (NYT Modern Love Reject)

Hungarian Love

My husband bought a house in Brookline, MA. I live in Budapest with our two kids. The day he signed the deal, he ran into a new neighbor, who happens to be Hungarian. My husband explained that his wife and kids live in Budapest. The new neighbor concluded that I must want to live in Budapest because I have a lover.

When my husband recounted the exchange via Skype, I told him that my lovers are pint-sized. Right on cue the partially clad kids streaked behind me, climbed on my shoulders, and his image froze.

To clarify, he is the Hungarian from Transylvania. I am the American from Kansas.  We came to Budapest three years ago on vacation with our young children. It was supposed to be a three-month stay. We had invested in an apartment, our first piece of real estate in Hungary. Many people in Brookline have vacation homes on Cape Cod. It turned out that we are not Cape Cod people. Instead we put roots down in Budapest.

True, the commute is too far for weekend trips. But we envisioned summers in Europe and our Hungarian-American kids growing up with the neighborhood pack. We want them to be bilingual and bicontinental.  I had always enjoyed my visits to Hungary and Transylvania. Then something happened. An internal switch flipped. Probably it was my mother-in-law who came to live with us. Suddenly we had a live-in Grandma. She doesn’t speak English. I speak only enough Hungarian to be exceedingly polite. It was magic. And here I am, still in Budapest, planning trips home for vacation.

Brookline, where we now have (our first or second?) home is a foreign land to me as well. We moved there for my husband’s work, leaving behind my teaching job and friends in South Bend, Indiana, where we met and lived for ten years. Then we had two babies, seventeen months apart. I had made a few new friends, but felt adrift and lonely and yet never, ever alone with my little ones. Yet I was still surprised, when I realized I wanted to be in the heart of this energetic city rather than ensconced in a suburb. I stayed. He agreed to commute. Since then he has spent one month with us, and returned to Boston for one month to work. You do the math. 

Our new neighbor in Brookline suggested to my husband I must want to stay in Budapest because I have taken a lover.  Can I just say that it is very Hungarian to 1) conclude that I have a lover, and 2) more so, to say it out loud on the corner in front of the new house he has just purchased for his family. Perhaps it is not fair to categorize this as Hungarian, but it is certainly not the way I was raised.

If I thought my new neighbor’s wife had taken a lover several time zones away from him, I sure as heck wouldn’t say it to his face. I might, however, discuss it with my friends and shake my head. That poor man. His wife is playing him and eating her cake too. Budapest, as you may know, being famous for its elegant and rich cakes.

My husband bought the house in Brookline because we decided our first suburban home was too far from the city. Brookline juts up against the city, but the schools are decent. My husband can ride his bike to work. The kids can walk to school. There are excellent cafes. After we decided to try splitting our homes, he rented from a friend, a tenuous arrangement that was genial when it started as a short-term solution.   Years had passed. It was time for him to move on. The new house in Brookline has everything we need, even the price was right. The kids can walk to a great local public school. I have no excuse to not move back. 

Except that I do have an excuse to stay in Budapest. Our new Hungarian neighbor in Brookline was right. I do have a boyfriend.

At first I admitted it to myself, and then to my husband.  Budapest is my boyfriend. That sounds cute, right? I am in love with the yellow 47 tram, the covered market, the superb coffee, and the chicken paprikas. Did I mention the thermal baths? How about that we don’t need a car? I take my kids to school each day by mounting a roller and zooming the four minutes to the first school, and the five minutes to the nursery school.  We could walk to school. Most Hungarians do. But we ride our rollers because it is fun. I like being the oddball American in the staid Hungarian crowd. It gives me freedom to not fit in. Of course, it means I don’t fit in, which has a price too. But the pleasures of the expat life are many and sweet. Did I mention the thermal baths? 

Anyway, I was effectively a foreigner in Boston too. We moved there and had two babies very closely spaced. I didn’t know anyone or have family close by to aid with infant mayhem. We were new to that city too.  But it wasn’t the expat life. It was flat. Much like people claim about Kansas, which is where I started.

Life would be more comfortable in Brookline. I wouldn’t have to struggle to communicate with my kids’ teachers in my broken Hungarian. Life would be more comfortable in Brookline, but it is more exciting here. 

I walked around for weeks in love with my new boyfriend, Budapest. I had finally found a way to express my choice to live here and not there.  I was quite pleased with myself as I indulged in a slice of dobos torte on a fall afternoon while the kids were otherwise engaged. A slice of cake, a cup of coffee, time to myself. It was glorious.

It was not lonely. 

Budapest is a very good boyfriend. You have to pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, of course. You have to grit your teeth when the old ladies stop your five-year-old son on the street to chastise him for wearing “girl” shoes. My daughter did not want to sign up for soccer as the only girl. They don’t offer a girl’s team. But these are part of the deal when you are the outsider trying to live inside the local boxes.

I fooled myself for quite a while that it was Budapest who was my new lover. It sounds blithe, right? Oh, you know I just adore Budapest. 

The truth, however, is more scandalous. It is certainly more strange.  But then again, I am a foreigner in this land. I don’t speak the language.  Sometimes I think I never will. My parents spoke the same language. I suppose love is both more and less than what it at first seems. It seems to hinge on real estate, I’ve learned. And cake.

I haven’t told my husband yet. I do have a boyfriend. He lives in another country and comes to me six times a year. He comes with bleary eyes and cravings for thick slabs of vanilla cream cake. He changes burned-out light bulbs when he is in town. I leave the exploded, blackened bulbs in place until he arrives. Sometimes the apartment is half in shadow for weeks. And then when he returns the kids gleefully scale the ladder with him. My daughter hands him the new bulbs with utter seriousness for the task. Then the apartment blazes with wattage, the light casting us in full relief.

Our arrangement is what it is, for now. When I describe it people, they often say, Oh that must be so hard! And I sometimes say, How long have you been married? Together? We have been together since 1997. You do the math. My parents were married for 52 years. They lived under one roof for all those years. Astounding. For me, life and love, not to mention real estate and the question of where to school the children, have produced a new algorithm. 

Should I tell him? It might destroy the romance. 

If I tell him, will he stay or go? Will we stay or go? 

I want to keep my boyfriend. I want to stay in Budapest.

#modernlovereject