Skip to main content

‘ho, vitsi’

When they think that they know the answers,
people are difficult to guide.
When they know that they don't know,
people can find their own way. 
—Tao Te Ching, chap.  65, v.  2, ll.  4–7


Teaching English was a good way for me to earn extra cash in my spare time in Tbilisi.

Passionate and eager students of all ages would get in touch each month to seek my infinitely vast and untapped knowledge of The Bard’s tongue.

But surprisingly, all of my students secretly turned out to be know-it-alls, often having a grasp of English far beyond mine. During our lessons they would indicate such knowledge in Georgian by saying ‘ho, vitsi,’ which means ‘yes, I know.’

Now, this may sound harmless enough, but let me tell you why I often had to fight off the urge to reach across the desk and administer a swift smack upside the head as if it were 1805. Ho, vitsi’s literal translation does not convey the meaning in its truest sense. In particular the non-verbal part was telling. One student shook his head, avoided eye contact, furrowed his brows and clucked his tongue to mean: Of course I know this word, you little foreign twerp. Who on earth do you take me for? I work for the freaking Ministry of [please protect].

Rather than punish corporally, though, I inhaled deeply and then asked him to repeat in synonymous terms what in fact the word or phrase in question signified.

Silence. A smug smile crept onto my face.

Later in the day I would see the tables turned: Georgian lessons for me. I arrived at class having rehearsed lines to show how prodigiously loquacious I’d become. It’s no stretch to say that I was a veritable paragon of studiousness. 

But during the lesson, while I was rushing through my simple sentences, my teacher interjected a question. I understood only half of it even though I answered hastily as if I’d caught it all. I started blathering, hoping that she wouldn’t follow up to ascertain whether I’d comprehended.

But she called my bluff and asked, ‘Jesse, what does shek’eteba mean?’

Breaking into a slight but disgusting nervous sweat, I responded, without eye contact, ‘Yes, shek’eteba. Ho, vitsi— it means—’

Damn. I’d forgotten.


_______
Also on the Current's Flash Fiction blog.

  *   *   *
Select enlightenment:
Lao-Tzu, Tao Te Ching, trans. S. Mitchell, available here.
T. Anderson, Bread and Ashes: A Walk Through the Mountains of Georgia (London: Jonathan Cape, 2003). 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Them Memphis Notions

I believe that the minds of men. . . will change . . . that all the old pictures will fade out, and new ones will take their place. . . that what we have in our heads now is only one of millions of possible seeings ; I believe that the man animal got started on the wrong foot. —K. Patchen, Albion Moonlight , 298 For J-Y In Memphis I saw plainly that for all these years I’ve been travelling with an indifference that now leaves me feeling incredibly ashamed. I tell myself that I should know a place well before visiting it, and so I prepare by picking up bits from books here and there. But being interested in the idea of what other people have found a place to be like has blinded me from seeing what is actually in front of me. I get hung up on history and aesthetics and the like, which are arguably only of academic or cocktail-party use. Because of this I’ve been content to let someone else take care of the suffering I see. I had been wanting to visit Memphis for a lo...

Beijing The Behemoth

Beijing the behemoth. At the airport I’m beat from being up some thirty-odd hours, but too sentient to think of sleep, the hotel be damned. Throw me instead into this sea of concrete, bemused smiles and unabashed stares. In the taxi with Chris, the school’s recruiter, Iphigenia and I watch the towers of concrete repeat themselves for miles. I command myself to take in every detail, no matter how small. But I’m fading fast and when the city center at last comes into view, she’s too late. The fatigue has unfortunately set in and I can’t make out much but the obvious: taxis, bicycles, rickshaws. . . . And so the hotel it is for us, because anyway I’m just too damn worked up. I don’t have a map, I don’t speak Mandarin, I haven’t changed any money yet. I promise myself a good random stroll the next morning, one which will enlighten me as to the way of the street, the dao of the hú tòng.  But the morrow brings nothing so edifying. Only a short walk with killjoy Chris, who cl...

Ferekeeko Strikes Again!

Coming home from my Georgian lesson, I got a second one for free, on individual responsibility. On Chavchavadze Avenue again, in the Vake neighborhood, I’m busy furtively checking myself out in the shop windows when all of a sudden I see a beast of a man shove his petite wife, a shove such as two men do just before they throw punches at each other. She stops, drops her head and waits for the man, presumably her significant other, to grab her by the throat with his left hand. He holds her thus, screaming at the top of his lungs into her ear. I have a big choice to make . . . and I decide, gutlessly, to keep walking and pretend that it doesn’t concern me. Taking a punch from some swarthy-souled cretin in the name of chivalry? — Ferekeeko, do not put the blame on me! But another man walking towards me makes the right choice. In his sixties, of a slight build compared with the cretin, he seems to be on his way home from the shop. As soon as his eyes hit the couple, he acts. ...