A Toast

When I was privileged to work with other educators on school reform in the Eastern bloc during the late 90s, I was assigned the country of Georgia.  We worked in teams of four and the two from the state of Georgia, Penny and Cynthia, were teaching partners, and I partnered with Susan from Iowa.  The goal was to teach school teachers and administrators about strategies that increase student engagement in learning.  That means changing instructional methodology from stand and deliver and sit and ‘git new information from the teacher at the front of the class.  The methodology we were teaching  encouraged students to work with the new content by questioning it and creating new knowledge by using what they already knew.  It’s a messy process as the tight control by the teacher has to be relinquished.  (However, I do remember being a bit envious when I saw students standing at attention beside their desks when adults would enter the room and greet them with, “Good morning!”)

Penny and Cynthia went to Georgia first.  I remember their almost comical description of the reactions of teachers about what was going on.  Through translators, they overhead some teachers speculating that Penny and Cynthia might be members of a cult.   They were clearly upending teaching as they knew it.

The Georgian tradition that was not upended and remained firmly intact was toasting--first to Mother Georgia, various noteworthy people, the hosts, the guests, what had been accomplished, and hope for the future, etc.  Before the fall of the Soviet Union, it was common that Stalin was toasted first since his home town was Gori, Georgia--a real home town guy.  As guests of the Georgians, we were encouraged, if not expected, to participate in the toasts praising this and also that.  This polite nod to their culture could be stressful and also tedious as Georgians do love to toast.  My perception was that it seemed that upping the ante or a competition was at play as time went on.

In fact, I grew weary of participating, especially after long days, and I once was overcome with resistance.  So, I introduced my toast as a “Native People’s prayer to Mother Earth” praising her for all the bountiful gifts she provided.  I raised my glass very high, became emboldened after I started, and sang out in only one breath:  “Hi-lo, enne menne kai- kai ,um chow- chow, wannee, wannoo, oop- ta minna ka, wa-wa zinka, oop-ta lay lee, ooo-hoo.”   This was such a hit that I was asked to repeat so it could be taped and shared elsewhere.

Twenty years later, I feel some guilt for violating the spirit of a cultural norm.  But I just knew that camp song would come in handy someday.