International Women's Day

Today, after I finished teaching 1B a horrible song about pink elephants standing on their heads, I walked over to their main classroom from the fortress of solitude to do an end-of-the-week check in with Edit. As my poor abused voice rasped about the tribulations of teaching first graders ridiculously fast songs about acrobatic zoo critters, I felt something tugging on my shirt behind me.

I turned, and found Alex and Balazs, weilding a very long stemmed rose and a small box of chocolates, which were thrust into my arms. The boys climbed on chairs to give me the two cheek kisses, as I sputtered, "But... what is this?"

"It is because you are girl, Loren!"
"Noooo! Not girl, but woman!"
"How do you say woman in English?"
"I dunno! Woah-man?"

Please note that the italics mean Hungarian.

I looked to Edit for explanation. Smiling, and laughing slightly at the bewildered American, she replied, "It is International Women's Day. Do you not do this in America?" I shook my head, and smiled.

Further research has revealed to me that Women's Day was some sort of international communist conspiracy (I have always wanted to use that in a sentence!) to recognize the positive impacts of women and help with the whole comrade-ness thing.

Today, though, it has meant that I got flowers and chocolate. All day, I have watched men presenting women with flowers, small boys giving small girls food, infinite cheek kisses, old men smiling at me and patting my shoulders, and salesgirls being called beautiful by strangers. Mostly, though, it has meant a city full of flowers. All the flower shops were exploding with beautiful spring blooms, and virtually every female was carrying at least one. That it was a lovely warm day, with occasional rays of sun falling on my cheecks, only added to the festive atmosphere.

With my single rose clutched in my hand, I felt connected to these women. To the older ladies, faces lined and bodies bent by age and a hard life, to the mothers tugging along overly-bundled children, to the teenage girls with their skinny jeans and blinged belt buckles. Our eyes met, and we recognized each other.

International Women's Day... a communist conspiracy to get behind.

My rose, and some other flowers I couldn't resist.