I have to recalibrate my readings of strangers. In America, I can gauge strangers fluently. The 20 year old from France who has come to Columbia University to study Politics and Economics? I will go to bars with him, talk with him about life, invite him into my home, introduce him to family and friends. The 22 year old from Mexico who has come to New York to work in a restaurant’s backroom? I will sit and drink beers with him and talk about life, bring my friends over, but unwritten rules keep him out of my home and family. Meet someone, and they’ll know when it’s appropriate to ask your number and you theirs. Are they a friend of a friend, or someone completely random? Maybe you should google them first, be their facebook friend, or not. That guy in the reading room of the New York Public Library sitting next to you, do you trust to say “watch my bag and laptop while I go to the bathroom?” What about the Columbia library, or the Starbucks? Do you take rides from strangers? Not if they offer in the street, but if the posting comes on craigslist and they reasonably put-together, then you might. You’re not to judge a book by its cover, but in a city of millions that’s all you have the time to go on.
But what about Armenia? I can’t speak the language, can’t detect the vocal and cultural nuances that indicate so much about a person. So when Katie and Michael and are I walking a dirt path around the mountain to see what we can see, and we wave hello to some farmers, and Katie walks right over and starts talking to them in Armenian, opening up who she is and where she’s from without any wariness or the well-practiced distancing that lets bargoers and subway riders talk politics before exchanging first names, I’m a little startled. Oh Sam, they tell me, you’re just a New Yorker. Strangers are okay, people are friendly here, you can talk to them, it’s fine. So we walk a little further, and the next group of farmers waves to us, excited to see the novelty of strangers, and beckon for us to join. “Ari, Ari, Nesti” Come, come, sit down, join us. Go for it Sam, this one is all you. Yeah Sam, try it.
And so I walk over. Hello I’m Samuel. I’m Vahag, I’m Arman I’m Daniel. Daniel? My father’s name is Daniel! Where are you from? Russia? Norway? Germany? America. AMERICA? Yes, America. Where in America? New York City. Is that close to California? No, California is here, New York is here. This is Katie, this is Mikail. We’re living here. We’re studying Armenian. We’re teachers.
Bundles of hay are pulled up. Sit down, sit down. It’s lunchtime, eat with us. That’s Lavash, that’s Varung, that’s Dzu, that’s Vodka. Oh, you know the names of things! Great! What’s that? What’s that? Here, drink a toast. Okay, one or two. “To America and Armenia and Friendships.” Hear Hear! Gaynost! Here, have some lavash! Let’s take another toast! Oh, you’re toasting with Lavash instead of Vodka, that’s very funny! My son here studies English! “Hello, what is your name” “My name is Sam” Aha! Very good! He will go to university and be a professor!
Thank you, thank you, we should be going now, we have to get back before dark. Here, take a ride on the tractor. Katie can ride up front, we men will ride on the harvester in the back. Michael and I sit on the harvester. He points out that a single cruise missile costs more than my entire stay in the country, and isn’t it more cost effect to make friends in foreign countries rather than killing enemies? Up front, the driver offers that Katie take the wheel, but she refuses. He insists, she refuses. He takes his hands off the wheel and steps out of the cab, riding on the sideboard. The tractor goes straight on the dirt path, but the path starts to curve. He laughs and gets back in the tractor. The tractor drops us off a mile from Fantan, and we walk back into town, stopping to right the shell of an overturned abandoned car. In town, a stranger with a dump truck greets me, “Sam, I’m going to Naverj’s house, come in, I’ll give you a ride.” I take him up on the offer.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Starting to Come Together
6/20/2010 10:32 PM
Things are starting to come together. Languages, relationships, perspectives. I can now communicate my basic wants and desires, make simple declarative sentence about what I’m doing and where I’m going, and what I will do and where I will go. Nouns and verbs come slowly. Only after dozens of repetition will words stick, especially verbs that are always changing and conjugating. The oddest words stick in my brain. I remember Tzeetzernack, swallow (the bird), but not to drink; Tan, a yogurt drink, but not sandwich; Chosel, to speak, but not to see. I feel less and less like a baby in a man’s body and more like a pre-teen, just starting to explore the world and be trusted with responsibility. I’ve written very little this week. Here are some highlights.
-Technical training becomes more sophisticated. We ask Tatiks about their traditional remedies, and family members about their views of the health system. We view a hospital and a health clinic. On the wall of the hospital is a soviet era-poster of bespeckled doctor in a medical gown and white van Dyke beard showing which foods are nutritious and which are not. Next to it is a USAID poster of a softly focused woman and her baby explaining that prenatal care and delivery are paid for by the state and international aid agencies and women should refuse to “tip” their doctors to ensure their baby is born healthy and cared for.
-Bringing out the first Frisbees in town. At first, we play in the schoolyard, a good way to exercise during recess. After school, I hike up to the hill where my host brother is herding the sheep. Before I go, papa spots him through the soviet-era telescope, sitting on the hillside chewing a blade of grass. He’s naturally very good at Frisbee, being both athletic and a top-notch physics student, and we play until it’s time to drive the sheep home. Herding sheep is surprisingly entertaining. The flock moves like one big plastic animal. To get them to move faster, run and yell behind them and thwack some rumps with a stick. Eventually they will get ahead of you, and come to a huddling stop and start eating grass.
-Going to Yerevan Yerevan street Leningrad
Friday, June 18, 2010
Sunday Was Another Day for the Peace Corps Brochure
Sunday was another day for the Peace Corps Brochure. The town was celebrating a feast day, a regular occurrence whose schedule condones and controls the slaughtering of precious livestock for meat. Before I woke up, my host brother had slit the throat of a ram, tied it up by its hind feet, skinned it and disemboweled it. “I didn’t want to wake you. It’s too cruel to see,” he said. When I got to the house of my host uncle, these pieces were laying on the side of the path, and the muscular bits of the ram were being cut into chunks and skewered for Khorovats, the Armenian Barbeque[1]. I cut some potatoes, which are physically, morally and gastrointestinally benign.
“Come, we go to church,” said my host brother. We walked to Maggie’s farm, where her host grandfather was behind the wheel of the town’s Marshutney. Ordinarily, he’s friendly, but will occasionally turn on an intense temper, especially on other drivers and disobedient children who get into the milk. Afterwards, he’ll be friendly and charismatic again, as if nothing happened. Inside the van are Maggie-jan and her extended family and my 9-year old cousins. There’s grandmother, her sister, the son, the daughter-in-law, their three children, several sets of cousins and their broods. We drive through the center of town and turn left at the post office. We are now on the dirt road leading to the mountain. The van’s windows are covered with black velvet, and I push it back to see pilgrims climbing the steep dirt road the van is now bouncing up. None of the windows in the back of the van open, and there are no air vents, so we pilgrims endure the four seats in the back, feeling each other’s body heat and smelling each other’s smells as we look towards the front window to keep from getting carsick. As we come to a particularly steep and slippery grade, the van starts sliding backwards. Some of the men jump out. The van tries again, and fails again. I see my chance, and jump out the door. The air is cool and clean. The van tries again, stops in the middle, tries again, stops 2/3rds of the way up, tries again, and clears the hill.
At last we make the church and the van is descended on by a horde of four-foot tall grandmothers bearing thin yellow candle sticks. Noticing the Americans, they glom onto me. Maggie’s grandfather urges me to just wade through them, but I trade a 100 dram coin for a roll of candlesticks, then wave my 25-cent talisman to keep the others away. The church is a small stone structure, built into the side of the hill, with a slanted metal roof to keep off the rain and snow. I step inside, and the bright warmth of the day is replaced with a cool moisture of a stone room, lit by hundreds of small yellow candles stuck to the walls and placed in braziers dripping wax on the floor. I light my candles and stick them to the walls, and my host brother points out a stone cross that was carved by his uncle to commemorate a relative who was killed. “Was this in the war?” I ask. “No, by neighbor” my host brother replies. “When did this happen?” “2006.” Oh.
I could stay in the church a long time, examining the icons and elaborate models of other, larger churches, but Maggie’s grandfather wants to get back. Getting back in the van, I graciously let the other pilgrims in first, and grab a seat near the front of the van and the open driver’s window. Two minutes later, I am justly rewarded when the six year old girl sitting on a lap behind me ejects whitish vomit onto my shoe.
We go to my host uncle‘s house, where the skewers of lamb meat have been roasting in the pit oven used to cook lavash. In the smokefilled kiln, men pull out the skewers and taste the lamb. The meat is ready. We bring the meat to the women in a tub lined with lavash. They put the meat into bowls, set the table, put out the salads and juices that they have made. The men sit and pour vodka into each others glasses, toasting Armenia, the noble sheep, each other, and the pleasure of good company and good spirits. The women bring the bowls of meat, and offer me the first choice. I pick a rather squishy offering and cut into it. The inside is white and fatty. I take a bite. It’s oddly creamy, almost like butter, and not chewy like fat. “Inch e sa?” I ask. The men laugh and grab their pants. I’ve just taken a big bite of sheep balls. “It’s good for you!” I’m told “and it’s tasty too!” Well, I don’t want to be greedy. I cut the ball into eighths and pass them around the table. A fine solution. I offer up a toast, and the sweet warmth of Russian vodka gently burns away the slick of prairie oyster in my mouth. Soon I’ve eaten all the Khorovats and salad that I can, and am having trouble moving off of the deep couch. But not to worry, the women have brought out pastries and cookies. Not even a strong cup of Sourch can help me as I stumble home, into my bed, and fall into a deep and satisfied sleep.
6/16/2010 10:30 PM
A storm knocked the electricity went out as I finished that last piece typing on my notebook in the living room. My host family has brought me four candles in elaborate holders to type, so I work on my laptop by candlelight. “Just like when the neanderthals sat around the fire and surfed the internet” says my host father. In return, I shined my headlamp on the cows as they were milked and as the milk was poured through a coffeecan strainer into a vat. I have about 30 minutes of battery life left. Should I waste it on playing music or save it in case I need the computer before the electricity returns. When will the electricity return anyway?
[1] Traditionally, Armenians believe a man is as rich as he need be if he can eat Khorovats at least once a month.
The Taxi Drops Off Me, Jillien, Danelle and Lala...
6/13/2010 7:12 PM
The taxi drops off me, Jillien, Danelle and Lala at the edge of Yerevan proper. “It’s a twenty minute walk into the center of town” says Lala, pointing at my map to show us where we are. Someone walks up to us and offers assistance. I buzz the guy away, but Lala stops and explains in polite Armenian that we’re fine, thanks for offering, and all the best to him and his family. Apparently it’s the kind of town where strangers offer directions with the best of intentions.
The girls are here to do some shopping, and I’m here to flaneur, or, as the Armenians put it, zbosnel, to stroll, to observe, to perhaps be entertained. Some people are music snobs, others are drink snobs. I’m a city snob, a connoisseur of the urban environment, picking out themes and interactions like notes in a melody or bouquets in a wine. Like music and wines, there are cities for different tastes, and judgment is subjective, but certain things CAN be universally agreed on, and certain subjective judgments will hold true across a wide range of critics and consumers. A city connoisseur will pick up on things like a city’s walkability, its street plan or lack thereof, its locality and distinctiveness, and a half-dozen or so other characteristics.
The city center is on a hub-and-spoke plan, with Republic Square at the center, broad commercial and institutional avenues extending out at regular intervals, connected with residential and retail streets. Our first stop is a 24-hour pharmacy, a good find, stocked with brand names behind glass counters and professional looking women in lab coats ready to advise you which brand of toothpaste or razor to use. Jillien and Danelle judge this too expensive looking, and they do sell exotic foreign goods like contact lens solution, at 8000 dram a bottle. For reference, 8000 dram will get you a car and driver for the day. So we stop into a convenience store, with a full range of products from Russian “Kapo” shaving soap (250 a tube) to Parker fountain pens (7500, with one ink cartridge, a box of generic replacement cartridges are 200, a box of waterman cartridges 2000).
Underneath each major intersection is a pedestrian passageway full of unbridled capitalism, small stalls selling sunglasses, candy, soda, cell phones, home décor and books. Books are very popular and expensive. Armenian-Russian, -English and –French dictionaries and textbooks are the biggest sellers. One intersection is exclusively for booksellers. They sell used Armenian tomes and a few glossy new ones in Armenian and Russian. I pass on a Russian version of Twilight in favor of an Armenian copy of The Little Prince to practice my letters with (600 dram). LaLa knows these particular booksellers. She was also a student of the author of the most popular and comprehensive Armenian-English dictionary.
We stop at a café in a park that rings the city. Lala, like all people who have dwelled in a city long enough to see it change, laments the changes since she first knew it. The city used to be distinctively Armenian, now it is becoming a hodgepodge of imitation European, turning public parks into cafes, mixed with the bustle and chaos of Asian cities, with hundreds of little stores in what used to be austere Communist underpasses. Also, the city is getting too expensive, the middle class is getting pushed out and traffic has gotten worse than it used to be. There’s a kind of universality to her complaint. I share with her New York’s disneyfication, suburban sprawl and gentrification, and we agree that things used to be better in the old days.
We stop at what in New York would be a vacant lot, but in Armenia houses a 13th-century church. The church looks much smaller than it should be, a small chapel of a large complex. In fact, it was before the communists came. They destroyed the larger church and the Armenians built a school of science and engineering in its place “to hide the chapel” according to Lala. When communism fell and religion was rediscovered as an integral part of national identity, the school of science and engineering was destroyed. A billboard displays an ambitious computer-graphic of what the original church would look like rebuilt.
I drop into the Moscow theater, an ornate building in a large square filled with Lovecraftian metal sculptures of spiders. The movies are all mass-market American: Computer-generated comedy #3, Video Game Adaption, Comic book adaption #2, Formulaic Action-Comedy. The prices range from 500 dram for a seat in the back in the middle of the day to 2500 for a “VIP seat.” I’m anxious to see what that entails.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Guests Find Home
6/5/2010 12:53 AM
Every American is aware that guests, like fish, stink after three days. That is why I’m at the critical stage of managing my entrance into a family not just as a guest who must be fed all the food in the house and waited on hand and foot as the codes of Armenian hospitality demand, but as a functional, contributing family member; or, if that is too ambitious, a likeable, friendly, if slightly odd boarder from the big city who dabbles in village life. Peace Corps loves to challenge traditional gender roles, but to challenge I first have to have legitimacy in the traditional male gender role, something that I feel American social science, dominated by theories both feminist and queer, fails to appreciate, and, by extension, most NGOs. So today at lunch after school, I managed to communicate to Papa that I’d like to work on the farm.
I changed out of biz-cadge and into the American farmer’s blue jeans, grey T-shirt and sneakers. Poppa wore his button-down shirt tucked into slacks and plastic gardening shoes. I came out of the house to find him working in the manure field. The manure had been mixed with straw and laid in a field about eight feet wide by fifteen feet long. Poppa was cutting into the field with a flat-headed shovel, cutting out dried bricks of manure to use as fuel from the winter. When he saw me, he quickly cut the last six bricks from a row, and began his tour of the farm.
Here are our three cows, he gestured towards three bulls tied to stakes. They’re for meat.
Then he gestured to the wide open fields around the town. The milk cows roam around town, he indicated, eating grass. He walked me to a flock of sheep and introduced me to the shepherd. Six of these are mine, he explained, the other ten are his. They’re for meat, milk and wool. Mama and I make yogurt and butter and sell it in town.
(continued 6/5/2010 1:42 PM)
We walk to a row of abandoned stone buildings built into the hillside south of town. They’re as wide as a house and hundreds of meters long. Their roves have long since collapsed, and the grass inside grows thicker than on the fields outside.
Soviet farm buildings. He explains. For pigs.
“But no one around here raises pigs,” I want to ask, but lack the Armenian. A cow munches the plants inside. We walk down the hill now, with purpose, until we come to the backyard/garden/farm where Papa’s brother, my host uncle, lives with their Papi and Tati, his wife, her unmarried sister and his two children, Georgi (9) and Emi (8).
He meets us wearing an old sweater and pants, along with his Tatik, who has stunningly pale skin and long white hair braided in a circlet on her head. Despite the sunny, 70-degree weather, she is wearing a long black wool coat that comes to her feet. She tells us we are to repair the sheep shed, which is slanted to one side and lacks a roof. The shed is built of metal poles pounded into the mud, covered with a lattice-work of rebar and walled with scrap metal, all held together with strong wire and twine. First we pull the poles out of the mud. This is complicated by the necessity of freeing the poles from their twine-and-wire attachments to the walls and rebar roof. In this, I help by pulling out my multi-tool, which sports a wire cutter in the pliers, a metal file and two knives, one straight, one serrated. Both my father and uncle are duly impressed, but prefer to use their dedicated wire cutter and a straight kitchen knife.
Once the poles have been removed from the ground, they are replanted and pounded into the dirt by my uncle, standing on a 55-gallon drum, while my host father guides them into the ground. We then retie the roof and walls with wire. Tatik hands us a sheet of scrap metal and we slide it onto the rebar lattice. My uncle jumps on it, standing on two meters of rusty metal pounded into mud. Papa, Tatik and I hand him pieces of waved roofing made out of a sort of brittle cement or ceramic, and occasionally another piece of scrap metal to move around the roof on.
Once the roof is finished and the walls are checked and retied where they need to be, we go into uncle’s house for lunch. Their living room is luxurious, covered in traditional carpets with an upright piano in the corner. His bathroom is as large and well tiled as an American’s, with a heated towel rack. In fact, the entire house has central heating, as well as a modern washing machine in the kitchen. We eat potatoes with chicken, with all the appropriate Armenian side dishes of lavash, cheese and greens. Georgi and Emi watch us silently. We talk, as well as we can, about America and Armenia
He is strong, he tells me. He wrestles. Would I like to wrestle with him? No, I laugh. “Chararoutian Corpus.” Peace Corps. The family gets the joke and laughs. What about arm wrestling? Okay, I tell him. Mek. One. We are gathered in the living room. The whole family is watching. We place our hands. He knows all the tricks, I can’t gain an advantage on him from the beginning. There are several tricks in arm wrestling, but only two strategies. The first is to overpower and quickly gain an advantage on the opponent by immediately using your full strength. The other is to outlast your opponent, match his strength, keep his hand as close to the center as possible and wait for him to exhaust himself. I decide on the latter. We are closely matched. But I showboat for the family. “GAAAAAAAAHHHHH” I yell. I’m hoping he will laugh, and lose some grip, but he doesn’t. In the meantime, he has increased his strength and pushed me a third of the way over. I refocus, but too late. He has me at a superior angle. I submit, he’s very happy, and the family all laugh at my ridiculous scream and tell me how much they like me. He drives me and my host brother and his children to see Ararat in the distance, then I play dodgeball and monkey-in-the-middle with Georgi and Emi and Arman.
6/5/2010 7:25 PM
An extremely minor and fast flash of panic. Have spent the entire afternoon in my room, first completing the previous journal entry, then messing around on the computer, then taking an exceedingly long and pleasant nap. Six hours alone in my room. Not good. Should be out learning Armenian and working and what have you. Then a flash of panic at the thought of going out of my room and having to be “on,” mind constantly running in high gear trying Armenian words, wearing appropriate clothes, being polite and pleasant, minding gender norms, trying to read emotions and intents of everyone around me.
6/5/2010 9:34 PM
As soon as I walked out the door, mama told me to wash up, that dinner was on the table. It’s Saturday night, so a big fancy meal. Fish (Trout?) from lake Sevan America Mt. Aragats
6/5/2010 9:50 PM
Mamajan just woke up and brought me a bowl of freshly picked and washed fruit. Life is good.
6/9/2010 12:48 AM
I asked Papajan if he wanted to come to New York
Monday, June 7, 2010
Let Me Tell You A Little About My Host Village
Let me tell you a little about my host village, where I will be living for the next ten weeks while I learn Armenian, after which I will move to my permanent site somewhere else in the country to begin my service. We are the first Americans to live here, the first and maybe only Americans anyone in town will meet. It’s a farming village just above the hill from town that was an industrial center in Soviet times but has struggled with the post-industrial, post-soviet globalized economy. Our language trainer Lala, an Armenian woman who has spent her life in public service in Armenia
“This is the first year they are hosting Americans. They can do it this year because they have just gotten running water. Let me tell you an anecdote about this town. A month ago, they came to me and said, ‘Lala, we cannot host Americans.’ And I said, ‘Why?’ They said, ‘We have heard that Americans cannot walk in a street with shit in it. How could we clean all the cow shit from our streets before the Americans get here? We will have to work all day and night just to keep it clean while they are here.’ I told them that Americans may not be used to such things, but that they will learn to live with it.”
Here is what my host family has. They have a comfortable, loving home with a mother who teaches Armenian and a father who farms (the mother takes exquisite care of her family’s home, clothes and cooking as well). They have a garden with a dog and chickens and vegetables and a cow for milk and some sheep. They have a television, a computer, a home telephone and a soviet-era telescope to look at the moon on clear nights. Until I came, the brothers had their own bedrooms, the parents have a master bedroom looking out on the garden, the town and the fields and mountains beyond, there is a living room/dining room, a kitchen, a flush toilet in a closet and a bathroom/utility room with a sink and shower with hot water box. They eat plenty of lavash bread and cheese, potatoes, fresh yogurt, salad greens, apples, rice and pasta and a little bit of meat with every meal, followed by fresh brewed coffee stronger than an espresso. (The fact that I am writing this at 2:18 am after a coffee four hours ago is testament to this) Breakfast is usually a combination of bread, yogurt, jam and thick, crystallized honey with walnuts. To drink, they have sparkling mineral water, homemade apricot juice (which they pour into a container of store-bought apricot juice) and yogurt drink. They can drink the water that comes out of the tap, even if I cannot, but I have never seen anyone drink plain water. They live in a town where they walk down the streets watched by families that have known them all their lives and everyone will report a child or teenager’s misbehavior to his or her parents. The eldest son is able to go to university and his work in a solar energy laboratory every morning and return home every evening. They don’t have a car, but they don’t need one to get around town, and if they want to visit their relatives in nearby villages they can pile into a Lada taxi lacking airbags and power steering, but sporting a digital FM radio/CD/MP3 player. There is a primary school with a college-educated principal who has studied world history. The school (where we learn Armenian) is a five minute walk from my house on the edge of town, including a stop to pick up Maggie, the redhead from the Northwest Suburbs of Chicago who lives next door to me and play a little impromptu football with her five year old host brother. She’ll play with him too, and the first time she did so, my host father burst into my room to tell me to come quick, that Maggiejan was playing football. The first morning we walked to school together, I carried her books, just because I could. Around them, the countryside has hills and caves and flowers in the distance are snow covered mountains and raging lightening storms. The town isn’t wealthy, but it’s very rich.
What do they lack, that an American small town has? There are no megastores, only a few small village stores that function like bodegas, carrying soft drinks, alcohol, cigarettes, bread, meat and candy. The one at the edge of town is run by a four foot tall grandmother, helped by her shy four-foot-two 11 year old granddaughter, who demanded that we come in for free ice cream when she met us. “Accept it once,” said Lala, “and insist on paying every time afterwards.” The town has no high-speed internet, although it does have telephone service and cell phone reception. Only the main streets into and out of town are paved, but there isn’t much traffic, so kids can still play football in the middle of it. There are no playgrounds, and the one sports field has a single backboard-less basketball hoop in front of a flat space where the grass has been worn down, so kids play football and other games in backyards and the town’s streets, arbitrarily creating goals out of convenient alleyways.
And then there are moments like this. Maggie and I are walking in the fields south of the village with her host brother as an escort to reassure the townspeople that we’re not off to do god-knows-what-god-knows-where with each other. We meant to go to the ridge overlooking the town, but her brother has gotten tired and a little scared walking through grasses and flowers that come up to my knees and his chest, so we’ve turned around and are walking back to town when we come across an old woman, a tatik, in the shade of an abandoned farmhouse. On her back is a burlap sack full of potatoes, tied to her shoulders with string. She is struggling to get up, and a young boy is helping her, but isn’t strong enough to lift her.
Barev Dzez, Tatik
Barev Dzez, she says, beaming at us, and reaching her hands towards us.
I help her up. The Armenian for “let me carry that for you” is far beyond my grasp. I mime carrying. I point to the bag, myself, my shoulder. I am very strong, I point to my arms, flex muscles. I try to pick the bag off her back, but it is tied to her so tightly I cannot move it. She is smiling, so happy that I helped her up, and she understands me, but won’t let me carry her bag.
Votch, Votch, votch. No no no.
The boy shrugs and walks on. The grandmother keeps walking through the fields. I briefly consider picking her up (she can’t weigh much more than the potatoes) and carrying her home, sack and all. Maggie and I and her brother walk on. Anyway, what could I possibly for this woman, who can’t be stopped or killed by Stalin, by poverty, by patriarchy or even time itself? Just help her up and let her on her way. I can’t give her anything she doesn’t ask for.
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