[Week 16] On Grammar and Vocal Cords

It was already dark when the cab slipped off the freeway. After a long week of schoolwork and application edits, my mind buzzed with anticipation for a Friday night out. At first, I was only half-listening to the familiar vocabulary drifting from the radio — until it hit me.

“Это русская музыка?” I asked the driver.

“Да, вы говорите по-русски?” he responded — and I understood.

From there, our exchanges were patchy. But it was a real conversation, in Russian, outside the sheltered walls of Folwell Hall.

It was an experience that followed a particularly trying week of language learning. My fellow intermediate Russian друзья and I are fully in the heat of the semester now, doing battle with grammar on a daily basis (genitive plural — мне не нравится). It’s essential to be there, physically and mentally, for class each day.

But my Monday kicked off bright and early at 909 Fulton — the much-dreaded specialty medical clinic here at the U. I had a procedure. Nothing major, but the disruption was just enough to throw off my rhythm. I missed Russian. I missed band (twice). Mostly, I was just grumpy that over a decade later, these things still have the power to hold me back.

Washington Ave Bridge at Sunset - October 2, 2025

In the middle of my pity party, I found myself thinking back to how and why I started this language, a story that has more to do with my vocal cords than with academic requirements. 

When I was sick, insurance randomly stopped covering speech therapy. If you’ve heard me speak at all in the past decade, you understand the weight of that loss. Russian had always been something I wanted to learn — an idea inspired by my grandpa Tom. So in place of therapy, my parents enrolled me in a small language school out in Burnsville.

For about three years, I took weekly classes. My dad would drive me through rush hour in the old wheelchair van, bumping down the highway on my days off from treatment. My instructor and I never made it anywhere near genitive plural, but those meetings got me using my vocal cords (or technically, my vestibular folds) and challenged my brain at a time when most things felt impossible.

During the COVID pandemic, I continued lessons virtually, from home or at the hospital. They carried me through radiation, medical travel, and deep isolation. Like this blog, Russian was never a requirement; it was something I wanted to do. Pursuing things out of desire rather than obligation became an essentail mindset for me (albeit a privileged one) — a value I still carry.

I only stopped my Russian courses out of necessity, in preparation for my working holiday in New Zealand. I left in a blur, and my time abroad offered little free time (or reliable WiFi). I had agreed to try a few college classes outside of marching band when I returned in the fall, but I left the course selection (and registration) up to my mother.

She chose mostly science courses with catchy titles, assuming I’d end up on some sort of pre-health track. One of those “science” classes happened to be history of. Oops.

It became a surprise favorite. The next term, I took more, expanding to History of Medicine and finding directed study opportunities. That summer, I declared a history major. Having thrown caution to the wind, I also enrolled in Russian. 

Russian is a mental (and for me, physical) workout five days a week. I love it. I love showing up each day and challenging myself at a level I never could before.

When I left for NZ this time around, I postponed my vocal cord reconstruction surgery. Now it’s only a month away — the dumb date highlighted in blue on my calendar, inching closer by the second. While writing this blog and working on Russian are voluntary joys, this surgery (still a choice) feels more like a necessity.

A presentation slide from Russian class this week demonstrating genitive plural «У Матаматы много овец!» (Matamata has many sheep!) - October 3, 2025.

I spend my time with intention.

Finding my voice and telling my story has been a slow, ongoing process. It began with speech, is grounded in language, and has been strengthened through writing. Now, it is woven into everything: conversations, classes, even applications. 

Speaking of applications… My Fulbright is finished and submitted yesterday, though I won’t hear if I’ve made it to the next round until January. By that point, the semester will be over, my surgery behind me, and — with any luck — my voice a little stronger.

["Submit it and be done with it"  — Taylor, refferencing both my fulbright app and this blog. Is a peice of writing ever truely finihsed? A topic for another day.]

Until next time.

All best,

Ханна

Text message from Тони - Tuesday September 30th, 2025