Donetsk
I recently got out from behind my rosewood desk, left my comfortable blue leather chair and took to the pothole and washboard highways of Ukraine. It felt good going down, like the musty taste of sour mash; or, for teetotalers, mom's pecan pie.
Ostensibly, the purpose was to promote a book out in Russian, The Portfolio Bubble, and to put a little more life into an autobiography I had written a few years ago, PRschik. Whether I accomplished this by leaving my Kyiv nest became less important as the days wore on,
a secondary agenda.
As with many public relations endeavors, this one took on a life of its own, a vibrating, pulsating journey into the center of my universe, this land Ukraine as I had come to know it and not comprehend it that well these many years.
It was not an epiphany, for I leave that up to the true believers. But it was a rather enlightening endeavor, an adjective I am fully convinced begets optimism and opportunity, even hope for Ukraine.
I had the distinct honor of speaking to about 500 university students in three major cities; and, additionally, appearing before press conferences totaling maybe 60 inquisitive journalists. I also visited various enterprises, stirring the pot of new business wherever possible.
Around each corner there were surprises:
Like students who were actually interested in seeing themselves as developing brands and adding positive attributes to their portfolios. Like enterprise managers who greeted my party like long lost friends, convincing me that as a business guy I had missed out by not previously making regional house calls. Like news people who were genuinely troubled by what is often referred to as "yellow press."
The last time I had even attempted such a journey was 12 years ago when I was first named head of the Ukraine Market Reform Education Program, a multi-million dollar project of USAID. A dozen summers has taught me a lot, even though my Russian remains taxi variety and my Ukrainian nonexistent.
Still, not nearly enough.
Not to sound too Pollyannaish - Mickey Rooney gushing to the gang about "let's go build a tree house"- but I was encouraged by what I saw in the youth of Ukraine, and yes, I admit that canvassing college students represents a nonscientific poll of limited veracity.
I don't care.
In Donetsk, the university had paint peeling from the walls and exposed wiring. It's probably unlike any place you or I attended school. It looked like the inside of abandoned buildings I had visited years ago near Chornobyl. Of the three universities I visited (also Kharkiv University and the Odessa Law Academy) it was in the worst physical shape. I felt this strange in a city that seems to have freshly minted structures sprouting like mushrooms in spring rain.
There were two mirrors near the university entrance, and young ladies primped in one and bobbed to the second to primp some more, like university co-eds the world over. At the outset, though, I had the feeling I would rather be somewhere else. I wondered what lecture setting I would have, and would I merely be white noise for background conversation.
That was until I met Inessa Artamonova, the director of the school. She was curious about me and my mission, and kind to let me address her charges. She quizzed me politely from the crowded and narrow office she shared, it seemed, with three others.
The director appeared in full command of a student body I later learned asked much better questions than I had gotten from stateside universities in which I had been a guest, either by telephone from Kyiv, Moscow or in person. We're talking Syracuse, Elon, South Carolina and the University of North Dakota, to name several.
For 30 minutes or so after my talk, I was peppered with questions that ran the gamut from politics to journalism, to advertising, to PR and then back again. It was challenging, even tough, and I found at the conclusion my shirt was as soaked as if I had taken a dip in the Black Sea fully clothed.
But it was good conversation. And there was good-natured jousting, even when the young fellow in the middle of the room asked an embarrassing question: "So, why is it that you have been in Ukraine for 12 years and still don't speak the language?"
I whipped out my standard reply, something having to do with age, being too busy, and yes,
I am going to get to it one of these days. It was a hollow answer, but seemed even more so in light of my challenging them to add positive attributes to their personal portfolios.
And yes, next week (or maybe the week after), I am going to start language lessons again. Once more into the breach, for I want someday to return to Donetsk and tell the fellow in the yellow shirt: "Yes, I do speak the language."
Obviously, I learned more from them than they from me.
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