Say you're at some social event with the family. Maybe you don't want to be there. Chances are there was a yelling match about going to this party in the first place. You're making the rounds, whether you're self motivated or your mom used her powers of guilt and command. You get tired of small talk and will stab a toothpick in your eye if you have to answer the question, “What's next?” one more time. So, like a good little spawn, you sidle alongside ma or pa and let them do the talking while you fulfill your role with as little effort as possible.
    Ma/Pa is chatting up the denizens like a pro and your boredom and discomfort start to subside. They're chuckling about some clever anecdote someone made. You weren't actually listening the whole time, but you caught the last part. Like the clever monkey you are, you cackle along with them and decide to throw in a zinger of your own:
    “Ha. Kind of like all those Muscles and Motorcycles magazines you keep in the bathroom, right? La de ha ha.”
    It takes you a few minutes to open your eyes. It was a good one liner and you're pretty pleased with yourself. But, you finally risk a glance at ma/pa for the positive reinforcement your ego is itching for.
    What you get instead is the look. You know which one I'm talking about. The 'you've-betrayed-la-familia' look.
    It doesn't matter if your family isn't associated with an actual crime syndicate. When you're born, you've unwittingly signed the contract to keep what's family business in the family.
    It's a basic tenant of any social group: there are things that are only shared among initiated members. Coming to a foreign country and entering a community requires exactly the same commitment. As PCVs, we know that we have to be trusted to really be able to do our jobs. If we don't reach that trust, if we're not accepted into ailəsi, we end up unable to do the work that we came here to do.
    Oh yes, and the perks. Back-scratching.
    (It's a pun, give it a second)
    The first year is all hoop jumping:
Bu nədir? Hə, amma BU nədir?
Nə bişirməyi bacarırsan?
Neçə nəfər ölkəndə yaşayır?
Niyə bura gəlmissən? Tənbəl uşaqlar xoşlayırsan?
    You learn the ropes: you meet the people who help you, you learn people's hopes and dreams. You finally attain the ability to go on a rant in Azeri. You finally kill, clean and cook a live animal to attain praise from all the ladies in the village. Your students start suggesting techniques to their other teachers. The teachers you work with become confident enough to test out their own creativity and defend it to naysayers. Community members ask for your help with their projects.
    You walk home and an old man you've never met before asks you:
Kimin qızısan?
    You're not even foreign anymore, especially when you tell your students that new trainees are coming to visit. They're hoping for a fresh American, you're too kəndli.
    You've earned your lumps.
    And that's when you're allowed to see things as they are. When you decide to accept them or convince the others that things can change from within. It was the classic 'you'll-see-when-you're-older' routine and as fresh blood, everyone expects some naïve idealism from you. Do you risk 'the look', or do you stay loyal?
    The real test begins.
    La de ha ha.
   

Your Italian for the Day:
la familia – the family, duh. You didn't know that Enzo? Go and watch the Godfather, punk.

Your Azerbaijani for the Day:
ailəsi – the family
Bu nədir? Hə, amma BU nədir? - What's this? Yeah, but what's THIS?
Nə bişirməyi bacarırsan? - Can you cook?
Neçə nəfər ölkəndə yaşayır? - How many people live in your country?
Niyə bura gəlmissən? Tənbəl uşaqlar xoşlayırsan? - Why have you come here? Do you like lazy children?
Kimin qızısan? - Who's daughter are you?
kəndli - village-y