Words, words, words. That's what we're made of. Herewith some of my thoughts on what we're doing with them.

What we say about other people in our writing tells us a lot about ourselves.

A couple of weeks ago, I was nattering on about Martin Cruz Smith's novel Stalin's Ghost, a tale of life in modern Moscow. I really enjoyed the book. The ending left me satisfied, and on the way there I learned things I didn't know about life in modern Russia. The other night, I decided to take my curiosity a bit further by watching a miniseries called Archangel, which dealt with similar issues – life in post-communist Russia, dealing with the Stalinist past, etc. Although the series was well-made, I was left disappointed.

Archangel is based on a novel by another best-selling heavyweight, Robert Harris (of Fatherland fame). Like Smith, Harris is a superb craftsman, and he always does his homework – lots of telling detail and historical background. The film adaptation had top actors from both West and East, including Daniel Craig in the leading role. The viewer could enjoy the scenery – the series was filmed in Russia – and the authenticity of dialogue, at least half of which was in Russian. But I didn't believe that story for a nanosecond.

The plot was improbable, and (to my mind) based on a false premise: that biology is destiny. Sorry, not happy with that. And even though the author was careful to make everybody in the story unpleasant, most of them were stereotypes: the jaded, dodgy British researcher, the clueless US reporter, the Moscow prostitute who's trying to pay for university, the old guard communist hardliners, the world-weary policeman. . . see what I mean? I came away with the feeling that the characters had been misused by the author to make some (to me) obscure political point. Add to that the idea that a foreign visitor in Russia could refuse to board his plane, elude the police, and travel hundreds of miles before being caught. . . I wasn't best pleased at this use of my time.

Productions like this remind me that we often see one another through a skewed lens. No matter how aware we are that we – and the people around us – are complex, nuanced beings, we far too often see the lives and motivations of others in an oversimplified way. Mulling the matter over today, I was struck by a memory I'd like to share with you.

It was the Olympic summer of 1980. I was spending part of it studying at the University of Cluj-Napoca in Romania, which meant that, unlike most people in the West that year, I actually got to see some of the Olympics on the TV in the student lounge. I was sharing the experience with students from all over, including the Soviet Union. The Romanians were hospitable, the foreign exchanges were enlightening, and we were all having a wonderful time. Even the obligatory spies from the KGB and CIA, who back then 'infiltrated' all cultural exchanges, were having a good time. Our only complaint was that it was too hot – about like the US South in summer. The countryside was mountainous and the surroundings beautiful.

Early one morning, a group of us were climbing a mountainside from where our bus was parked to an archaeological site. It was a glorious day – cloudless sky, the scent of summer flowers, peace everywhere. We passed a cottage: everything there was obviously hand-made, nothing prefab about it. Not far from the cottage, a farmer in traditional dress was cutting hay with a scythe. I was interested, because I'd heard about scythes, but I'd never seen one in action. I stopped to admire.

'This is wonderful,' I said. 'I could just stay up here.'

One of the university professors, a dignified fellow from the City, snorted in contempt. 'You Americans,' he sneered. 'You wouldn't last three weeks up here.'

For the first time since the CIA mole had tried to recruit me, I got angry in Romania. I exploded, regardless of the respect owed to academic elders.

'You just wait a minute,' I replied. 'My grandfather is a farmer like this. In the past, he used a mule to work his land. In fact, in the old days, he had the first working radio in the valley – that was progress to them. Many of my relatives didn't have running water in the 1960s.'

I went on: 'The problem with you intellectual folk is that you believe everything you see on TV. You think all Americans are ridiculously overcivilised plutocrats who live in highrises and drive fancy automobiles. We have poor people, too. And people who know how to grow things.'

The professor's mouth dropped open in surprise. He had the grace to apologise. I hoped I had done just a tiny bit to dispel the cloud of misinformation spread by, as it turned out, Dallas, which they were all devouring between Olympic events. JR, you have a lot to answer for.

I didn't blame the professor, much. His image of the US was formed by mass media in a pre-internet age. I was much more bemused by the teenage boys in Kerry in the fall of 1978. Elektra and I were driving a horse wagon, you see, that we'd rented from the tourist people. The local lads opined that it must be boring, travelling so slowly. We said no, we thought it was a fun adventure, particularly when the Kerrygold tank lorry went by.

'Ah, well,' said one fellow. 'You'd be used to it, travelling by covered wagon the way you do.' I swear he was not being ironic. In another village, an elderly lady told us she'd been in service in Boston as a girl. When the family she worked for moved to Pittsburgh, her folks made her come home, lest she be 'eaten by wild Indians'. We did the math: this would have been, what, in the 1920s?

The point of this is not to mock ignorance of local conditions or customs. We've all made ludicrous assumptions about other people. As an antidote to cultural self-importance, I often cite that elegant line from the movie Fame: one high school girl looks at her new friend, who is black and wearing a (daring for the 1970s) nose stud: 'Does that hurt, or is it Ethnic?'

Ignorance is universal. One of my night-school English classes in the US contained mostly adults from South and Southeast Asia. One lone student was from Mexico, and he couldn't speak well enough to communicate yet. One day, his wife, a local girl from the US, stopped to pick him up. She brought along their tiny new baby, which I duly admired.

After the couple left, my other students muttered among themselves. I knew this sound. 'All right,' I demanded. 'Out with it.'

'That baby's sick.'

I scratched my head. 'It looked fine to me, for a three-week-old infant.'

Stubborn headshaking. 'That baby's sick. It has no hair.'

The penny dropped. In the productive conversation that followed, I shared the information that, while perhaps three-quarters of the world's babies are born with full heads of mostly dark hair, it is possible among the aberrant descendants of Europeans to produce progeny that are born bald. That, indeed, one of my sisters had been so distinguished. That my other sister and I had teased her about her baby pictures, as she was a 'bald-headed baby'. Much laughter, more understanding ensued. I saw to it that the new mother never found out what the strange foreigners thought about her baby.

Tolerance is not enough. Wanting to know is – coupled with the willingness to believe that people in other communities are just as complicated and varied as ourselves.

If you don't know, ask, and make a friend. You'll write better for it.

Writing Right with Dmitri Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

06.08.12 Front Page

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