People tend to be treated quite differently depending on their age. To be a bit more scientific, one could draw a bell curve that that starts and finishes at the lowest level corresponding to the highest degree of innocence and reciprocal benevolence mixed with indulgence. Such degree of understanding is only accorded to infants and nearly dead octogenarians. Hence they are most loved, listened to and cared for. In the middle, however, we can observe an inexplicable bulge that bears the brunt of the hostile world around us at its worst. All of a sudden by the age of forty we become so odious to the rest of the universe that we can hardly contain any semblance of civility when we attempt to touch anything controversial such as politics or global warming. By some very twisted direction of fate, at this stage of our lives we are also the most capable of espousing sharp critical thinking. As the result, we frequently find ourselves depressed as this position between a rock and a hard place, between sharp idealistic thinking and unforgiving canons of society is one of impasse, unless we either succumb to the pressures of the world or unabashedly follow our ideals – no third option. Following your independent path squeezed between daily pressures of the rat race is much like becoming children again if we were to partake in the sacred innocence and enjoyment of life. Just recall Jesus’ teachings.
Remember when you were a child you did not require rosy glasses in order to appreciate the good things around us. How come, when we get older we absolutely need such lenses just to reconcile ourselves to the beauty of such places as evergreen cliffs of Maui, or majestic bronze opulence of Grand Canyon? What is happening to us? May be taking ourselves back into our childhood is the answer? In my current position, even jaded and cynical Soviet childhood might appear to be a good place to start. So I have decided to undertake this journey in reverse before the overpowering senility takes its toll and forces me to give up my rosy glasses to bifocals and hearing aids.
My life started in a rather drab Soviet Hospital ward in Central Ukraine. I was kept there for several days following my birth not because there was anything wrong with me but as a matter of course, since the Soviet medical system was long on hospital beds and staff but considerably shorter on medicines, supplies and equipment. So wait and see procedure was the order of the day, as nobody was about to go bankrupt due to hospital bills, in fact hospital bills did not even exist. Put a couple of Americans there and they might think that they have gone to a healthcare heaven – no it was just a regular Soviet hospital room. After all doctors should be people’s friends and not loan sharks with a scalpel.
As no nefarious symptoms were apparent, they sent me home that consistent of three bedrooms and a tiny TV room plus kitchen. No so bad you might think, think again. One bedroom was occupied by my grandpa and grandma, one by my aunt and our bedroom accommodated all three of us – no privacy whatsoever. My father was about to finish local medical school at the top of his class and my mom taught piano. The future looked rosy from my crib. I played and ate well. In addition, my father’s mother and grandma who lived nearby adored me and visited virtually every day. In all other respects it was pretty ordinary infancy. My biggest fear was a lion that occasionally visited me in my dreams, my tastiest bit was a pair of my own toes and my paternal grandma was on perpetual alert to attend to any of my whims. Her warm embrace was to remain my familiar shelter for many years to come despite a perpetual cigarette smell of an asthmatic two-pack a day old lady.
My father being a congenial and a rather loud man was well disposed to a plethora of friendships and acquaintances – welcome and unwelcome. Apparently somewhat disillusioned with his career options given his stellar performance in the medical school coupled with few personal misjudgements, my father embarked upon a slippery road of illusionary world of drugs. No rock-and-roll, as the prudish Kremlin octogenarians strictly forbade that, just drugs. My recollections of this period are extremely vague and are primarily based on my mother’s recollections. One episode however stands out in my mind as a damning reminder of my dad’s indiscretions.
One day I was left to his care, which was not at all unusual in itself hence I did not make a special effort to etch it in my memory. The four-year old in me took that day like any other with verve and playful energy. The peculiar part of the day was that upon taking me to his friends, my father and his cohorts proceeded to engage in very unusual and rather strange activities. First they spent goodly amount of time weighing some magic white powder on tiny scales. This was rather clandestine and exciting. I would never tell my mom! This was men’s way of finding magic in their lives, I thought. Having weighed the magic substance, they repackaged it in tiny quantities with a rare degree of care accorded to things of great value such as diamonds perhaps - mmm. At the time I just marvelled at the strange ritual that was the part of my dad’s world. Little did I know that this world would always claim his first affection to the detriment of his family, friends and ultimately his legacy. This poignant tale did not unravel until years later however; in the meanwhile we emerged back into the pleasant early summer sunlight and went along rejoicing in our chance at male bonding…
The other memory of significance from these earlier years was the joy of going down to Azov Sea for family vacations. Despite living right in the middle of Ukrainian dust bowl with not many trees and much dust spurned on by either gigantic Soviet industry or equally as gigantic and even less useful Soviet agriculture, we were in only about six-hour drive from the nearest seaside resort. The Azov Sea was a mainstay of average families where they spent their summer vacations, revelling in calm salty waters and basking in the stinging southern sun. Also there is some historic significance to this small appendage to the much more picturesque and admired Black Sea, as Peter the Great achieved his initial raft of naval and land-based victories here in the monumental effort to reclaim the seas that surrounded his isolated domain.
We cared much for sun and water and much less for Peter the Great however. Now, resorts there did not really exist in a spoiled western sense, as people either camped right on the beach (no RV parking thank Goodness) or quartered with locals in the nearby seaside villages. Quartering was more comfortable than camping that came with hardly any access to fresh water, showers or any semblance of cooking facilities. Renting, sometimes you could even get your own little hut and a kitchen, most of the time your shared however. I do not recall caring either way and the locals accepted me as their own, despite some of my imprudence brought on by the innocent youth. I still cringe at the completely naked, happy and almost African looking waif with curly hair portrayed on family photos. Now I am a hardly ever naked and mostly sullen Caucasian with straight bolding hair who can hardly recognise the change. The trick that Mother Nature has done on me over the past thirty some years does not bode well for the next thirty. I dread looking in the mirror thirty years whence since I am likely to find fully clad, bald, freckled, overweight browbeaten Western retiree perched on some retirement home lookout away from the seashore drafts, inclement weather and bumpy roads. What a life…How I long to become this dark-skinned waif again, even for a minute…
In all other respects my earlier childhood was not too traumatic and had little peculiar strokes of colour save for a few. When I was five, my father used to send me to buy him cigarettes at the local store – no hassle, ID questions, pure consumer freedom if you are willing to settle for toxic, Soviet issue, cigarettes. I kept the change, as I was an early saver.
While my mother perennially clang to the hope of nursing another Mozart or Shostakovich at her bosom, I thought otherwise. It was not for the lack of trying as she even managed to drag the young prodigy through one year at the specialised musical school – to no avail. I much preferred swapping my notes and sonatas for a soccer ball. Alas, I never became even one hundredth of Pele or Ziko – in fact, I am still gracing the forlorn pitches of local bear leagues of low calibre…
My favourite movie at the age of five was a famous Soviet flick depicting a deeply infiltrated and highly ranked SS official who turned out to be a successful Russian spy. This black and white Soviet propaganda is still my favourite movie – rather pathetic, do not you think? My favourite characters in this movie were not the Soviet spies but their German counterparts with all their deathly and menacing SS regalia, “Heil Fuhrers” and leather trench coats. When harbouring yet another dream of burgeoning Rembrandt in her household my mother was stunned to find out that I had an exclusive artistic preference for swastikas, Wehrmacht crosses and SS rank distinctions that I knew better than majority of middling war historians. This was truly damning given my future aspirations for the Communist party leadership.
And why not? After all these guys on top had nice cars, travelled abroad in governmental jets, were shown on TV and had their fingers on buttons governing nuclear weapons – I have fingers too… After failed attempts at Mozart, Rembrandt and Pele my mother might have taken this Communist party fixation seriously, as no originals or copies pertaining to my fascination with the Third Reich survive… Instead my birth certificate lists “Jewish” as my nationality.
Remember when you were a child you did not require rosy glasses in order to appreciate the good things around us. How come, when we get older we absolutely need such lenses just to reconcile ourselves to the beauty of such places as evergreen cliffs of Maui, or majestic bronze opulence of Grand Canyon? What is happening to us? May be taking ourselves back into our childhood is the answer? In my current position, even jaded and cynical Soviet childhood might appear to be a good place to start. So I have decided to undertake this journey in reverse before the overpowering senility takes its toll and forces me to give up my rosy glasses to bifocals and hearing aids.
My life started in a rather drab Soviet Hospital ward in Central Ukraine. I was kept there for several days following my birth not because there was anything wrong with me but as a matter of course, since the Soviet medical system was long on hospital beds and staff but considerably shorter on medicines, supplies and equipment. So wait and see procedure was the order of the day, as nobody was about to go bankrupt due to hospital bills, in fact hospital bills did not even exist. Put a couple of Americans there and they might think that they have gone to a healthcare heaven – no it was just a regular Soviet hospital room. After all doctors should be people’s friends and not loan sharks with a scalpel.
As no nefarious symptoms were apparent, they sent me home that consistent of three bedrooms and a tiny TV room plus kitchen. No so bad you might think, think again. One bedroom was occupied by my grandpa and grandma, one by my aunt and our bedroom accommodated all three of us – no privacy whatsoever. My father was about to finish local medical school at the top of his class and my mom taught piano. The future looked rosy from my crib. I played and ate well. In addition, my father’s mother and grandma who lived nearby adored me and visited virtually every day. In all other respects it was pretty ordinary infancy. My biggest fear was a lion that occasionally visited me in my dreams, my tastiest bit was a pair of my own toes and my paternal grandma was on perpetual alert to attend to any of my whims. Her warm embrace was to remain my familiar shelter for many years to come despite a perpetual cigarette smell of an asthmatic two-pack a day old lady.
My father being a congenial and a rather loud man was well disposed to a plethora of friendships and acquaintances – welcome and unwelcome. Apparently somewhat disillusioned with his career options given his stellar performance in the medical school coupled with few personal misjudgements, my father embarked upon a slippery road of illusionary world of drugs. No rock-and-roll, as the prudish Kremlin octogenarians strictly forbade that, just drugs. My recollections of this period are extremely vague and are primarily based on my mother’s recollections. One episode however stands out in my mind as a damning reminder of my dad’s indiscretions.
One day I was left to his care, which was not at all unusual in itself hence I did not make a special effort to etch it in my memory. The four-year old in me took that day like any other with verve and playful energy. The peculiar part of the day was that upon taking me to his friends, my father and his cohorts proceeded to engage in very unusual and rather strange activities. First they spent goodly amount of time weighing some magic white powder on tiny scales. This was rather clandestine and exciting. I would never tell my mom! This was men’s way of finding magic in their lives, I thought. Having weighed the magic substance, they repackaged it in tiny quantities with a rare degree of care accorded to things of great value such as diamonds perhaps - mmm. At the time I just marvelled at the strange ritual that was the part of my dad’s world. Little did I know that this world would always claim his first affection to the detriment of his family, friends and ultimately his legacy. This poignant tale did not unravel until years later however; in the meanwhile we emerged back into the pleasant early summer sunlight and went along rejoicing in our chance at male bonding…
The other memory of significance from these earlier years was the joy of going down to Azov Sea for family vacations. Despite living right in the middle of Ukrainian dust bowl with not many trees and much dust spurned on by either gigantic Soviet industry or equally as gigantic and even less useful Soviet agriculture, we were in only about six-hour drive from the nearest seaside resort. The Azov Sea was a mainstay of average families where they spent their summer vacations, revelling in calm salty waters and basking in the stinging southern sun. Also there is some historic significance to this small appendage to the much more picturesque and admired Black Sea, as Peter the Great achieved his initial raft of naval and land-based victories here in the monumental effort to reclaim the seas that surrounded his isolated domain.
We cared much for sun and water and much less for Peter the Great however. Now, resorts there did not really exist in a spoiled western sense, as people either camped right on the beach (no RV parking thank Goodness) or quartered with locals in the nearby seaside villages. Quartering was more comfortable than camping that came with hardly any access to fresh water, showers or any semblance of cooking facilities. Renting, sometimes you could even get your own little hut and a kitchen, most of the time your shared however. I do not recall caring either way and the locals accepted me as their own, despite some of my imprudence brought on by the innocent youth. I still cringe at the completely naked, happy and almost African looking waif with curly hair portrayed on family photos. Now I am a hardly ever naked and mostly sullen Caucasian with straight bolding hair who can hardly recognise the change. The trick that Mother Nature has done on me over the past thirty some years does not bode well for the next thirty. I dread looking in the mirror thirty years whence since I am likely to find fully clad, bald, freckled, overweight browbeaten Western retiree perched on some retirement home lookout away from the seashore drafts, inclement weather and bumpy roads. What a life…How I long to become this dark-skinned waif again, even for a minute…
In all other respects my earlier childhood was not too traumatic and had little peculiar strokes of colour save for a few. When I was five, my father used to send me to buy him cigarettes at the local store – no hassle, ID questions, pure consumer freedom if you are willing to settle for toxic, Soviet issue, cigarettes. I kept the change, as I was an early saver.
While my mother perennially clang to the hope of nursing another Mozart or Shostakovich at her bosom, I thought otherwise. It was not for the lack of trying as she even managed to drag the young prodigy through one year at the specialised musical school – to no avail. I much preferred swapping my notes and sonatas for a soccer ball. Alas, I never became even one hundredth of Pele or Ziko – in fact, I am still gracing the forlorn pitches of local bear leagues of low calibre…
My favourite movie at the age of five was a famous Soviet flick depicting a deeply infiltrated and highly ranked SS official who turned out to be a successful Russian spy. This black and white Soviet propaganda is still my favourite movie – rather pathetic, do not you think? My favourite characters in this movie were not the Soviet spies but their German counterparts with all their deathly and menacing SS regalia, “Heil Fuhrers” and leather trench coats. When harbouring yet another dream of burgeoning Rembrandt in her household my mother was stunned to find out that I had an exclusive artistic preference for swastikas, Wehrmacht crosses and SS rank distinctions that I knew better than majority of middling war historians. This was truly damning given my future aspirations for the Communist party leadership.
And why not? After all these guys on top had nice cars, travelled abroad in governmental jets, were shown on TV and had their fingers on buttons governing nuclear weapons – I have fingers too… After failed attempts at Mozart, Rembrandt and Pele my mother might have taken this Communist party fixation seriously, as no originals or copies pertaining to my fascination with the Third Reich survive… Instead my birth certificate lists “Jewish” as my nationality.
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