"Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"
The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that I am a child of the Soviet Union: I am rather proud of having been born in Moscow, I feel violently nostalgic, when I watch old Russian movies and cartoons, I still think that milk cartons can be used as planters, and I am a strong believer in friendship between nations.
A couple of weekends ago my mom pulled out this large ivory jewelry box out of the depths of her closet and placed it in my lap. I opened the lid, nearly breaking the hinges ("Can you touch anything without breaking it or getting hurt?") and out came a heap of mementos that my mom amassed over the years. There was a lock of blonde hair, allegedly mine; little tiny red patent leather shoes (How did that grow into a size 9?); little drawings of boxes with triangles on top (Yes, those were houses, and yes, my mom did think I was talented, ok?); mom's wedding ring (sigh); and a lot of other trinkets and curios.
My mom fished inside the box and handed me a skinny stack of papers doodled all over with colored pencils and tied together with a fraying red ribbon. I untied the ribbon and shuffled the papers. The scribbles were illegible with the exception of my "signature" on the bottom of each page and the date in the corner written in my mom's flourishing hand: May 1987. Then I made a discovery that amused me: "Миру мир" printed in my wavering childish handwriting, most likely reproduced from my mom's writing, the И's backwards, looking arrogantly latin. Apparently the scribbles were actually highly official diplomatic documents: my appeals to President Reagan to end the cold war!!! I think I tried to soften his heart by drawing some flowers for him in my letters.
Oddly enough I don't think there were similar missives to President Gorbachev. I suppose we had a slightly scewed vision of events in the great and mighty USSR. Anyway, I just think it rather odd that the country where I was born, where I lived until I was 8 years old, of which I have so many memories just seized to exist one day.
A couple of weekends ago my mom pulled out this large ivory jewelry box out of the depths of her closet and placed it in my lap. I opened the lid, nearly breaking the hinges ("Can you touch anything without breaking it or getting hurt?") and out came a heap of mementos that my mom amassed over the years. There was a lock of blonde hair, allegedly mine; little tiny red patent leather shoes (How did that grow into a size 9?); little drawings of boxes with triangles on top (Yes, those were houses, and yes, my mom did think I was talented, ok?); mom's wedding ring (sigh); and a lot of other trinkets and curios.
My mom fished inside the box and handed me a skinny stack of papers doodled all over with colored pencils and tied together with a fraying red ribbon. I untied the ribbon and shuffled the papers. The scribbles were illegible with the exception of my "signature" on the bottom of each page and the date in the corner written in my mom's flourishing hand: May 1987. Then I made a discovery that amused me: "Миру мир" printed in my wavering childish handwriting, most likely reproduced from my mom's writing, the И's backwards, looking arrogantly latin. Apparently the scribbles were actually highly official diplomatic documents: my appeals to President Reagan to end the cold war!!! I think I tried to soften his heart by drawing some flowers for him in my letters.
Oddly enough I don't think there were similar missives to President Gorbachev. I suppose we had a slightly scewed vision of events in the great and mighty USSR. Anyway, I just think it rather odd that the country where I was born, where I lived until I was 8 years old, of which I have so many memories just seized to exist one day.