The Capital of Our Motherland
I was 7, and it was officially my first act of civil disobedience — a small and, unfortunately, pro-soviet demonstration.
De jure, we were not the first. There were kids who started school on September 2, 1991 (in Ukraine, schools traditionally start on September 1, but that year, it fell on a Sunday), which was almost a week after Ukraine became independent. However, everything was still vague and in disarray. People were trying to figure out what had happened to them and to the country, and what it all meant. There was great confusion over what our currency should be, what would happen to companies, jobs, passports, etc. Despite all that, children still needed to be sent somewhere to study. So, schools started the academic year exactly like the year before, as if still in the soviet union.
A year later, when it was my turn to start school, some things had settled, although not much. There was a clearer vision of the country we were living in, and there were some laws, new rules, new street names, a sequence for replacing soviet passports and driver's licenses with Ukrainian ones, new institutions, and even more confusion with the currency. Ukrainian had been declared the state language, and the majority of schools stated they would begin the new school year in Ukrainian (while the textbooks were still those published in the '80s).
I was sent to a russian school, of course. My family was russian-speaking and referred to themselves as "russian people," although there were Poles and people from different regions of Ukraine, and no one from russia. My grandfather was a professor of scientific communism at one of the three universities in our city and the dean of some faculty — I don't recall which one, but it was definitely some propagandistic bullshit.
On my first September 1st, I wore two big bows and a soviet school uniform — the brown one with a white apron. I loved the look, especially the black calf leather Mary Janes that I wore with white socks (I still wear Mary Janes like that). I was among the children performing at the Grand Opening of the school year. We even had to attend a rehearsal beforehand, so I was already familiar with the school. I desperately wanted to sing, but I couldn’t (and still can’t), yet I got the mic anyway. I was reciting poetry, not my own back then, with silly lines about hurrying to learn English so that one day I could fly to England every weekend for a walk. (There was a time in my life when I was flying to different places for work almost every other day, and I seriously considered those lines a curse. Sometimes, when I encounter yet another unmanageable aspect of my British life, I still do.)
There was a class meeting afterward, and then we went to a café, where I had ice cream and the adults had coffee and some wine, I think. My primary school teacher came with us because he was my mother's ex-classmate and friend. Another couple from the same class, with their child — another girl I played with — were there too. My teacher (which was highly unusual, as typically only women taught small children) was a big man with a beard, kind eyes, and a reassuring voice. He was a perfect teacher — attentive and funny.
The next day, my school uniform apron was black, as was common in the soviet union: white for festive days and May Day demonstrations, black for daily use. Our first lesson was russian language. We had an ABC book at every desk — the same books from the '80s, as they had not been replaced. Perhaps they were replaced in some schools in Kyiv, the capital, but not in our town for another year or two. The first page featured the kremlin and a bold, large-lettered sentence: "moscow is the capital of our motherland."
My teacher was an honest man, so he told us: "Dear children, never mind this information; it is already outdated. moscow is the capital of russia. The capital of our motherland is Kyiv."
I was a naughty child and wanted some fun. I loved my new status and independence, my school uniform, the matching bows in my hair (black that day), and I felt superior because, unlike others, I could already read and write, knew the teacher from before, ate ice cream with him in cafes, and played with his huge dog. I felt confident. The time when I would become a defensive, secretive, isolated child from a troubled family, upset, jealous, and struggling to study due to constant stress, was yet to come. I also wanted to show off.
The phrase "moscow is the capital of our motherland" was comfortable, familiar to me as a cliché or proverb from my cousin's ABC books and other school materials (I had seen plenty; my mother was a teacher, too). So, I started rhythmically hitting my desk with my pencil, chanting, "moscow is the capital of our motherland." In russian, this phrase has a rhythm, very suitable for chanting. The whole class joined me. I felt cool hearing the mischievous choir of our voices. That was officially my first act of civil disobedience — a small and, unfortunately, pro-soviet demonstration.
I don’t remember how it ended, but I think my teacher just distracted us with something funny, as he always did, and then brought our attention back to the lesson, which was the alphabet. Thinking about it now, I don’t feel ashamed, only sad. A 7-year-old cannot be responsible for the beliefs and thoughts of the family she grows up in. And by the time I could be considered responsible for my beliefs and opinions, I had very different views.
Remembering that lesson, on one hand, I feel dispirited by how easily and deeply we were brainwashed. On the other hand, I feel relieved and proud of how far we have managed to move away from that.
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