Now I can look back on the events connected with that trip with a sense of humor. To say that we prepared thoroughly for our first family trip is an understatement. I read everything I could get my hands on in Ukraine about the United States: its history, culture, etc. I memorized our itinerary. Obviously, I did not expect the US Embassy to deny me an entry visa. I made a fundamental and unforgivable mistake: I started getting nervous at the embassy. Here is a piece of advice for Ukrainians who want to travel overseas: keep a grip on yourself and plaster a toothy smile on your face because people with glum or sad expressions on their faces have no business being in a consular office or embassy.
Naturally, after Jim and I got married we tried to get permission to make this trip, but they seriously suggested that I travel to Warsaw to get a clean bill of health. There was no time left for such games. Also, the whole affair smacked of humiliation. So we kept postponing the trip. Finally, the stars and our finances seemed to be correctly aligned, but then my visa application was rejected. I called James. He laughed and told me to go home, and said he would call a senator in Oklahoma. I hung up the receiver and thought hard — or rather, I tried to recall all the expletives I knew or had ever heard.
After my anger subsided, I returned to the embassy wicket and blocked access to it for more than an hour. Eventually the consul made an appearance, and my documents started being scrutinized. Be that as it may, the classic fracas engineered by a Ukrainian woman worked. At home I found James in the midst of negotiations. He had instantly contacted the US Senate and they responded with a burst of bureaucratic enthusiasm. Then it was night and James was still issuing instructions. Then Boryspil Airport and the flight to Amsterdam, the long wait in Amsterdam, and boarding the flight to Chicago. En route one of the engines died. I felt sick and grabbed Jim with both hands. He laughed, saying it’s just one engine and the aircraft has three working engines, but you only have one heart. He was so calm, why should I worry? The bruises on his arms from my frightened claws would be there a long time. The long flight over the ocean to dump the fuel, back to Amsterdam; the passengers are dead silent. Another long wait, another Amsterdam-Chicago flight. The night seemed endless. We were flying simultaneously with time. Finally, Chicago. The high-tech space of the airport. An uncomfortable motel like our little raion hotels, except that the place is clean. This requires a more detailed description.
James is exhausted, never mind me. I am looking at everything through his eyes; otherwise I will surely do something terribly wrong. James warned me not to be surprised by anything I would see. OK, so long as we can reach home quicker, Jim’s home. A twenty- four-hour trip in a comfortable bus across the American expanses; I know the distance is the same as from the Crimean Mountains to the Carpathians. Changing landscapes, the only thing that doesn’t change is the nice, straight highway and the driver’s hands on the steering wheel that seem almost immobile, and the loud voice of his partner, who is keeping him awake and not allowing his attention to stray. I understand: the perfect highway and the imminent danger of monotony. The passengers are asleep, I am awake and watching. No people, just cars, tractors, neat boundless corn fields, again tractors and combines. Where are the people? I keep asking James and it has become a rhetorical question to which my husband no longer responds. He is also awake, but his expression reflects concentration, he is thinking things over, seriously considering something. Earlier we had an awkward discussion: whether I could stay in the States for at least a year. I will figure this out later, just like Scarlett, for now it is Muskogee, the capital [sic] of Oklahoma. A tiny bus stop. I missed it because I instantly found myself in a strong embrace, then there was a car, and then I was in James’s home.
His mother’s fragile figure on the threshold; she is either praying or asking something...
While James is having lengthy conversations with visitors, I retreat to the tiny bedroom. I have some time to make lengthy entries in my diary. In my diary I try to describe everything in detail, I also try to listen to myself. Apparently I am wary; obviously this is not a hotel or a tourist trip. They have been expecting me for seven years. I have found myself on very sensitive private territory, it is open to me, but they are expecting the same kind of tactfulness and clear understanding of the rules. All of them know about me. People have been waiting a long time to see Dr. James’s wife, but there seems no way for her to get in sync with a different everyday culture; she keeps making mistakes and feels so very clumsy. In return she keeps receiving glowing smiles.
James also keeps a smiling mask on his face, and this makes him stranger and more distant; I feel very lonely and hopeless because I can’t see a glimpse of that free American spirit in any conversations or manners, for the sake of which I had ventured on this endless trip. Everything is shrouded in endless phraseology, all those OK’s and are-there-any-problems, no-problem, if-there-is-anything-I- can-do-to-help, want-to-talk-about — it cliches. Everybody seems to be happy, discussing their own problems with broad smiles, becoming serious once the topic of discussion is business or health; everybody is ready to help and take part in solving your problems.
Frankly, at first I was very suspicious about this pattern of communication; I thought that they were all insincere. But during our first visit to a large mall with invisible and powerful air conditioners, where people came mostly to escape the unbearable heat outside, where sportsmen jogged, grannies strolled in the shade of green plane trees, and children played on scenic artificial lawns, I immediately realized that their friendliness was actually their constant readiness to make contact. I had a lot of problems with this because I felt as though that multitude of people was advancing on me, with everyone trying, for some inexplicable reason, to look me in the eyes and apologize for something. I constantly asked James to tell me what I was doing wrong. He would give me a sad smile and say, “Do you think it was easy for me in Ukraine? You don’t have any problems.” It took me some time to stop hiding behind James’s back, before I could raise my head and return their smiles. Then everything became easier and simpler. I decided not to ask anyone any questions. After all, I had a concerned interpreter, my James, so I knew for sure that his “censorship” would not accept what I can now mildly put as my more precise emotional definitions. (At first my daughters did their best to breach the impregnable wall of James’s friendliness. He was happy, sad, he took part in all their small and big worries, but when he was asked questions, as a rule he would take my daughter’s hand and start a conversation. It could be a long one or a short one. My daughters eventually learned to mind their tongues, so when they asked a question they were prepared for a serious discussion. I thought at first that this was a hallmark of a Harvard professor. I was wrong.)
Before long I realized that I was within a devout religious community where mutual respect was an inviolable rule. Aware that it was a Christian environment, I refrained from asking for details. Actually, I suspect that Jim would never have interpreted such a question so as not to subject me to a discussion about world perception or a religious debate. Also, there was no time for that. We were courteously accompanied to churches, temples, Catholic churches — spacious, comfortably designed, and fully modernized structures. Their interior was a far cry from my beloved houses of God named after St. Andrew, St. Nicholas, the Protection of the Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Michael, and St. Volodymyr. I was amazed to spot an icon in an Indian church, portraying the Apostles and Jesus as North American Indians with their traditional braids. People were watching me closely; I had given them a present, a copy of my novel Andrii Pervozvannyi (Andrew the First-Called).
Everyone seemed to be expecting a signal from me to launch a serious discussion. It never took place. On more than one occasion I watched that peaceful, perfectly conventional environment instantly transformed into a serious scholarly seminar or conference. For example, they are now debating the state governor’s decision not to tear down the stele in front of the local school, with the Ten Commandments carved in stone. After I was told the reason for this intellectual outburst, I told them that in Ukraine such a governor would have a fair chance of making it to the first echelon of power, to which James replied that the career of the governor in question was over because he had broken the law.
We arrived in the States at the beginning of this important scandal and left when it was over. There had been heated debates, investigations, measurements with compass and ruler, applications to the theories of Aristotle and Einstein. Everyone finally agreed that he had broken the law, period. James never approved of my free-thinking concept of Ukrainian legislation. Law is not an idol, it is a mechanism of coexistence; it can be developed, altered, or discarded by a state community through debates, elections, re-elections. But once a law is ratified, it must be observed. Whenever I said that in Ukraine our laws are just so many words backed by a void, Jim would always quote from the Bible: “In the beginning was the Word...”
I truly envied Americans visiting the post office, paying their bills, obtaining documents. Precision, long-practiced routine, invariable friendliness — striking contrasts between the Ukrainian and US bureaucratic systems. In Ukraine it ruthlessly robs us of time, life, and money. Even private notary firms turn out copies of the old bureaucratic services. (Against the backdrop of ordinary Ukrainians struggling to solve their problems in government offices, James stood out like a golden dragonfly among brown ants; he spoke about rights; they would tell him that he needed to get another document. Of course, James understood everything. He had an accurate eye for people and situations. That was probably why he said that he would not work for any state, American or Ukrainian. It was his principled decision. He would have never joined any state structure. He accepted the rules of the game in Ukraine but never approved of them. Inwardly he remained an independent man with his own views on the role of the state and the rights vested in the individual.)
Meanwhile, my solitude came to an abrupt end when my attempts to hide away somewhere were noticed. James’s mother instantly appeared and, taking me by the hand like a small child, led me into the living room. There the two of us leafed through photographs, newspaper clippings, albums. Here are James’s late sister and father, Jim in his childhood, youth, later a graduate with a B.A., then an M.A., then a Ph.D. To my ear the Oklahoma dialect lacked the guttural “g” and sounded softer and more lyrical than classical American. Shortly before we left I even tried to start speaking English. If only I had had more time...
I was encouraged to do this in every way by the friendly atmosphere. In the morning James’s tiny mother and I would walk around the Mace property. A short distance away there was barren land with a tiny pond reflecting sunlight, but we could not approach it because the marshland was teeming with snakes. Squirrels played in the tree branches, a flock of turkeys gone wild proudly marched between the farms. Someone had purchased them but couldn’t bring themselves to butcher them, so they slowly plodded along the well-trodden paths. Everyone feeds them.
To me those five hectares of unplowed and unsown land (Oklahoma means “Home of the Red Man”) looked unnatural. James explains that a long time ago there were large cotton plantations here, which had completely exhausted the soil. Now the government is paying subsidies to landowners to leave their plots alone. This land has not been plowed for nearly a century. What I see is land reserve and state resource...
Meanwhile, my intimate sit- downs with my mother-in-law quickly ended. James was literally counting the seconds of my stay in his native land. The pace was quickening. We borrowed a car from Ginette, a well-known businesswoman. It was comfortable, but most importantly, air-conditioned, because the temperature reached 50 o C. It was impossible to breathe outside. On our list of things to do we had three Indian museums, religious buildings, a wooden military fortress, a waste disposal plant, a military hospital, a housing construction business, the legendary Oklahoma lakes, meetings at a millionaires’ club, a visit to an Indian college, Oklahoma University, besides daily invitations to private meetings and endless interviews. This was to be expected because everyone knew that James was working somewhere on the other side of the globe. But to them he was a Harvard professor, a status that elicited community-wide respect. There was also the fact that he was a self- made man. A boy from a poor family stood little chance of entering college, let alone obtaining a Ph.D.
Now picture James using a strikingly obsolete PC, writing a very long article and then playing Civilization, a complex, multistage computer game. When I spotted the familiar shapes on the monitor, I swore under my breath. There it was again, damn it to hell! While we were making our trips Ukraine had crept into James’s home. My daughters kept calling every day as though foreseeing disaster, so did The Day’s editorial office. James no longer discussed our move to the United States. He was obviously missing Ukraine, Kyiv. Here he felt at home, comfortable, but cramped. When we finally stepped into our Kyiv apartment he spread his hands and shouted: “Here is our malenka khata. We are home. God, I am home!” I honestly don’t know which of us felt happier to be back...
Our visit to Oklahoma took place shortly after the explosion at the local trade center, where many of James’s friends lost their close and dear ones. There were also local problems: a group of teenagers had smashed a synagogue window. James explained that there was only one Jewish family in Muskogee and that I wouldn’t understand the public concern over the event before I learned that there were more than 200 churches and other religious structures for 40,000 residents of that grand small town. I had visited some of them and finally realized the favor James had done me by taking along the English edition of Kyiv, which he had edited. The book, created for state leaders on foreign visits, was obviously for presentation. My ambition was allayed when, in response to questions, James showed luxurious Poltava and Carpathian landscapes, Black Sea resorts, but most importantly — Ukrainian churches.
After studying photographs of St. Sophia’s Cathedral, many people found it hard to believe that such things really exist. This amused James and he said yes, they do exist. He talked about Ukraine with his mother, friends, neighbors, journalists, janitors, and businessmen; he delivered a lecture at the Oklahoma millionaires’ club, he spoke at a Cherokee tribal museum. There I was confined to asphalt paths and forbidden even to touch the earth that shimmered with some enigmatic life no outsider could see. James was led into the Wigwam of the Twelve Chiefs, but I was barred access. I still don’t understand how they could tell who could be granted or forbidden access to the main sanctuary. In that distant and strange land he was to me an intrinsic part of the kind of Ukraine I really loved and admired — the future Ukraine.
