I soon heard a car pull up in the alley adjacent to my building. It couldn’t have been a garbage truck because it was a Sunday. This was followed by a light tapping on the doorbell. I walked downstairs to see two buddies who had recently emigrated from Lviv, Zhenya and Roman, restlessly holding Ukraine’s flag in their hands. They lived in the neighborhood. But the only thing I had in common with them at the time was speaking their language and playing basketball or volleyball on Lake Michigan’s beaches.
“Let’s go, Ukraine is finally a country again!” they said excitedly in one breath, whisking me down the concrete steps outside. They could barely contain their joy.
Still somewhat confused, I freed myself from their grip to keep the door from locking itself closed. “What do you mean Ukraine is a free country?”
They explained that Ukraine had proclaimed its independence the day before and urged me to get in the still running car to celebrate. I still couldn’t grasp what this fully meant. Independence is one thing, but being recognized as a sovereign state is another.
My immediate reaction was to not accompany them. I quickly explained that I didn’t want to emulate the disrespectful practice of driving around while incessantly honking a car horn. They dismissed the notion and pleaded that I make an exception for Ukraine’s long-sought independence.
Admittedly, selfish motives began to win me over, not Ukraine’s freedom. I didn’t really have a strong affinity for Ukraine. I was happier for them and for my Ukrainian grandparents more than anything. Personally I wasn’t overwhelmed with a particular emotion. I was still coming to grips with the abstract significance of the event.
Other thoughts started racing through my head. I rationalized that this was a valid excuse to miss church that day. On second thought, nobody it seemed was home upstairs, meaning they were expecting me to attend a later church mass.
This was solid justification. So, why not? I ran upstairs, splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth and hopped into the car. As the car sped off, I opened the car window, and let my arm hang outside while holding on to a Ukrainian flag. We were all in our mid-teens then.
“But let’s avoid driving by the church I go to, just in case,” I said as we motored around the ethnic enclave.
Kyiv Post staff writer Mark Rachkevych can be reached at [email protected]
