1991
Just when you think everything is as bad as it gets, life almost immediately brings your way something unimaginably worse. In my case, after I was forced to spend three dreadful years chair-bound in a Greek elementary school, my parents decided to send me to a different one. Different seldom means better in the Greek education system and this particular prison of pedagogy was no exception.
Being thrown in among strange, unkind kids yet again seemed unfair. My protests fell on deaf ears. I remember warning my parents that I would never forgive them for that. “But you hated your old school, they reminded me. I was certain I was going to hate the new school twice as much. What I didn’t expect were all the feelings of loneliness and isolation that followed. Eight girls sitting next to each other woven together in an unmistakable pattern: a clique. I was the ninth, the odd one out, the leftover, and designated to be undermined and ignored.
I was probably sulking inside the classroom, sitting alone on my desk in the furthest corner of the room next to the window, when our teacher’s voice announced the collapse of the USSR. I was furious. It wasn’t that my communist ideals were shattered since I was just eight and a half years old and very possibly an anarchist by nature. It was my hatred for geography that triggered that response. Until then, I saw the USSR as a harmless block that shamelessly covered the ⅔ of the Eurasian map. If all those countries gained independence I would definitely end up with even more homework. And that was too much for me to bear.
In a surprising act of kindness, a classmate invited me to play at her house after school to soothe my rotten mood. She was a good soul and her mother as well. That did not make her interesting but I was tired of being all alone, utterly lost between the impenetrable cliques of the other girls, so I accepted. After school, her mom arrived in a small red car. The two of us squeezed into the front seat because the back seats were covered with boxes and trunks. “We just moved,” her mother said kind of unapologetically as we soon landed in a tiny apartment filled with ‘ALL STAR’ shoes in every imaginable color. Authentic ones!
At that time, like most of my classmates, I was wearing only imitation brands. I shyly concealed my worn-out ‘OLD STAR’ sneakers under the table. Noticing that, she casually remarked, “My mother works at an advertising agency. We get everything for free”, but not without a hint of pride. I was staring at a pair of yellow canvas shoes that I wanted badly. The nine-year-old girl took the shoes in her hand, lifted up her nose a bit, and placed one of her hands on her waist.“You know the problem with yellow shoes?” she said, examining them closely, “You can’t have just one pair, you also need a dark pair for rainy days. They get dirty way too easily. Not at all practical!” Unfortunately, until this very day when I get close enough to buying yellow shoes, I still hear her little sensible voice warning me against it.
With that, she carefully placed them back to the other thirty pairs and we moved to her room. Her room was two by two full of toys I couldn’t care less for; Dolls. Blond, tanned, with miniature clothes, and impractical shoes. Complete with shiny glossy hair and artificial smiles. As a tomboy, all I played with was Transformers, Playmobil, and action figures of Skeletor and Orko from the Masters of the Universe series — plus, I secretly wished for a life-sized robot. I never had an affinity for dolls so my thoughts haphazardly returned to the collapse of the USSR. In all sincerity, I asked her opinion on the subject. After five confused seconds, the nine year old rapidly deduced that the matter should be handled by a higher authority. “Let’s ask my mum,” she concluded.
We hastily moved into the kitchen which also served as a living room. I was starting to like their lilliputian apartment. Though tiny, it contained three times more stuff than ours. It made me despise my parent’s home even more with its bulky, old-school wooden furniture; dark wood, heavily varnished complete with an antique clock. Their furniture consisted of simple straight lines, white and red shelves, a comfortable modern couch in a funky pattern, complete with a hi-fi stereo. Everything looked brand new. We caught her mom making us chocolate milk when I dropped the bomb. “Why is the USSR breaking apart?” After taking an enormous sip of coffee, she replied calmly, “Maybe all those countries were not happy together anymore, they had to choose separate ways….” I interrupted her — a bad habit to this day. “Yes, but how could they do that to us children? It’s dreadful! Now we have to learn all the new names of all those new counties. It’s not fair!” I must have stamped my foot on the floor, although I can’t really remember doing so.
Her mother sighed, “Look, sometimes countries aren’t meant to be together and they take a break.” My mind was at peace again. Yes, those countries would be reunited and I would not be forced to memorize what all those faraway places were called. “So, lady, you think that they might get back together soon?” I asked without taking a breath. “No,” she answered, lighting a cigarette and crushing my hopes, “These countries got a divorce.” “But can’t divorced people get together again?” added her daughter at the top of her voice. “No. A divorce is a divorce and it’s final. Russia and Lithuania don’t live together anymore. Lithuania is never going to pick up Russia’s kids after school again with her car just because Russia has too much work.” Unaware that Russia and Lithuania had kids, I was becoming more and more perplexed. Meanwhile, she took out her pack of cigarettes and pulled out another one fidgeting with her fingers.
“But, I don’t understand. After all those years together why do they have to divorce now? Why can’t they think of us kids who have so much homework already? At least they can stay together till we finish school,” I added with some hope. “They were incompatible!” she said with a tone of finality in her voice. I persisted, “My parents are different too. My mum reads books and my dad Mickey Mouse and they have nothing in common but they still are together.” Her face changed as she lit the cigarette. “Look, you’re kids, just go play.” She stared off into the distance puffing out a wondrous amount of smoke before adding, “And pack your stuff Maria, your father is picking you up for the weekend.”
