Perestroika and Me
Volume II of autobiography with historical contemplations
Part of series
The marriage of my parents could only happen in the Soviet Union. The set of values that allowed it to happen is unlikely to re-appear anytime soon. Since no one thought about the future the way we do under capitalism, since everyone had predictable stability with little options to do truly great or do truly awful, the expectations were low. Being a good man or making a such impression was enough for a male. And with the sexual revolution not making it past the Iron Curtain yet, women were married off for reasons modern couples don't bother to rent a joint apartment.
Father came to Kharkiv to study at the local vocational school to become an electrician. That's not an endeavor ambitious enough to warrant a relocation, I'm sure his native Shepetivka had such options in abundance. Probably he wanted to be away from his parents. And Kharkiv already had a reputation as a city of brides. He succeeded in both these tasks.
At the time, my mom studied at the Institute of Culture. Probably under influence of composer Vladimir Belousov, the most famous of the numerous kids of my grandmom's brothers and sisters and a childhood friend of Eduard Limonov. He and his even more famous wife, singer Tatiana Antsiferova who sang the historically significant song "Farewell, Moscow, Farewell" at the closure of the 1980 Olympic games probably warrant a separate article. Although still living in Moscow, Antsiferova is currently a fan of Petro Poroshenko and Ukrainian European course. Mom got the profession of director of mass theatrical events.
Why would an artistically inclined woman choose a guy with the simplest practical aspirations? The simplicity of life, her own simplicity, and his above-average height and looks - these are my guesses. Having regular sex outside of marriage was difficult in USSR, and, unlike my grandmom, mom wasn't going to be satisfied with her five times in a lifetime. Compared to my libido, however, their libidos are non-existent. She says dad only wanted once a week.
So on the 9th of October, 1983, I was born. To a Russo-Ukrainian father with the most Russian-sounding name imaginable - Igor Ivanovich Sidorov. And a Russo-Jewish non-Halakha mother, who still had the surname of my dethroned bourgeois great-grandfather - Elena Kanishcheva. Thankfully father won in the battle of naming, Anatoly is his choice. Mom wanted to name me Cyrill/Kirill, as in Kirill Gundyayev. This much more Slavic name would have further complicated my already complex identity struggles. Sidorov is a surname considered one of the three most Russian, together with Ivanov and Petrov. Numerous folklore jokes exist about Ivanov, Petrov, and Sidorov doing something stupid together. I was however a perfect "noviop", according to the term invented by deceased Russian ethnic nationalist Konstantin Krylov. A mix of bloods and legacies. Anatoly, a Hellenistic name, fits me much better. So that's the name I had before 2015 - Anatoly Igorevich Sidorov.
I got some light infection during the birth because mom had a cold sore at the time. Doctors kept me in a maternity hospital way longer than most kids, putting me to sleep away from my mom in a sterile glass chamber reserved for such cases. Eventually, my grandmom lost patience and in her trademark behavioral style started throwing bricks at the windows of the hospital. She got a short public works conviction but I was released immediately.
Not long after my appearance father got an unexpected opportunity to work in Czechoslovakia. There he went, working as an electrician at the Soviet Army base near Prague. Although he helped financially during this period, mom blamed him for not being enterprising enough. During his nearly decade-long stay, he only brought home two German rugs, a Chinese decorative cup set, and Czech postcards. Other men who had access to foreign countries, and few in the USSR did, made fortunes importing and selling electronics. A couple of VCRs could set us as a well-off Perestroika family. He couldn't do that. The best gift he ever gave me, a motorcycle race track toy set, was bought from resellers who brought it from Germany.
During the short time he did live with us, a prototype of modern war already occurred. Although Russophone, he was brought up in Western Ukraine. Either his paternal line had deeper grudges against the Soviet system than my grandmom, or his Western Ukrainian mother had a bigger influence, he was a Ukrainian nationalist already in the 80s. My grandmom had a traditional "vatnik" mix of beliefs: Orthodox Christian fundamentalism and Stalinism. Mom was apolitical and mostly thought about the theatre. During the referendums (first one, second one) which decided the fate of the USSR, dad voted for Ukrainian independence twice, grandmom voted for the preservation of the Union twice, mom abstained twice. I have a strong suspicion that both referendums were as fake as the Russian occupational referendums of 2022. The only thing they were an indicator of is the attitude of elites, who wanted to preserve the Union at first and then decided against it. The reason for my suspicion is that I don't know a single person who changed their opinion between these referendums, yet the results are vastly different.
Meanwhile, my mom had a successful career on her chosen path. Just like blue-collar workers, culture workers still had a fairly adequate financial standing. People had the money, they had nothing to spend it on. I remember running about a kilometer from the shop to my home three times in a row, there and back again, while my mom was in a queue for freshly released teen bicycles. Not only because the queue was very long, but also because the price went up three times during a single day and I was tasked with bringing additional money. Both the "release" of goods from warehouse to shop and their price were decided by a bureaucrat with a phone. He represented the state which owned everything. The only things which you could buy on most days, without being on high alert for releases, were bread, birch juice, and sea kale. Of course, I was too young for a teen bicycle. But there were no other bicycles. So I had to learn how to ride it way before it was safe. Regarding upbringing - she outdid all the stereotypes about Jewish mothers treating their kids like living gods. She always said I'm a one-in-a-million genius, the second coming of Grigori Skovoroda. And if I ever had or will have trouble with teachers, that's because even as a kid I'm already smarter than them. She meant that absolutely unironically. Whenever I doubt my talents I wonder whether my continuing attempts at becoming a famous influencer are the result of her stroking of my ego. On another hand, giving up is boring and I hate boredom.
The idea of going to kindergarten daily was incomprehensible to me. Explanations of adults never felt convincing. From that age onwards one of my main dreams was to live in such a way that I won't have to go anywhere daily, only when the mood strikes me. I could read since 3,5 yo so I have no memories of how I learned to do it. I just always remember myself being literate. Nannies loved to use this ability of mine to give me a book and force me to read to other kids while they smoke cigarettes outside. Before I finished kindergarten I had already read Brothers Grimm, Bocaccio's "Decameron" (which I prioritized immediately after hearing my grandmom say that it's a book I should never read), Ray Bradbury (was very scared by the story about the lion in a room), Slavic and Vietnamese tales. The latter were my favorite ones because of the... fog. As an adult, I over-analyzed why I liked that all those jade figurines, pagodas, and straw hats were in the fog in those tales. Came to the conclusion that fog is a metaphor for open endings. If something happens in a fog then you can't be truly sure it happened. I greatly preferred that to the moralistic approach of European tales, which nearly always presented a predictable outcome.
While there I had two girlfriends. I already knew I like chatting with girls more than with boys. I detested boyish cruelty and hubbub. Memories about my first gf Natasha are amazing. She liked me so much that she started stealing chewing gum inserts from the lockers of other boys for me. And that was the true hard currency of Perestroika and early post-Soviet kids. Sadly, my second gf, who went to the same school class with me a bit later, loaned a bigger part of my collection and gave it away to hooligans, grinning at me evilly, daring me to do something about it. The openness of this betrayal shocked me.
All in all, I adored the 80s. The downsides of late Soviet life were kept separate from me and fashions were great. I became a Michael Jackson fan, learned to do his moonwalk (which I still can do), and loved to dance.
Favorite movie at the time: Mio in the Land of Faraway.
Most listened songs at the time: title song from that movie, Venus by Bananarama and Jackson’s Billie Jean.
The parents divorced in 1992, shortly after the demise of the USSR. Father could not renew his Czech contract, there was no army base anymore. He could not find a job and had little desire to do so. Likewise, he had no desire to visit us or even congratulate on birthdays and went on to live at expense of his new women, never working again.
How did we survive in the 90s you'll learn in Volume III, named after the most influential man in the post-Soviet neighborhood - "Yeltsin and Me".
Oh, Ray Bradbury! The Martian Chronicles is more something mystic than scientific. The literature of the 1950s and the 1960s is too saturated with drugs.