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] “НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, ТРАВЕНЬ 201 2 WWW. UNWLA.ORG 13 shouldn’t be doing it. He had shrugged his shou l- ders and said, “This is the only dancing record I have.” Mama retorted angrily. “Yes, and she’s o n ly a beginner, so even if you had the right m u- sic, she doesn’t know a whole dance. This is all a joke. ” What was I going to do ? Tato had gotten to the part where people were dancing in the streets later in the day. The music of the martial dance pounded the walls of the Ass embly Room. I heard in my head, ‘ Rass, dva, rass ih dva,’ the count that our dance teacher used to start us moving. My feet followed the pounding beat, and I stepped out, randomly changing the step every eight counts. I added as many of my favorite little twirls as I could fit in. As I suspected, I had to fight the jacket to lift my arm, and the wreath began to move down toward my face, but I couldn’t help smile a little with the excitement of feeling how easily my feet found my favorite steps. The music ran its course, and I was startled by the applause of the c hildren. My father told me to bow. Frightened and deeply emba r- rassed again, I bowed quickly and ducked behind him. He then said, “ Now, watch as Stephanie decorates an egg in the old, Ukrainian way.” If he thought I could make a true, old Ukrainian d e- sig n, he was mistaken. I remembered my sister, Anna, arguing with our father a few nights ago. “We’ve just been learning to make eggs ourselves. She can hardly make a straight line yet. She's only in sixth grade, after all." I was a little offended, though I knew it to be true. She was fourteen years older than me and had just passed her bar exam i n Boston, so she was always right. But my father had prevailed, and here I was about to show all these rich kids how to mess up an egg. I held the double layered pen in the candle, then pressed it into the beeswax. My trembling hands made the dividing lin e around the middle of the egg look like a snake. I drew simple outlines of flowers and a scattering of ci r- cles and stars above and below my snaky line. I spaced them widely. I wanted this all to be over. By this time the children had crowded around my tab le. I tried to ignore their closeness while I waited for the dyes to set properly, but I couldn’t. On the final coat, I took the egg out too soon and the red was splotchy. I wanted to disappear. But, at least it was almost over. I put the side of the egg t o the side of the flame until the waxy lines began to melt. I rubbed with my rag and finally, magically, the original white shell of the egg under my first waxy lines as well as the filled - in colors of yellow and orange were free of the blackened wax. I al most smiled, but my second look at the egg horrified me with its crudeness. The lines intended to be straight were drastically crooked. The flowers and the stars looked like a kindergartener drew them. The red was a disaster. Tears sprung to my eyes. I gl ared at my smiling father. How could he do this to me? At last we were going home. I entered the bus ahead of him, acutely aware of the passe n- gers’ eyes puzzling over my unraveling costume. Anger flooded me again. Tato sat beside me. “ Wasn ’ t that a wonder ful event, Stefchu! And could you ever imagine that the highest of the high in Chestnut Hill School are interested in our beloved Ukraine and want to learn from us. ” He turned and fixed his eyes on mine so I would u n- derstand that what he was saying was imp ortant. “ So many of our poor Ukrainians have crossed the wide ocean in the hopes of making a new, maybe better life here. Their bundles were very small, but in their heads, in their hearts, in their feet and in their hands, they carried the memories of the ir customs, traditions, embroideries and dances, even though they had little hope of ever exp e- riencing them again. And now, here in America, in our church gatherings, at our picnics and we d- dings, they have been able to open their mouths and let the songs s ing to them again. Their feet have begun to dance the old dances. Their hands embroider and make our beautiful eggs. ” He sighed deeply, and I knew his familiar exhortation was coming. “ So, you and Anna, as well as all the Ukrainian children in America m ust learn how to take all these things we have brought across the ocean into your own heads and hands and feet and cherish them just as I and Mama and all your ancestors have. You must always listen carefully and learn as much as you can, so that you, in turn, can teach the world about the glories of Ukraine.” Though always stirred into a fine patrio t- ism with his words, I had found these expect a- tions of me difficult to achieve in my own, less prestigious classrooms. Because neither I nor my teachers could find Ukraine on a map of Europe, I sometimes wondered if his vision of Ukraine was just part of a mass hallucination of the people at the church. ______________ _____ __ _ ________ The book is available for purchase from ssyd o- riak@earthlink.net or at lulu.com. ______________ ______ __________
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