August 20, 2013 marked a twenty two year anniversary since the events of the summer day that lead to the demise of the Soviet Union. I remember that day well. Of course, at the time, I did not know that I was living through the beginning of the end. In essence, end of many things really: a great empire, a peaceful existence, and for many, end of their lives. On that day I was upset, not because the tanks rolled through the Red Square, but because while at the summer camp on the Bay of Finland, I did not get to see my cartoons after lunch. I turned ten on that day, what did I care about politics? Camp leaders and older kids were glued to the TV. A man was standing on a tank and talking to the crowd of Muscovites.
I think until the New Years everything was fine. The crowd began to gather on one of the two squares of Dushanbe in the beginning of Spring. I did not know what they were doing then, all I remember is images of crowds of people on TV. Whatever it was, actions of people on that square caused a gathering of another group of people on a second square, and then all hell broke loose. The Martyrs and Freedom Fighters stood on opposite sides and for the next five years blood spilled onto the streets of my homeland. The irony here was two fold; first, in the past when killing took place it was between the locals and the foreign invaders (history of Central Asia is rife with invasions), and second, this was called "a civil war". What an oxymoron!
The demise of my parents' marriage was sealed before the war, but the fighting just speeded the situation. My father's business was taken away from him, it was either that or his life as I understand it now. He left the country soon, and never returned but to visit my grandmother many years later just to leave again. His last visit was in July 2011. He came just on time to see my grandmother die, bury her, and leave again, for by now he had adopted to the winters of Russia and could no longer stand the heat of Tajikistan. Besides his last name, I inherited some traces of my father's asthma. I hold no grudges, how can anyone? Their fighting was between them; I had nothing to do with it all. One of the fondest memories of my childhood is walking into my father's bakery and smelling the sweetness in the air. He would take me to a rolling tower of cupcake trays and say, "Take any you want" (or something like that), and that was when I inherited his sweet tooth.
Life is full of ironies. Peace was signed on June 27 of 1997. On July 19 of that year, I boarded a military plane with my uncle; we flew to Moscow with the main load of our baggage, and my mother, brother and grandmother arrived a day later. Tears that began in Dushanbe continued in Sheremetyevo Airport of Moscow; they never dried, just diminished slightly, and now they flow silently in the hearts of those who leave their loved ones behind. I had to come to America in order to learn about Rumi, who was born over 800 years ago in Vaksh, currently Tajikistan; he wrote about the pain of separation.
Our plane landed in JFK airport, a city within a city, on July 21, 1997. Our first home was in an apartment building at 2911 Brighton 5th Street in Brooklyn, apartment 4S. The building was only few blocks away from the beach, and an equal distance from the school my brother and I attended. Superintended's son went to the same school, so did, many many years ago, Arthur Miller. I would stay up late into the night absorbing words from my yellow Langenscheidt in hopes of increasing my vocabulary; this, as I found out at the graduation in 1999, was a bad way to learn a language.
It was a one bedroom apartment with windows onto the bleak back yard and fire escape stairs; all in brown. In this apartment I wrote the longest letter of my life, twenty pages, by hand, on both sides of the paper, to my friend at the time. I don't know what happened to it, I don't remember ever receiving a reply. I also wrote to my (paternal) grandmother, a shorter letter, and I have it in my possession today; I found it in a box of letters in her room when I went to visit her house in September 2011. My grandmother saved it, along with letters she wrote to me which she never sent; she also wrote letters to my father on my behalf, those too I have in my possession. Our apartment was small, but in a true style of a Tajik family, a month after our arrival, it welcomed four adults, a cousin with his three friends, within its walls. Seven of us celebrated our first New Year in America.
After I graduated from high school, we moved to the first floor of a private house. Our landlord was a very good man, he was Greek, and his sister with her husband were living on the second floor of the house. The address, 1754 West 12th Street between Quentin Road and Highlawn Avenue is still in my mind, not least because along with our Social Security numbers we had to memorize our residence location in case we got lost, but also for the good memories we had during all the six years we lived there. This two-bedroom apartment with a very large living room welcomed many visitors within its walls. Some stayed for a night, others for few more days, and then there were those who stayed for several months. Most never came back to visit. Once a close friend stayed in this house to give birth to her baby girl; I was the first man to hold the child while her father envied my situation from Tajikistan. Our living room was once a host for forty people on my cousin's wedding. A homemade video from The Godfather was shot in this house in three languages where actors were also sound directors while the camera was still rolling; the tape of this memorable event is now lost, but the memory lingers on.
My first attempt at gardening began in our house on West 12th. I planted basil in a plastic pot, it grew well, so much so that I have a pot of this fragrant herb every year now. My first serious winter was experienced in this neighborhood in February 2003. That year, snowstorm hit the East Coast and our backyard had so much snow that we played by diving into the "pool" from our neighbor's garage roof. When all the snow was cleaned off of the streets, there were snow-walls surrounding the walkways and cars parked nearby.
In the summer of 2003, I went home to get married. I was fortunate enough to have had my wedding before the law limiting number of guests to 150 was put into effect. I can't remember the name of restaurant, but it was on Umar Khayom Street across the music school and only few blocks from my old high school. We walked from the restaurant to our home, all of us: the guests, the musicians, and the newlyweds. At the sight of the crowd, cars stopped and honked, not because we blocked their way but, I would like to think, because it was awhile since the streets saw any such festivity and so late into the night that the drivers were happy for our marriage too. And then I left my bride.
On May 7, 2005, after all the immigration papers were in place, my wife arrived in JFK Airport. A month earlier, we had moved to a new house at 727 Dunne Court between East 7th Street and Coney Island Avenue. This time we were living on second floor of the house with the landlady on the first floor, and she wasn't nice at all. We even gave her a nickname, Mozilla, which sounded like Godzilla; but she didn't instill fear, only annoyance. Overall, I don't have good memories from this house. We couldn't play music too loud, we always received complains from first floor about how loudly we walked, or the most bizarre complain of all, "Why are you showering at 2 o'clock at night? The noise of the running water bothers me at night and I can't sleep." This was an old house, and that was an old landlady.
My wife gave birth to our son while we were living on Dunne Court; here he learned how to walk and talk. Here was the first time when patriotic feelings were born within me and I hang a flag of Tajikistan for the first time since my arrival to the United States. A neighbor from across the street once stopped by and said something along the lines of, "This is a flag of Tajikistan, isn't it? I looked it up online." Her words made me feel proud. But then less pleasing events took place which almost erased all good memories.
July 18th is a birthday of one of my former friends. A day before I left my country in 1997, I was at my friend's home celebrating his birthday. Exactly ten years later, my phone rang in New York; it was the same "friend". He asked for my help; he wanted to leave Tajikistan. The long story short, six months later, in the middle of the night, two agents of Secret Service rang my door on Dunne Court. They were looking for him because after he arrived to NYC, he forgot to let me know that he was coming; then one thing lead to another, he broke few laws. No one went to jail, but I did feel betrayed by stupid actions of my friend. I stopped helping others after that incident.
~*~*~*~*~
In America, the streets are not paved with gold, but the beaches are strewn with potential cash. The first dollar I made was from collecting empty beer bottles and soda cans. It was right after we arrived in New York in 1997. After I saw people take cans and bottles to a Walbaum's store on Neptune Avenue and exchange them to cash, I began combing the Brighton Beach with my brother for free cash. We brought our beach treasure to the store and put each item through machine: plastic bottles were shredded, glass was crashed, and metal cans were pressed, and after each "transaction" we got a ticket. It was like the arcades and casino had a baby; we would take tickets to a cashier in the store and get cash. Our first treasure hunt produced four crisp dollar bills.
Next summer, I could no longer collect bottles and cans, by then I had some friends who could see me. Being recognized while holding a garbage bag full of cans/bottles? For a teenager that's a no no. But I found a job still close to the beach. My experience running a restaurant in 1995 in Dushanbe brought me to Brighton Beach Boardwalk. One of the places I worked at was the Winter Garden. I got a job as busboy bringing plates of food to hungry beach goers and hauling dirty dishes to the kitchen. It was here when I tried calamari for the first time in my life; it tasted bitter, most likely because it was deep fried in oil which was being used to cook fish, meat, potatoes and everything else that hungry customers wanted deep fried. The job was not hard and I "climbed" the ladder of success in the Russian restaurant by gaining the trust of the owner. One day she called me and said, "Here are the keys, come tomorrow at 8 am and open the place," and I did.
I was on the boardwalk at 7:30 the next day. The only people there were morning runners, the drunks, and treasure hunters. I lifted the metal gates and brought all the tables and chairs out on the boardwalk. Put up the umbrellas and set up each table for early visitors, most of whom were Russians who could not handle their liquor a night before, so they'd walk in with a hangover, mumbling "Piva" (beer). By lunch time a crowd of hungry tourist would flock in devouring everything on the menu, and I would haul the remaining dishware on the table back to the kitchen. Back then, you could still smoke in public places like bars and restaurants, so in addition to sweaty customers I would also be a sponge for secondary smoke. None of this would really be a bad thing if I had gotten paid the right amount, which under the circumstances is hard to give a number. My shift that day ended at 4 am in the morning, that's a total of 20 hours of work. How much I got paid? Exactly 40 dollars, one sum from three different waiters. It was my first time opening the restaurant, and last shift in the Winter Garden.
Few years later, while residing on West 12, I found a job in restaurant "Rossiya" which was on Neptune Avenue right under the F-train. This place boasted 8 pm show, the main star of which was Borya, a tall Russian who was obviously gay. He once called me "solnishko" (little sun) when he walked into kitchen looking for a fork; I was the dishwasher. One of Borya's attires was a single leather thong, which was just enough to cover his front, leaving his hairy butt on a view; and nothing else but a feather crown. None of this would be a problem if he didn't walk around when the kids were in the hallway, but this is more of a reflection of Russian parentage than Borya's character; I never actually interacted with him, but there was kindness in his voice.
My main job in Rossiya was to rinse the food off of dishes and put them into a plastic tray on the conveyor which washed everything in a matter of 5 minutes. The rinsing part involved pressing a spray hose which hang above the stainless steel sink; overall it wasn't a hard job but for the grueling part of standing in a hot and wet environment. My record was five thousand silverware in one night. One day my boss asked me to come at 3 pm. It was only me and a middle aged Azerbaijani guy who worked the shift. When the guests left after their partying, the busboys would clean up and go home. The dishwashers would still be busy, being the last of all the staff to leave the restaurant. We finished at 9 am that day, and somehow I managed to bike home from Neptune Avenue along the McDonald's Avenue all the way home on West 12. I could not sleep, not because it was light outside but because of pain in my right hand. On the way home I was so tired that I could not feel the pain and so I did not notice how swollen my hand was. It was as if I had a boxing mitten on my right hand; it was twice the size of my left hand, from all the squeezing of the rinsing hose between 3 pm and 9 am. That's 18 hour shift, and I got paid $50 the next day.
I worked many different jobs in my sixteen years in America, one more memorable than the next. From waiting tables to washing dishes, from cutting grass in kid's summer camp to washing floors in synagogue; a bricklayer's helper; a caterer at weddings and large events; flower cutter and canopy decorator; I hung Christmas lights on trees in middle of summer and was gardener, mason, plumber and electrician, all in one place; sold shoes in Payless and t-shirts in Big & Tall; delivered furniture and sold tickets to a fake ruffle inside Planet Hollywood; worked for electrical company as fire alarm specialist; build custom bookshelf that looked like a coffin, and much more. When it comes to works I did, no matter how awful the overall experience, I learned a lot from it. Not just the "wisdom of life" part, but actual skills that I can apply today.
There is much I could write about the events of past 16 years, not only bad jobs I had. I don't regret about bad employments. What I wish I could change is the number of people I hurt (but that's another story). I consider Brooklyn my home as this was the only place I lived ever since our arrival to the states. I know much about this borough and not only because I study its history; Brooklyn is a fascinating place. I admit that I don't like Queens and that's probably because I never lived there. Nor do I know anything about Staten Island or the Bronx, except for few bits and pieces here and there. My knowledge of places beyond Brooklyn is based on stereotypical views. I am a naturalized American, but I've never lived beyond my current place of residence. I was in New Jersey few times on a job and twice in Washington, DC for personal reasons that did not last more than a day. For all my skills in various trades, I am no expert on America; not its history, nor its landscape, not the people or the politics. I often generalize, but I am learning to avoid such crimes.
If you asked me about certainties, I know of only one. I was one month short of my sixteenth birthday when I came to America, and after sixteen years I am yet to know who I am. I am certain that I am no longer the same person I was upon my arrival, and I am certain there is much I will go through that will affect my character and my identity. I had a good life in Tajikistan before I left it in 1997, but only after I came to US did I begin to identify myself as Tajik.
For the first fifteen years of my life in America, I kept yearning to go back. Something deep inside me kept calling me back; "come home," I would hear a voice, "be with the mountains under which you were born." Not until the events of last summer, when the government troops entered into the Badakhshan did I stop hearing the voice. Many "leaders" of my country showed their true colors, such as Beg Zuhurov, the director of communication services of Tajikistan who did not understand the concept of internet. Summer of 2012 was a wake up call for me, after fifteen years I understood that I can no longer return home for permanent residency. I may go to visit my family, but I will no longer be able to live in a society which is run by such unintelligent people, where corruption and so many injustices are rampant.
I am a student of history, and today I know more about my background then before I came to this country. I know history of my homeland and its people because I have access to information; this is a right often taken granted by those who live in this country. One of the reason I am reluctant to leave New York City is because of the number of libraries this city has; I once found a book in Tajik language in the NYPL on 5th Avenue. This city taught me to learn about myself; you have to in this ocean of humanity, or else you will be lost. I used to criticize the Soviets for what they did to my country, but recently I began to refer to myself as the child of Soviet Union. One reason I am not entirely lost in this great city is because they built us tough; the Soviet education system was at the forefront and people who lived in that old empire were more tolerant than those who came after them. Twenty two years have passed since the end of the Soviet rule. Sixteen years have passed since I left my homeland. I have lived an equal number of years here and there. It is time for a change. I just hope I have the wisdom and patience to make the right decision.
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