 The Meeting By Nisha Muire Stecyk |
My hands had begun to sweat a week ago at the very thought of tonight's meeting. Now it was so bad that they treacherously kept slipping off the steering wheel of the car.
"What's the matter? Are you nervous?" asked my lovely companion after I nearly missed an exit because my slippery hands had once again lost their grip. If my emotion at that moment was mere nervousness I would not be half so agitated. Right now I was having a full-blown panic attack coupled with major guilt and a trace sense of shame. At this moment the only think I could think about was how the meeting would turn out. The traffic was a blur and road rules were an afterthought in my tumultuous brain.
"Hey, how about if I drive?" she suggested after I blew a third stop sign leaving behind a symphony of blaring horns and cursing drivers. Under the circumstances it was a relief to pull over and hand her the keys. Now I could wallow in my terror without the distractions of having to drive. "Come on, relax. It'll go well - you'll see." She urged. How could I relax? She had no idea who she was about to meet. I knew what was coming and that thought had caused me to lose much sleep in the last week. After six months of dating, she was about to meet my parents.
At 28 and a successful lawyer who has lived on his own for the past three years. Yet my parents still have the ability to reduce me to a 10 year-old boy. Under my mother's gaze all the resolve and self-assurance that have earned me a reputation as one of the province's top-notch solicitors dissolves into the self-doubt and awkwardness of a child. My mother's iron will and bag-packing guilt trips were so intense that my older siblings had escaped the family nest early on. My father was a dogmatic and hardworking man who never sat still, even though he was pushing 80 and complained of severe joint pain. For as long as I could remember, he had taken refuge in alcohol to escape the demons that he still carried from the German work camps. At those times, it was better to be anywhere but standing in front of him. It's not that they were bad people - they are very good people. All they wanted was for their sons to carry on their Ukrainian traditions and be good boys. Unfortunately, we were in a new world, growing up during the heyday of the 10s and 80s when counter-culture and revolution were a way of life.
Good old pyrohy and borsch soon lost out to the seductive American culture of rock 'n roll and free love. My brothers rebelled quite dramatically by growing their hair long, shunning everything my parents had ever held dear and embracing the completely foreign ideology and mores of our adoptive land. My parents were horrified and swore that I would not follow in their footsteps.
Being the youngest by about 13 years, I was unable to join my brothers at protest and peace marches. I could only watch from under my mother's apron as they took part in riots and demonstrations and filled my wondering mind with thoughts of anarchy and revolution. Of course, I was not to partake in any of that - my mother saw to it that my time was fully occupied, from morning until the sun had slipped beneath the horizon. I was channeled, controlled and steered in the right direction so that at least one of her sons would be a "good boy." I was also the last to leave home. I had no choice but to remain - utterly captive under my mother's watchful eye until I was at last able to support myself and bought my own peace of mind on the seventh floor of a new condominium.
It's not that I did not enjoy all the cultural activities in which I partook. I danced up a storm of Ukie dances until my knees screamed in protest. I met most of my best friends during my years at Tabir and some of my fondest memories are of drinking and dancing wildly at Zybavas. I was encouraged to have as much fun as possible with Ukrainians, but when my Italian, Greek or French friends called my house, my mother would hang up on them and I would never get the message.
Being of an easygoing nature, my parents' heavy-handedness never really bothered me. I was mostly amused by their fear and assumptions of the other cultures that surrounded us in this new land. I knew that their hearts were essentially good and that once they knew a person, they would treat them with as much respect and acceptance as a fellow Uke. I was counting on those good hearts to prevail today.
You see, six months ago I met a wonderful woman. Funny, intelligent, beautiful and sincere - everything I had ever hoped for in a mate - except she was not Ukrainian. She was from Trinidad. So not only was she not Ukrainian, she was not even white! I knew in my heart that we were meant to be together, I just hoped that my parents would understand. I had been mentally preparing myself for this meeting since I had met my sweetheart, but even so, now that the time was approaching I could feel my heart racing and my mouth going dry.
At last we pulled up in front of their sensible triplex. As my companion parked the car I breathed deeply to compose myself. I glanced up and saw that someone was peeping through the heavily curtained windows. The curtain fell back into place almost instantly and my stomach somersaulted.
"All right. Let's go!" She said brightly. She kissed my cheek and then we were standing outside the door. I could not hear anything except the pounding of my heart. The door opened and there stood my mother. She took one look at my companion and then gave me a look that said everything that she couldn't say out loud. It conveyed a broken heart, a truckload of guilt and the questions "How am I supposed to explain her to the ladies auxiliary?" But the only thing she said out loud was, "You're late - your father has already eaten." My companion looked at me quizzically.
"Don't worry," I reassured her, "My dad always eats early." We followed my mother into the dining room and sat.
The meal went very smoothly. That evening I fell even more in love with my beautiful lady as she was able to charm even my resistant mother. She managed to thaw the icy front and get to the heart underneath. After that
I knew that no matter how hard she tried even my mom would not be able to find any reason to bar her from the house. My father joined us for dessert and did not say much. He smiled a lot and stared at my companion, but that was about it. After gorging myself on cake and coffee, we were ready to leave. As my mother got our coats and my lady was looking over some family photographs, my father pulled me aside and whispered a question into my ear. I answered him and he broke out into a huge smile. He was then much more enthusiastic towards my companion and even went so far as to shake her hand and invite her back to the house. That was too much for my mother, but even in her own subtle way she let it be known that she grudgingly gave me her blessing.
I was much lighter and happier as we left my childhood home. I could almost hear the angelic host singing from above. I held the car door open for my sweetie and once we were seated in the car she turned and asked, "So, what exactly did you say to your father that made him so happy?"
I looked at her simply and said, "I told him you were Catholic."
I registered her surprise and we drove away to the musical sound of her fair laughter.
Nisha Muire Stecyk is a freelance writer lives inn Montreal, Quebec. Married to a Ukrainian, she has learned to love Ukrainian culture and its traditions.
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Read also previous issue' articles:
Cows and Parachutists
Vietnam, Cobra-laced rice moonshine and those smiles
Gambling on the Slope
Manners Cost Nothing
A Roger By Any Other Name
Never Underestimate the Mark!
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