I lived with my "aunt," an old
Russian lady near Downsview Air Force Base, a blasted suburb where the
shops all closed on Saturday for Sabbath and the black-hatted Hasids
marked the days by walking from one end to the other on their way to
temple.
The old Russian lady took me out for walks in a big black baby buggy the
size of a bathtub. She tucked me in tight so that my wings were pinned
beneath me. But when we were at home, in her little apartment with the
wind-up Sputnik that played "The Internationale," she would let my wings
out and light the candles and watch me wobble around the room, my wings
flapping, her chin in her hands, her eyes bright. She made me mashed up
cabbage and seed and beef, and bottles of dilute juice. For dessert, we
had hard candies, and I'd toddle around with my toys, drooling sugar
syrup while the old Russian lady watched.
By the time I was four, the feathers had all fallen out, and I was
supposed to go to school, I knew that. "Auntie" had explained to me that
the kids that I saw passing by were on their way to school, and that I'd
go some day and learn, too.
She didn't speak much English, so I grew up speaking a creole of
Russian, Ukrainian, Polish and English, and I used my words to ask her,
with more and more insistence, when I'd get to go to class.
I couldn't read or write, and neither could she.
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