Them Rooskies

by michaelcahill

I Remember Contest Winner

I remember the "Missiles of October". Of course, we didn't have a catchy phrase to call it back then. Catchy phrases and sound bites hadn't occurred to anyone in October of 1962. Nor had political correctness or sensitive inoffensive language been invented to prevent ruffling the delicate feathers of, well, everybody. I wasn't ADHD with a side of sociopathic tendencies. I was a hyper kid that didn't pay attention and hung out with the wrong crowd. I talked too much. I disrupted the classroom. Disobedience became, if not a vocation, then, at least, an avocation.

The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics stood at odds with the United States of America in 1962. The formally inclined referred to it as the USSR versus the USA. We common folk were content with the Russians versus the Americans or ideologically as the Communists versus the free world, Commies or Rooskies worked just as well.

For a ten-year-old, it held little significance. I knew of it. I even had a working knowledge of Communism, no doubt skewed by the biased definitions fed to me by pro free-world instructors. But I didn't live in the world of fear that adults did. I recalled the laughable duck and cover remedies of the fifties as a protection against an atomic bomb. Those excursions outside the classroom only served as an extra recess from the tedium of boring instructors.

Seeing my family glued to the flickering black and white screen in the living room stopped me in my ten-year-old tracks. Fear and consternation had never been a component of television viewing before. I sat on the Davenport to watch. "Davenport" was what we called a couch or sofa back then. That's what Grandma called it, so we did too. I later learned that "Davenport" was the name of a company that made sofas back in the day. It seems that it once had the status of Kleenex or Xerox does in their particular fields of expertise.

The drama on screen matched any Saturday matinee at the Alhambra Theater. The mighty ships of the Americans stood behind an imaginary line drawn in the ocean, daring the Russians to cross it and reach Cuba. Talk about schoolyard bully action. But, here there would be more at stake than bragging rights. If the Russians didn't back down the world would be destroyed by a nuclear war in minutes. We watched the drama unfold, live on television, right in our living room. It mattered to me. My world expanded right there in that moment.

This constituted my second exposure to the real world. My first exposure had been the Kennedy-Nixon Presidential debates of 1960. I actually watched them and formed an opinion based on what they were saying. I admit, though, that Kennedy's good looks and charming manner played a significant part in winning my support.

Hey, I was eight-years old and not up on the issues of the day. Rose had kissed me on the way home from school that week and I was distracted. I had begun calling her Rosie! That is a serious step for an eight-year-old.

The Cuban missile crisis resolved itself when the Russians came up to the line, turned and went home. They backed down. The behind the scene's negotiations and the deals made would become known much later. None of that alters the reality of the situation or its effect on my life as a ten-year-old. The world became of interest to me and has remained so to this day.

I don't think events like that have the same effect on a five-year-old or a twenty-five-year-old. One's age and stage of development determines the effect of events on that individual. The eight-year-old watching the presidential debates didn't feel anything at stake in the outcome. I know that I wouldn't have felt anything personally at stake in the missile crisis either. The ten-year-old me had a completely different mentality. The way I thought then is the way I think now. I was already me. I only lacked the experiences that have happened to me since then.

Discovering danger in the world had a profound effect on me. Age ten is young to discover that. Some discover it much younger. Children born in the middle east, no doubt, are born into it. That is horrible to consider in its implications. The Kalahari Bushman don't even have a word for war in their vocabulary. They are considered primitive people. Of course, the sophisticates that have multiple definitions for war in their vocabulary are making the consideration.

The next profound life-shaping event in my life would occur on November 22, 1963 when I was soon to be twelve-years-old. It is interesting to note that all three events centered around John Fitzgerald Kennedy. I just realized that and have no idea of its significance.

The thoughts that triggered this piece may seem unrelated and maybe they are. But, since this is autobiographical, I will share them. The term "my country" has been standing out to me when I hear it lately. "These aliens are trying to sneak into my country". "I'm fighting for my country". "They are a threat to my country".

The question that keeps occurring to me is, "Why is it yours?" I realize how simplistic that sounds. Nonetheless, to reach down, scoop up a handful of dirt and declare, "This is mine", does not seem to have a basis in anything to me. I know that thinking leads to situations like the Missiles of October and countless others like it. Could there be something fundamentally wrong with believing that we have some right to claim ownership to parts of the earth?

Perhaps everyone should live and let live. Maybe we could all help each other out and when one of us is down, we could lend a helping hand. Oh… sorry… I'm getting ready to write a fantasy piece.

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Writing Prompt
Begin your non-fiction autobiographical story or poem with the words 'I remember...' Complete the sentence conveying a moment, an object, a feeling, etc. This does not have to be a profound memory, but should allow readers insight into your feelings, observations and/or thoughts. Use at least 100, but not more than 1,000 words. The count should be stated in your author notes.