"Chocolate Box"
"Mother-son bonding time" is what my mum refers to every Sunday morning at the neighborhood Starbucks. Sundays are always the same, and this one is no exception. My mother and I enjoy our favorite wintertime beverages, a Chai Latte and a Caramel Frappuchino, as we sit on the couch together.
How are we going to celebrate Dad's golden jubilee? Mom doesn't expect an answer when she poses a question regarding future plans; she already has an idea in mind. My mum established a family tradition many years ago of making gifts personal: poetry, songs, plays. When we first started, I didn't understand why we were spending so much time on this when we could just buy a gift card at the mall. When I was twelve, I began to see the world in a different light. My parents made a poster for my birthday using Photoshop after spending hours on it. I had become the fifth Beatles member to cross Abbey Road with long hair, sideburns, and a skinny suit. When I get up in the morning, this poster is the first thing I see, and it brightens my day. As a result, I've been able to start working on the next gift item without much encouragement. In fact, I look forward to these moments, when my parents find their inner children and the trifling concerns of life fade away. To prepare for a scene, my father, both metaphorically and practically, abandons his professional attire and correct etiquette, and instead wears a red wig and high-heeled shoes. A harmonica and the jitterbug are all that my mum can muster to join in on the fun with my sister and myself. The times when there are no children or grownups in my family are the most enjoyable for me.
Mum asks if we might throw Dad a party and make him a movie, while she uses her straw to sift through the last of her cup. As long as you can think of a movie you like, we'll parody it. " My favorite movie, Forrest Gump, is a great example of the "life is like a box of chocolates" notion in action. She beams. It's fine, but only if you're Forrest."
Upon our return home, my mother takes down a box covered in dust and scribbled with haphazardly written russian letters. Over her shoulder, I watch her empty the contents over the living room floor: my father's life narrative in color. It only takes minutes for me to become utterly engrossed in the images I had never seen before. At first glance, it appears that the bearded adolescent and his companions are having a good time. My shirt never goes untucked, so I'm wondering if he's the same clean-shaven man who helped discover the theory that all right angles are congruent. As I go through a few photos of my father and his buddies playing guitars over a campfire in the woods, I can't help but be amazed. Because the Soviet leadership didn't like these tunes, they were forced to hide out in the woods. Why does my father push me and my sister to ask probing questions about the world around us, read news from all sides of the political spectrum and watch controversial movies? Because he was unable to sing or say anything as a child. "Forest dude" immediately came to me when I saw a photo of my dad in the forest.
Each image tells a tale in and of itself, and together they form a picture of my father's past that I had never seen before. Then there are the documentaries about Russian leaders from the 20th century that I'm looking forward to watching. Forest man must have some "great" Communist leaders in his life, much like Kennedy and Nixon were in Forrest gump's, in order to really parody Forrest gump. The most fun we had making the video was coming up with crazy theories about how my dad met Communist leaders. The thought of my father browbeating Gorbachev into demolishing the Berlin Wall makes my stomach hurt with laughter.
At the same time as gaining an understanding of Russian history, I also learn a little more about myself: My father was born in exile, and his uncle died in Stalin's concentration camp for making fun of the Communist Party. That someone may die for making a joke when breaking into a safe would merely land you in prison for several years is hard to believe. However, I only worry about the reaction of the audience when I'm joking about Lenin and Stalin in my film.
It's the day of the party, and my instincts scream, "run, Alex! run!" as I survey the nervous guests. My nervousness increases when the lights decrease. In the same way that I'm watching the television, I'm also watching the audience. In response to the raucous laughter and table slapping, my breath becomes more steady and my fingers cease trembling. I hear the long-awaited ovation twenty-five minutes later. My gaze shifts from table to table, but one face stands out in a sea of smiles. A look of bewilderment on my father's face shows how much he has been taken in by this. After all these weeks, I hadn't given any thought to my father's reaction. I can see a tear escaping from the corner of his eye, despite his best efforts. The first time I've ever seen my dad cry, it's because of me.
There are a lot of surprises in life. Some are scrumptious, while others are a little too bitter for you. It's the ones that seem like any other chocolate, but when you bite into one, you're hit with a flavor you weren't expecting.
