musings from the shadows series

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Nostalgia is a sticky/tricky subject. Nostalgic sentiments and fads are often problematic – commodified, sold, and weaponized by politicians and influencers promising the return to a utopia that never was. The theme is ripe for critique, and rightfully so in a moment fraught with fascist, authoritarian ideologues claiming to “make America great again.” Yet, I’ve noticed in recent years that to relish in the joy or gawk at the absurdity of an experienced past can operate as a potent remedy for moments of overwhelm and despair. I am interested in nostalgia as a reparative tool – a space for introspection and connection.

Svetlana Boym (1959-2015) reckons with nostalgia’s paradoxical nature by naming two distinct subtypes: restorative and reflective. Whereas restorative nostalgia “thinks of itself as truth and tradition,” reflective nostalgia calls truths into doubt. In her words (from “Nostalgia,” Atlas of Transformation):

It is up to us to take responsibility of our nostalgia and not let others “prefabricate” it for us. The prepackaged “usable past” may be of no use to us if we want to cocreate our future.

Memory began to interest me when Grandma Veronica lost her mind. She suffered a stroke in the late ‘90s, causing dementia that progressed steadily until she died in 2008, my sophomore year in high school.

I remember sitting on her cabernet-colored carpet in my elementary years, disassembling, then reassembling matryoshkas (or “babushka dolls”) in the glow of Grandpa’s chunky flatscreen, which stood floor-to-ceiling like a monolith in the living room. (Grandma had a collection of stuffed gorillas posed on desert trees behind their leather couch, so the scene was giving 2001: A Space Odyssey.) Through the chatter of cartoons, nature docs, old war movies, and cumbersome commercial breaks, Grandma would babble in a blend of Russian, German, and English. Most of all, she cherished English profanities. Or maybe she was equally crass in the tongues I don’t speak – I do recall an occasional “scheiße!” Mostly, she communicated in vocal stims and emotion, erupting into fits of laughter, anger, song, exasperation, and anguish.

Rat-a-tatta-tatta-tatta-rrrat-a-SHIT-AH!

I recognized very young that I’d never learn Veronica’s stories firsthand, grasping at a loss that’d become tangible much later, with age. Her parents had owned a prominent estate on the Black Sea (USSR) before German soldiers took it as a brothel in 1945. Her father, a diplomat to China, died in a warplane and her mother was killed by firing squad. As a teen, Veronica lived with a Nazi general in West Germany per an “arrangement” made by my great grandfather to keep her safe. Which man was a double agent? I wish I knew all the details. She then married an American soldier – her first husband – in the late ‘40s or early ‘50s. She met Grandpa Jim in the ‘60s.

Veronica had several documents. When she died, we joked that she was 81, 79, or 72! She was probably born in 1928.

Cross-legged between the couch and the TV, I imagined myself to be the smallest matryoshka: the youngest generation in a line of Slavs I never knew. I’m 33 now. I’ve become the largest matryoshka: embellished by intricate brushwork while my ancestors lose detail, fading to obscurity. Their stories and traumas nest somewhere within me, vaguely, surely, if I search with a keen eye.

I wake early to the sound of a familiar, bothersome racket. Crinkle. Crunch.

“She wants breakfast,” my partner mumbles into his pillow.

“Damn it. Where did she even find a plastic bag?” Crunch... Crinkle. Crunch- crunch-crunch. “Alright! I’m getting up, babies.” A happy scream resonates through the apartment as a second blurry beast launches from between the covers in a beeline for the kitchen. He nearly lands the distance in a single leap. Menace.

Cat people get it. I can usually navigate to the pantry, to the bowls, to the pantry, and back into bed without disrupting my sleep too much. (And to be fair, my partner is almost always the feeder.) But today I return to bed restless. After some ambiguous matter of minutes, I give up on keeping my eyes closed. The room has become disappointingly bright. I notice an illuminated form on the closet door and squint it into focus.

Oh! A serpent!

I reach for my glasses to gaze for a moment in awe. My rational self then scans the room to decipher what I’m looking at. I see: my bedroom curtain has offered a precise, curvilinear stencil for the sun to play with this morning. With a slight shift of the drape, my dazzling visitor opens their mouth.

What do they wish to tell me?

I reach for my phone. In a cursory search, I’m reminded that snakes represent myriad possibilities, from benevolent Nāgas – deities of the watery underworld in Buddhist, Hindu, and Jainist traditions – to Eve’s malicious seductor, conceiving sin in the Judeo-Christian origin story. Ancients of Lower Egypt believed cobras to be the goddess Wadjet, signaling sovereignty and divine authority, while the Grecian healer god, Asklepios (son of Apollo, the god of light), bore the snake emblem we still use in medical settings today – an indicator of rejuvenation. Several Native American cultures view snakes as dualistic, symbolizing rebirth or transformation and death or misfortune. And in Hollywood, filmmakers use snakes to heighten anxiety, assuming they access our primal fears, associating them with infestation or a loss of control.

Ha! As auspicious as ill-omened.

I nod off and my phone hits the floor.