My muse

Part 2

My mom always told me that all men want to marry Eastern European women (Ukrainians, Russians, Belarusians, Poles) because they’re more domestic, more well-groomed — because they have “traditional values.” Not like modern women in Europe or America — “all they care about is feminism and equal rights.” At the time, I used to listen and think, wow, she’s so wise. I didn’t even know what feminism was 😁 (but it was very cool word). And considering our town was full of billboards advertising international marriage agencies, her explanation actually sounded pretty logical to me.

When I turned 14, my aunt gave me a full-on “young wife course.” My task was to pluck a freshly slaughtered chicken, clean out the insides (without damaging a certain organ, because if you puncture it, the liquid spills and the meat turns bitter 🤓), and then burn off any remaining feathers over an open flame — so the skin would be perfectly clean. Spoiler alert - I did it.

In school, they told us that once we grew up, we’d get married and have kids. We had a subject called “home skills” (yes, all the way through our final year), where they taught us to cook, embroider, sew, knit. Meanwhile, the boys hammered nails and carved wood.

At university, every second male professor would tell us girls: “Sure, study the subject — but you won’t need it when you’re staying home with the kids.” It was infuriating, but at the same time, they didn't treat us so meticulously during the exams.

At work, one of the senior managers told me: “You should stop focusing on your career and find a husband already. Women are meant to be at home, raising kids and taking care of their man.”

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Of course, I didn’t agree with any of it. And with each new situation, my own opinion kept growing. My disagreement. My feminism. From “that’s what mom said”, “that’s how the system works”, to: “and who the fuck said so?” and “fuck off.” 😡

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And now here I am — back at the beginning. I’m marrying an American (and I didnt use that internatioanl marriage agancies to find him 😅). And, as if it’s all been cooked into me since childhood (served with mom’s borscht), I’m making compotes, pies, breakfasts, lunches and dinners for my fiancé. Meals I’ve never cooked for myself in my life. And I do it completely unconsciously. I only start to notice it halfway through — or when my fiancé walks in and says: “You know I can do this myself, right?” “You don’t have to.” Fucking post-Soviet upbringing in a patriarchal society… And honestly, it’s kind of funny — because I was never the “domestic one” in my family. I wasn’t known for being tidy, or loving to cook, or caring about cleaning. Quite the opposite. I was the one they’d say things like: “Who’s going to marry you if you don’t know how to do anything?” or “If you don’t learn how to fold your clothes, you’ll drown in your own mess when you get married. No man’s going to pick up your socks for you.” You know — that kind of stuff.

And now — here we are. I have a partner who picks up my socks if he wants to. He doesn’t expect me to cook. He doesn’t demand I clean. There are no expectations. Just love. Just choice.

And still, somehow, I keep becoming the "perfect" woman I was told I had to be — even when no one’s asking me to.

Oh, and by the way — my 15-year-old cousin still has the same “home skills” class in school: cooking and sewing. While the boys hammer nails and carve wood. 21st century, for fuck’s sake.