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Matryoshka (I See My Old Age in the Faces of Three Women Living in Chernobyl's Exclusion Zone)

Matryoshka (I See My Old Age in the Faces of Three Women Living in Chernobyl's Exclusion Zone) M ATRYOSHK A (I SEE MY OLD AGE IN THE FACES OF THREE WOMEN LIVING IN CHERNOBYL’S EXCLUSION ZONE) I love my native lands and I love my graves. —Hanna Zavorotnya, The Babushkas of Chernobyl Babushka No. 1 When you unfurl your head scarf, I half expect dupa -length hair; instead, you wear it thinly-cropped, the grey cut close to the flesh. I suppose it’s easier this way, to sever the reminders that youth has passed, that our time has come. At 31, I return to my hair the kosa my grandmother taught me to plait, that symbol of maidenhood I am too stubborn to forsake. Babushka No. 2 Your son died at 32, and you buried him inside the Exclusion Zone. You announce the memory of your son’s death with a brashness I learned during my childhood afternoons spent playing cards and sipping tea, sucking caramels and drying clothes 104 3 with Titka Rita, who reminded me not to whistle because It makes the angels cry. Four months shy of 32, I have no sons, a choice I made to spare them —and me— the questions, the strangeness, the explanations as to why their father can’t understand. Once, http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Matryoshka (I See My Old Age in the Faces of Three Women Living in Chernobyl's Exclusion Zone)

Yurcaba, Nicole
Appalachian Review , Volume 48 (1) – Jul 3, 2020
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

M ATRYOSHK A (I SEE MY OLD AGE IN THE FACES OF THREE WOMEN LIVING IN CHERNOBYL’S EXCLUSION ZONE) I love my native lands and I love my graves. —Hanna Zavorotnya, The Babushkas of Chernobyl Babushka No. 1 When you unfurl your head scarf, I half expect dupa -length hair; instead, you wear it thinly-cropped, the grey cut close to the flesh. I suppose it’s easier this way, to sever the reminders that youth has passed, that our time has come. At 31, I return to my hair the kosa my grandmother taught me to plait, that symbol of maidenhood I am too stubborn to forsake. Babushka No. 2 Your son died at 32, and you buried him inside the Exclusion Zone. You announce the memory of your son’s death with a brashness I learned during my childhood afternoons spent playing cards and sipping tea, sucking caramels and drying clothes 104 3 with Titka Rita, who reminded me not to whistle because It makes the angels cry. Four months shy of 32, I have no sons, a choice I made to spare them —and me— the questions, the strangeness, the explanations as to why their father can’t understand. Once,

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jul 3, 2020

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