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video;
City, if I may have your attention, please.
[Chekov is seated at a table (the kitchen table in the house he shares with Howl, Sophie, Tessa, and Peter, to be precise) with a serious expression on his face. For the purpose of this post, he is annunciating very carefully.]
I have noticed, in both this time and my own, that my homeland is not well understood or appreciated by those who are not familiar with the Russian Federation. I am proud of my country, as I think that some have noticed. Sometimes, when I am joking, I say things about Russia that are not entirely true. Today, I’m not joking. I am serious now when I say that there is no place in the known galaxy that is better than Russia.
You cannot argue that it is a beautiful country, or that it is unique in its diversity, or that it has made great contributions to humankind and, I think, all sentient life. It is a cultured land, famous for its literature—Pushkin, Gorky, Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, Gogol!—architecture, music, technological excellence and so on infinitely. Who is not moved by Prokofiev’s compositions? Russia also produced great scientific minds: Gamow, the discoverer of microwave background radiation in a night sky that he could not yet reach, who proved the truth of the universe’s origins; Tsiolkovsky, who fathered theoretical astronautics; Lobachevsky the developer of non-Euclidean geometry. Not to forget Chertovsky, Popov, Korolyov, Prokhorov and Basov, Artsimovich, Zhukovsky—
[His discourse, growing more enthusiastic by the moment and accompanied by increasingly frantic hand gestures, is cut short by the unfortunate need to breathe. The boy downs a small cup of medovukha (it’s amazing how much traditional Russian food and drink Chekov has managed to create this weekend, considering his adamant refusal to do anything of the like on most days) and, perhaps to the chagrin of anyone who is watching, continues as if he never paused.]
And the achievements in space! It was Russian satellite Sputnik I that was first launched and Yury Gagarin who was the first human to enter space. The first spacewalk was made by Leonov. The first exploratory space rover and the first space station and the first space tours were all Russian. The stars are in our blood—metaphorically, not literally, since atoms from stars are in everyone’s blood…
[And Chekov has lost his train of thought. He picks it up elsewhere.]
And I do not boast when I say that my home has produced a strong people. The Russian people survived the many revolutions, attacks, and wars—Napoleon’s march on Russia, the Massacre at Kishivev, the slaughter of brave peasants at the Winter Palace, the harsh rules of tyrants, deadly crime syndicates and lords of cyber-crime who trace and kill those who might fight them. We do nothing halfway, face death bravely, avoid death when it is the clever thing to do, recover from whatever blows may be dealt, and, if our proverbs and sayings appear fatalistic and sad to others, it is only because they do not understand the humor that gives Russia life.
The customs—the customs of home are strange, I think, to many, but you have not had tea until you have taken it the Russian way, and no other country knows how to drink, because drinking is more in the activities that surround it than the drink itself.
Humor—I have said this, but it is worth repeating—is a way of life, and you will find nowhere else with such serious joking and so much joking about that which is serious. In Russia, too, there is a politeness expected of everyone and generosity like I seldom see. Tell a Russian that you admire something that he has and he will give it to you as a gift; argue with a Russian and he will disagree with you so graciously that you will never know there was disagreement. There is nothing worse than rudeness except, maybe, refusing to pay the debts of friends or leaving a guest standing.
[Another pause. Chekov has eased into a more reflective mood.]
I admit that there are bad Russians. The crime lords are a nuisance and I hated Tikhonov—he was at Starfleet Academy when I attended—very deeply. I am no Tikhonov, but I am not always a good Russian. The country, though, has no rivals, and I am glad to belong to it.
[On that solemn note:]
Thank you for your time.
[COMMENTS]
[Chekov is seated at a table (the kitchen table in the house he shares with Howl, Sophie, Tessa, and Peter, to be precise) with a serious expression on his face. For the purpose of this post, he is annunciating very carefully.]
I have noticed, in both this time and my own, that my homeland is not well understood or appreciated by those who are not familiar with the Russian Federation. I am proud of my country, as I think that some have noticed. Sometimes, when I am joking, I say things about Russia that are not entirely true. Today, I’m not joking. I am serious now when I say that there is no place in the known galaxy that is better than Russia.
You cannot argue that it is a beautiful country, or that it is unique in its diversity, or that it has made great contributions to humankind and, I think, all sentient life. It is a cultured land, famous for its literature—Pushkin, Gorky, Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, Gogol!—architecture, music, technological excellence and so on infinitely. Who is not moved by Prokofiev’s compositions? Russia also produced great scientific minds: Gamow, the discoverer of microwave background radiation in a night sky that he could not yet reach, who proved the truth of the universe’s origins; Tsiolkovsky, who fathered theoretical astronautics; Lobachevsky the developer of non-Euclidean geometry. Not to forget Chertovsky, Popov, Korolyov, Prokhorov and Basov, Artsimovich, Zhukovsky—
[His discourse, growing more enthusiastic by the moment and accompanied by increasingly frantic hand gestures, is cut short by the unfortunate need to breathe. The boy downs a small cup of medovukha (it’s amazing how much traditional Russian food and drink Chekov has managed to create this weekend, considering his adamant refusal to do anything of the like on most days) and, perhaps to the chagrin of anyone who is watching, continues as if he never paused.]
And the achievements in space! It was Russian satellite Sputnik I that was first launched and Yury Gagarin who was the first human to enter space. The first spacewalk was made by Leonov. The first exploratory space rover and the first space station and the first space tours were all Russian. The stars are in our blood—metaphorically, not literally, since atoms from stars are in everyone’s blood…
[And Chekov has lost his train of thought. He picks it up elsewhere.]
And I do not boast when I say that my home has produced a strong people. The Russian people survived the many revolutions, attacks, and wars—Napoleon’s march on Russia, the Massacre at Kishivev, the slaughter of brave peasants at the Winter Palace, the harsh rules of tyrants, deadly crime syndicates and lords of cyber-crime who trace and kill those who might fight them. We do nothing halfway, face death bravely, avoid death when it is the clever thing to do, recover from whatever blows may be dealt, and, if our proverbs and sayings appear fatalistic and sad to others, it is only because they do not understand the humor that gives Russia life.
The customs—the customs of home are strange, I think, to many, but you have not had tea until you have taken it the Russian way, and no other country knows how to drink, because drinking is more in the activities that surround it than the drink itself.
Humor—I have said this, but it is worth repeating—is a way of life, and you will find nowhere else with such serious joking and so much joking about that which is serious. In Russia, too, there is a politeness expected of everyone and generosity like I seldom see. Tell a Russian that you admire something that he has and he will give it to you as a gift; argue with a Russian and he will disagree with you so graciously that you will never know there was disagreement. There is nothing worse than rudeness except, maybe, refusing to pay the debts of friends or leaving a guest standing.
[Another pause. Chekov has eased into a more reflective mood.]
I admit that there are bad Russians. The crime lords are a nuisance and I hated Tikhonov—he was at Starfleet Academy when I attended—very deeply. I am no Tikhonov, but I am not always a good Russian. The country, though, has no rivals, and I am glad to belong to it.
[On that solemn note:]
Thank you for your time.
[COMMENTS]