I wore a Claddagh ring at the time, but as my romantic entanglements became nebulous, I found its symbology too literal and revealing. When your heart is captured, you turn the ring around. Wearing the heart facing outward means you’re available. I loved the idea of Claddagh rings the Irish heart-hands-crown ring that signified relationship status. I wore it as a wedding ring, and when people remarked on it, especially people who were boys, I always said, “Yes, I’m married to Batman.” But on the many days while I stood in line for bread in stores with shelves that might be empty, I would fantasize about what might have been if I hadn’t been caught. Sometimes, my guilt caused me to imagine I was being followed as I walked to school. It was years before I could face going back to that store.
My friend abandoned me, and I was detained until my parents were summoned.Įach time I put on the parka after that, my shame felt fresh, yet I had no choice but to keep wearing it for as long as it fit, even after I became a teenager.
Of course, in the warmer weather my bulky coat was an easy giveaway, and the store clerk quickly recognized what I was up to. We pictured ourselves distributing our bounty to friends and becoming neighborhood heroes. The plan was for me to fill its many pockets with ice creams but only pay for one or two. My friend waited on his bike - our getaway vehicle - while I went in wearing my giant parka. We would practice in our neighborhood grocery store. That spring, after watching one too many American Westerns, a friend and I decided to become bank robbers. I loved that coat, not just because it was warm and made me feel like a cross between a military hero and a gangster but because I understood that my parents had used their good fortune to get something not for themselves but for me.
It was an extravagant expense, deep black with a bright orange lining and countless pockets, and many sizes too large so that I could wear it for years to come. They used those vouchers to buy me a parka. But a few select people, because of their positions in government or business or by some stroke of luck, had access to vouchers for special stores that carried high-quality foreign-made items.Ī contact of my father’s obtained some of those hard-to-get vouchers, which he sold to my parents for a high price. At that time, most stores only carried Soviet-made products, which tended to be utilitarian and drab. The city I loved was still called Leningrad, and Russia was still part of the Soviet Union. This story begins in the winter of 1983, when I was 8 years old.
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