There was a time when I had no clue who or what was a Ukrainian. Seems my mom didn’t either. As kids living in the beautiful and warm island of St. Vincent and The Grenadines, my brother and I would usually get matching clothes from our mom who lived in beautiful and frigid Winnipeg. One day we got t-shirts.
My brother’s t-shirt said, ‘Kiss me, I am Ukrainian’ and mine read, ‘I am not Ukrainian but I’m nice too.’ We wore them proudly, like true Ukrainians, without a clue. Then I came to Canada and met real Ukrainians. I felt like a fool. Yes, they were nice. They made great food too but I didn’t kiss any. Or did I?
I remembered this some time ago and related it to my wife and then to my mom. “What were you thinking when you sent us those shirts, mom?” I asked. “I don’t know. I just grabbed them.” Yep, that’s my mom alright. At least she sent us stuff.
Footnote: To the people in the Ukraine, I know who you are now. Praying for you.