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I remember how much I wished I was brave and had the nerve to just steal my parents' credit cards and run away from home and fly to Berlin. I remember how much I wished my parents were brave and would abruptly decide to take me there to see history happen. The entire 20th-century it sometimes seems, happened in Berlin.
We watched it on TV at dinner-time instead. And it felt oddly personal to me, but whether it was because of the Jewish daughter of scientists pen-pal I had in the USSR who never wrote back or because I had listened to the begging, desperate sound of David Bowie singing Heroes for possibly every single moment of adolescent anguish I could summon up (an emotional act, oddly, not dissimilar form my obsession with The Pogues -- I could have been someone / well so could anyone / you took my dreams from me when I first found you) I don't know.
I remember those were the beginning of the years where my parents hated me: for having a boyfriend, for leaving home, for fucking up the way college kids do. A little over a year later I was home from a university not prestigious enough to brag to their friends about and my mother was explaining to me that bisexual people were sluts and my father was accusing me of being a heroin addict because I slept for 27 hours after I'd been awake for over 72 to finish a school project.
Other things happened too, they threw a friend of mine out who came so as not to be alone on Thanksgiving because they thought he was gay. Later, they did the same with a boyfriend of mine (with whom I was not allowed to be in any room with, even with the door open, without my parents' presence) whom they decided must be gay because he was too thin, and that wasn't what they wanted for me. I wonder how often girls are raised to have no desires but those gifted to them by others; I wonder how often it works.
After all that, I tried never to go home again -- I took summer classes or stayed with friends as much as I could.
When the coup in Russia happened in August 1991, though, I was back in my parents' house and my father got up at 4am to yell at me for being so irresponsible as to still be up watching TV.
"There's a coup in Russia," I said. "They don't know who has the nuclear codes."
My father got up to watch TV with me then, and woke my mother in case we were all about to die, but he has still never apologized to me for anything in my entire life.
My parents don't hate me any more, perhaps because the world is less full of the things that scare them; I grew up, and they couldn't stop it -- stuff like that.
But when the Berlin Wall fell, when the world I grew up with fell apart, I had really wanted it to save me too.