Why can't we all just get along? There is a hint of naiveté in that question, but it appears that collectively as a country we are going out of our way to antagonize our allies. Who would have thought the actions of America's political leaders could so thoroughly lower our status as a great nation in the eyes of much of the world (see France, Germany, et. al.). Perhaps if our president had left the security of his home more often as a young man to experience other cultures, we wouldn't be in this predicament. Let me tell you about one experience I had in the old Russia that serves as an example of why we need to keep an open mind internationally. The year is 1976. The Berlin Wall is more than a dozen years from tumbling down. To Americans, Russia is still considered a big, bad bear. Insert a dozen amateur basketball players from small Midwest colleges who have been invited to play in a tournament there, celebrating a Russian hero, their first man in space. I was last man to get into those games, but I was still content because my real job during the week was as reporter and logistics coordinator. While my teammates prepped for the games by getting rubdowns and ankles taped, I had the incredible fortune of dealing directly with the Russian people: bus drivers, tournament officials, scorekeepers, referees, administrators. I was experiencing Russia first hand; a Russia most Americans had firmly labeled "enemy." And then there was Nick. I celebrated the 200th birthday of America by tracing the indelible steps of the "Great October Revolution," the 1917 uprising which virtually created the first Soviet state. It occurred in what is now called St. Petersburg, but was the original Leningrad when my teammates and I arrived in the dark of an early October morning in 1976. If our hosts had wanted to reveal only the rosy side of life in the Soviet Union, they failed. We witnessed hardship and repression instead. At an expansive military cemetery our spirits were distressed by the ubiquitous somber, brown and gray clothing and the sameness of the city's dispiriting architecture. Observations of the harsh realities of Soviet personal life were everywhere. In order to claim "zero" unemployment, some people were required to do meaningless jobs, like sweeping streets all day with a homemade broom made of tree branches. In a poorly lit alley outside our hotel, a diminutive sad-looking man begged me to trade him the blue jeans I was wearing for several trinkets he displayed in a greasy, wooden cigar box. I heeded the warning to avoid such offers. Then we met Nick, our guide for our week in the USSR. Nick would be the only native who understood all our spoken English. He became an invaluable aide to us foreigners in bridging the very wide cultural gap that existed. He met us that dark October morning wearing black polished shoes, a black overcoat and the familiar and practical black Russian fur hat. He was in his 20’s and short in stature by anyone's standards, a fact accentuated when a dozen tall Americans encircled him to hear his advice and interpretations.( … continued in my next submission)
