shalinialisha/ai-for-all · Datasets at Hugging Face

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We saw the Novagrodsky Convent Museum and the brilliant, saucy
golden onion steeples that shock me back from the feeling this is
Manhattan. We went to see the University and of course many
plaques for many heroes, but I never saw one that moved me as
much as the tough old lady coming in on Aeroflot. And the Bolshoi
Ballet Theatre. It was rainy and grey and overcast — a New York
December day — and very imposing in the way the Grand
Concourse at 161st Street in the Bronx can be imposing in the
middle of December, or Columbus Circle. The golden onion steeples
on some older buildings are beautiful and they glisten all the time,
even in this weather, which makes them look like joyful promises on
the landscape, or fairy palaces, and the lovely colors of greens,
whites, yellows and oranges decorating and outlining windows

make a wonderfully colorful accent in the greyness. I hope that I get
a chance to see the Pushkin Museum.
I was interviewed by a sweetly astute, motherly woman who was
one of the members of the Union of Soviet Writers. She was doing a
study of “Negro policy,” as she said, and of course she was very
interested in women in the States. We talked for a good two hours
and one of the things I told her was about the old woman on the
plane with the medals, and I asked her if she had any idea what
they were. She said the woman was probably an older farm worker
who had been awarded and named a “Hero of the Republic.” Those
were mostly given to people who worked very hard, she said. It was
interesting because earlier, at lunch, I had seen a side of Helen, my
interpreter, that surprised me. She was quite out of sorts with one of
the waitresses who did not wait on her quickly enough, and it does
take a long time to get waited on. Helen made a remark that the
workers rule the country, and her manner and response to that
seemed to be one of disgust, or at least rather put-off. I think Helen
felt that she was being discriminated against, or that she was at a
disadvantage, because she was an “intellectual,” a translator as well
as an interpreter. Which struck me as an odd kind of snobbishness
because Helen worked at least as hard, if not harder, than any
waitress, running after me and living my life as well as hers.
Because always, she stuck to me like white on rice.
We were at the University and our guide was talking to us, in
English, about the buildings, which had been built during Stalin’s
time. Material had been brought down from the Ukraine to sink into
the earth to build such buildings because Moscow, unlike New York,
is not built upon bedrock. This strikes me as strange, that this city of
oversize, imposing stone buildings should not be grounded on
bedrock. It’s like it remains standing on human will. While we were
standing in front of the reflecting pool having this discussion, a little
tow-headed boy sidled up to me with a completely international air,
all of ten years old, stood in front of me and with a furtive sideways
gesture, flipped his hand open. In the center of his little palm was a
button-pin of a red star with a soldier in the middle of it. I was
completely taken aback because I did not know what the kid wanted

and I asked Helen who brushed the child off and shooed him away
so quickly I didn’t have a chance to stop her. Then she told me that
he wanted to trade for American buttons. That little kid had stood
off to the side and watched all of these strange Black people, and he
had managed to peg me as an American because, of course,
Americans are the only ones who go around wearing lots and lots of
buttons, and he had wanted to trade his red star button. I was
touched by the child, and also because I couldn’t help but think that
it was Sunday and he was probably hitting all the tourist spots. I’m
sure his parents did not know where he was, and I really wondered
what his mother would do if she knew.
The woman from the Writers’ Union who was doing her book on
Negro policy was, I’d say, a little older than I was, probably in her
early fifties, and her husband had been killed in the war. She had no
children. She offered these facts about herself as soon as we sat
down, talking openly about her life, as everybody seemingly does
here. I say seemingly because it only goes so far. And she, like my
guide and most women here, both young and old, seem to mourn
the lack of men. At the same time they appear to have shaken off
many of the traditional role-playing devices vis-a-vis men. Almost
everyone I’ve met has lost someone in what they call the “Great
Patriotic War,” which is our Second World War.
I was interviewed by Oleg this evening, one of the officials of the
Union of Soviet Writers, the people who had invited me to Russia
and who were footing the bill. In my interview with him I learned
the hotel that we’re staying in was originally a youth hostel and
Oleg apologized because it was not as “civilized,” so he said, as
other Moscow hotels. I came across this term civilized before, and I
wondered whether it was a term used around Americans or whether
it meant up to American standards. Increasingly I get a feeling that
American standards are sort of an unspoken norm, and that whether
one resists them, or whether one adopts them, they are there to be
reckoned with. This is rather disappointing. But coming back to the
hotel, I notice that the fixtures here are a little shabby, but they do
work, and the studio beds are a bit adolescent in size, but they are
comfortable. For a youth hostel it’s better than I would ever hope

for. Of course, I can’t help but wonder why the African-Asian
Conference people should be housed in a youth hostel, particularly
an “uncivilized” one, but I don’t imagine that I’ll ever get an answer
to that. All hotel rooms cost the same in the Soviet Union. Utilities,
from my conversation with Helen while we were riding the Metro
down to send a cable, utilities are very inexpensive. The gas to cook
with costs sixteen kopecs a month which is less than one ruble
(about $3.00) and the most electricity Helen says that she uses,
when she’s translating all day long in winter, costs three rubles a
month. That is very expensive, she says. The two-room apartment
which she and her mother share costs eight rubles a month.
Oleg does not speak English, or does not converse in English. Like

We saw the Novagrodsky Convent Museum and the brilliant, saucy

golden onion steeples that shock me back from the feeling this is

Manhattan. We went to see the University and of course many

plaques for many heroes, but I never saw one that moved me as

much as the tough old lady coming in on Aeroflot. And the Bolshoi

Ballet Theatre. It was rainy and grey and overcast — a New York

December day — and very imposing in the way the Grand

Concourse at 161st Street in the Bronx can be imposing in the

middle of December, or Columbus Circle. The golden onion steeples

on some older buildings are beautiful and they glisten all the time,

even in this weather, which makes them look like joyful promises on

the landscape, or fairy palaces, and the lovely colors of greens,

whites, yellows and oranges decorating and outlining windows

make a wonderfully colorful accent in the greyness. I hope that I get

a chance to see the Pushkin Museum.

I was interviewed by a sweetly astute, motherly woman who was

one of the members of the Union of Soviet Writers. She was doing a

study of “Negro policy,” as she said, and of course she was very

interested in women in the States. We talked for a good two hours

and one of the things I told her was about the old woman on the

plane with the medals, and I asked her if she had any idea what

they were. She said the woman was probably an older farm worker

who had been awarded and named a “Hero of the Republic.” Those

were mostly given to people who worked very hard, she said. It was

interesting because earlier, at lunch, I had seen a side of Helen, my

interpreter, that surprised me. She was quite out of sorts with one of

the waitresses who did not wait on her quickly enough, and it does

take a long time to get waited on. Helen made a remark that the

workers rule the country, and her manner and response to that

seemed to be one of disgust, or at least rather put-off. I think Helen

felt that she was being discriminated against, or that she was at a

disadvantage, because she was an “intellectual,” a translator as well

as an interpreter. Which struck me as an odd kind of snobbishness

because Helen worked at least as hard, if not harder, than any

waitress, running after me and living my life as well as hers.

Because always, she stuck to me like white on rice.

We were at the University and our guide was talking to us, in

English, about the buildings, which had been built during Stalin’s

time. Material had been brought down from the Ukraine to sink into

the earth to build such buildings because Moscow, unlike New York,

is not built upon bedrock. This strikes me as strange, that this city of

oversize, imposing stone buildings should not be grounded on

bedrock. It’s like it remains standing on human will. While we were

standing in front of the reflecting pool having this discussion, a little

tow-headed boy sidled up to me with a completely international air,

all of ten years old, stood in front of me and with a furtive sideways

gesture, flipped his hand open. In the center of his little palm was a

button-pin of a red star with a soldier in the middle of it. I was

completely taken aback because I did not know what the kid wanted

and I asked Helen who brushed the child off and shooed him away

so quickly I didn’t have a chance to stop her. Then she told me that

he wanted to trade for American buttons. That little kid had stood

off to the side and watched all of these strange Black people, and he

had managed to peg me as an American because, of course,

Americans are the only ones who go around wearing lots and lots of

buttons, and he had wanted to trade his red star button. I was

touched by the child, and also because I couldn’t help but think that

it was Sunday and he was probably hitting all the tourist spots. I’m

sure his parents did not know where he was, and I really wondered

what his mother would do if she knew.

The woman from the Writers’ Union who was doing her book on

Negro policy was, I’d say, a little older than I was, probably in her

early fifties, and her husband had been killed in the war. She had no

children. She offered these facts about herself as soon as we sat

down, talking openly about her life, as everybody seemingly does

here. I say seemingly because it only goes so far. And she, like my

guide and most women here, both young and old, seem to mourn

the lack of men. At the same time they appear to have shaken off

many of the traditional role-playing devices vis-a-vis men. Almost

everyone I’ve met has lost someone in what they call the “Great

Patriotic War,” which is our Second World War.

I was interviewed by Oleg this evening, one of the officials of the

Union of Soviet Writers, the people who had invited me to Russia

and who were footing the bill. In my interview with him I learned

the hotel that we’re staying in was originally a youth hostel and

Oleg apologized because it was not as “civilized,” so he said, as

other Moscow hotels. I came across this term civilized before, and I

wondered whether it was a term used around Americans or whether

it meant up to American standards. Increasingly I get a feeling that

American standards are sort of an unspoken norm, and that whether

one resists them, or whether one adopts them, they are there to be

reckoned with. This is rather disappointing. But coming back to the

hotel, I notice that the fixtures here are a little shabby, but they do

work, and the studio beds are a bit adolescent in size, but they are

comfortable. For a youth hostel it’s better than I would ever hope

for. Of course, I can’t help but wonder why the African-Asian

Conference people should be housed in a youth hostel, particularly

an “uncivilized” one, but I don’t imagine that I’ll ever get an answer

to that. All hotel rooms cost the same in the Soviet Union. Utilities,

from my conversation with Helen while we were riding the Metro

down to send a cable, utilities are very inexpensive. The gas to cook

with costs sixteen kopecs a month which is less than one ruble

(about $3.00) and the most electricity Helen says that she uses,

when she’s translating all day long in winter, costs three rubles a

month. That is very expensive, she says. The two-room apartment

which she and her mother share costs eight rubles a month.

Oleg does not speak English, or does not converse in English. Like