{me, Germany ca. 1992. Don’t judge the outfit, I was still recovering from an 80s childhood.}
The other day I was at our local thrift store and I came across a black, vintage looking onesie that gave me a jolt the moment I saw it. On its front, a happy, carefree Mickey Mouse looked out, just daring me to resist the memories, to put the garment back on its rack and to walk away. But I could not, so home with me the onesie came, ready to be worn by my unsuspecting six-month-old, who will never know of night-time immigrations, of family left behind, of forbidden fruit, or of five Mark coins pressed into sweaty first-grader palms.
You might ask yourself what Mickey Mouse and immigration have in common, or, more likely, why I am writing about it here. I’ve been thinking long and hard about the purpose of this blog and of my writings and I’ve decided that I’d like to share a little more than just bike-related posts. So every now and then, if you’ll allow me, I’d like foray into other topics, such as today’s excursion back to 1989.
1989 was the last year my family lived in Romania. I had no idea that we would soon be leaving, I was seven years old and no one told me these things. If you’re familiar with your Eastern European history, then you know that Romania was ruled by a Communist dictator named Ceausescu back then and that he and his wife were shot on Christmas Day. Their murder was televised; I know, because I remember it. I remember their corpses, the blood, and the confusion.
