Tell me one good thing about socialism

“Tell me one good thing about socialism!”

My friend George Hanson challenged me, and I was perplexed.  What could that one good thing be? That’s one question that is hard to answer for a fresh immigrant. I tried to fit in, temporarily developing amnesia in regard to my childhood memories - for a while, all you can see is the best of America and you start forgetting the good of your homeland.

“Tell me one good thing about socialism!” This question isn’t asked often and when it is asked, it comes from men proficient in politics, or world travelers. George was both. He lived in Iran, Australia, England, and Wales.

Shrugging my shoulders was my usual and only answer until now, but this time I proudly remembered, “Eureka! Here is one!”

“Is it vodka?”

George likes to tease me about vodka. “All Russians drink vodka.” I can’t argue with George, though I do not drink vodka, but Russians do. 

“I know! Cuba! Salsa!”

“Cuba?” Normally, it is hard to amuse George, but this time he was not sure he heard me right.

The question pulled a vivid picture out of my memory - the stage of my father’s Youth Cultural Center in Sverdlovsk with teenagers in their red-orange-yellow-and-green ruffled skirts and shirts with maracas and castanets in their hands. The guys looked so elegant (we didn’t use the word ‘sexy’) in their high-waisted tight trousers and Cuban hats. Our family traveled with that dance ensemble all over the country on different tours, and every time the Cuban music started – the crowd would get crazy. You absolutely can’t sit still when a Cuban dance is performed.

That was the answer - if not for the Soviet Union’s international relationship with Cuba, Russians would never get the Cuban beat imprinted in their genes; but with Castro, Soviets not only got the whitest Cuban sugar but also some warmth in their blood.

I appreciated my unusual heritage even more when I started learning jazz. Everette DeVan, a Kansas City celebrity and my jazz voice teacher, had a hard time teaching me to sing off the beat. Why sing off what is written? Back in music school, we were taught otherwise. I even called my music teacher in Russia to ask why she didn’t teach me play jazz. She laughed, “Lidochka, jazz was prohibited to teach.” No wonder, jazz was hard to grasp and even harder to deliver anything even remotely similar.

Everette was patient with my jazz stumbling, but every time we switched to bossa nova, he commented, “How come a Russian girl like you feels so confident when it comes to Latin?” 

“How? Cuba! Salsa! Remember?”

“Yes, but why?” How could I explain in a few words that for Soviets, Cuban music was one of the few foreign genres that was not simply allowed, but was promoted! Salsa was equal to ideology, but luckily for people it was fun and sexy.

“My friend asked me one day to name him one good thing about socialism.”

“And?”

“I told him, Cuba! Salsa!”

Everette laughed so hard that he began coughing.  “OK, girl! That makes sense! And I was wondering how someone from snowy Russia knew how to sing Latin and Bossa Nova…”

“Watch a Russian concert at least once. Every other song is bubbly and sexy as thirty years ago. Girls’ skirts are short, and men dancers are half-naked as if the concert is being broadcast from Cuba or Brazil. It is a swirl of hips, shoulders and waists. The voices might be not as superior, but nobody cares when stage is sprinkled with passion. Russian pop music is like a carnival, you will forget that this is cold snowy Russia.”

“OK, then. It is obviously in your genes.”