Russian Interference

Fear not: This essay hasn’t anything to do with the Robert Mueller investigation. It’s about an encounter I had last week in Van Cortlandt Park. Minding my own business, I was sitting on a bench that overlooks the El on nearby Broadway. The morning in question was on the breezy side but pleasant—ideal fall weather to be left alone with my thoughts and the super-loud subway horns repeatedly blowing in the distance. This is the norm when track workers are in the vicinity of Number 1 trains preparing to exit and enter the terminal at W242nd.

It being a weekday with schools in session, the park was rather empty. In other words, there were plenty of unoccupied benches from which to choose. So, when I spotted a tall, elderly man—not ancient by any means and walking with a spring in his step—heading my way, I prepared for the worst. He had a look on his face that told me he was preparing to sit for a spell—and right beside me. I understand the mind-set: A senior citizen feels compelled to sound off and needs an audience of at least one. And like it or not, I was that one—the chosen one—in this instance.

Now, here’s who gave me an earful: a Russian refugee suffering from diabetes who came to America fifteen years ago and settled in the neighborhood. Right off the bat, he wanted to know if I was a native born American and wondered if I had ever heard of the Soviet Union. The old fellow must have mistaken me for a Millennial or some such thing. I remember the USSR, all right, and the Cold War, too. I came of age with both prominent on the radar. My newfound friend waxed nostalgic about the nation of his birth and what he deemed its “moral code.” Gorbachev and Yeltsin, he said, were responsible for chaos—mostly—which is what made him a man without a country. As a footnote to his naming names, he conceded that Josef Stalin was something of a monster, but, come on, the guy also “built Russia.”

The rambling Russian was far from finished. He informed me that he was now an American patriot, despite finding great fault with our penchant for military adventures and haughty boasts of “exceptionalism.” On the other hand, the man thinks very highly of American domestic policies, although he wasn’t the least bit specific on this count. In the midst of his extended sermon—I didn’t get a chance to say much—he inquired if anything he had thus far said offended me. “No,” I answered, which was the truth. With respect to benign, affable ramblers, I don’t offend easily.

In retrospect, the most offensive thing the man probably said to me was that he voted for Donald Trump. His friends, he reported, thought he had taken leave of his senses. But this former denizen of the Soviet Union had attended a university in the old country—when all that good stuff was taken care of by the totalitarian nanny state—and made an intellectual argument for his vote. Since he didn’t have the greatest command of the English language, I can’t really say how he came to his decision to throw in with the Orange Man. The voluble Russian merely wanted to “make America great again” and “drain the swamp.” Don’t we all. One last thing, my park bench companion let a lot of saliva fly as he spoke. Fortunately, I was far enough away from these missiles of October. And just as quickly as he crashed my space, he departed. I was prepared to shake his hand, but I suppose it’s not in the Russian playbook.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)