New Directions

Volume 3 | Issue 1 Article 6

1-1-1976

"Soul Food" In Moscow: Visit with a "Brother"Charlene Porter

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Recommended CitationPorter, Charlene (1976) ""Soul Food" In Moscow: Visit with a "Brother"," New Directions: Vol. 3: Iss. 1, Article 6.Available at: http://dh.howard.edu/newdirections/vol3/iss1/6

INT[RNATIONAl

18 'Soul Food'InMoscow

Visit with a 'Brother'

By Charlene Porter

Russia, truthfully, was the last place onmy mind. Although it is in the news dailyand its pol icies affect United States' eco-nomic and political welfare, only once,while a student at Howard University, hadI seriously considered a visit there. Butwhen the travel brochure arrived for Mos-cow and Leningrad, the idea of farawayintrigue tugged at me until I could not re-sist. A short time later, I began to antici-pate and make plans for this adventure.

Once my place with the theater studygroup I belonged to was confirmed, I setabout gathering any available informationon the places I would be visiting. I wasespecially anxious to verify one story I'dheard about a group of American Blackswho emigrated to Moscow years agoand made it their home.

The story, I soon found out, was true.I had been able to get a copy of BlackMan in Red Russia, by the late journalist,Homer Smith, who was himself a part ofthis colony for 14 years. Now I hadnames, such as Frank Goode, who wasPaul Robeson's brother-in-law; agricul-tural specialist George Tynes; operasinger Coretta Arli- Titz; John Golden,whose granddaughter is now one of Rus-sia's star tennis players, among others-as well as a glint of what had attracted

these men and women to such a distantland. In Smith's words, the reason was:"To be free, to walk in dignity. For theseprecious privileges some men will goanywhere, sacrifice anything, in quest forthese rights. Immigrants have come fromallover the world to America. I yearnedto stand taller than I had ever stood, tobreathe total freedom in great exhilar=t-ing gulps, to avoid all the hurts tf:::'L wereincreasingly becoming the lot of men andwomen of color in the United States. Thesolution seemed simple to me: Russiawas the only place where I could go andescape color discrimination entirely.Moscow seemed the answer."

"Historically," as explained in thebook's introduction, "the Russians hadnever had contact with people of Africa.There was, it is true, a tiny enclave ofdark-skinned people long resident in theCaucasus, so-called Russian native Ne-groes. But few Russians had ever heardof them and not one in ten thousand hadseen them. When the first Negroes ofcontemporary times appeared in theSoviet in the late 1920s and early 1930sthey were a curiosity beyond compare.In a land always starved for EXOTICA (asthe Russian phrase has it) these pleas-ant, different-appearing, different-speak-ing people were a delightful sensation.The fact that they were the object ofdiscrimination and racial violence in

America only added to the piquancy oftheir presence in Russia. Negroes werenot the only minorities which had beenattracted to Russia in the early 1930s.There were radicals of many hues andlands. There were the oppressed of manytyrannies. There were refugees fromSpain and Communist Germans who hadescaped Hitler."

Eventually, a good friend helped megain an introduction to several of theexpatriates and their families. But, I wascautioned not to be naive. "While you arein Russia, do not do or say anything thatcould be misconstrued or embarrass-ing." My attitude, I was told, was muchtoo casual and not unlike that of othervisitors who had unwittingly been dupedby the Soviet secret pol ice agency, theKGB.

This advice, I admit, caused me prob-lems with the balance between objectiv-ity and sensibility: Did I really need tomaintain a sense of cloak and dagger forsuch a routine visit? In general, I waswarned not to be attracted to bids fromRussian youth for American jeans. Blackmarket dealings are an especially seriousoffense in Russia. An open gate to West-ern visitors, I was reminded, did notnecessarily imply an open mind.

Tucked on board the Soviet Union'sgovernment-owned commercial airline, 1

Porter: "Soul Food" In Moscow: Visit with a "Brother"

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\ \

Aeroflot, the stark difference between theplane's economy of space and design,with its narrow gray interior, and Ameri-can luxury lines proved a hint of what layin store. I began to carve time from myitinerary. Reaching the people whosetelephone numbers I had tucked awaywas a priority. With only a short stop inParis, the eight hour flight allowed ampletime for last-minute planning.

When foreign travellers arrive in Mos-cow, passports are collected immediately-a practice which is a bit disconcertingat first because explicit instructions arestated before leaving the home countrythat passports must be on one's personat all times.' However, the Soviet Intouristpersonnel who make all accommoda-tions for foreign visitors, soon assure youall is well during the 24 hours or so untilthe passport is returned. By now my"someone is watching you" syndromewas well on its way.

Consequently, I was reluctant to makeunauthorized travels around the city with-out my credentials. Although I was freeto come and go as I pleased, I decidedinstead to begin my calls the next day.When the time did come to call, my firsttwo efforts were disappointments: I couldget no answers. But with the third try, adeep and bl urry Russian hello greeted me.

George TynesThe Tynes Clan-Son Siava, daughter Emeliaand her two children, Nastai and Elizabeth.

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"Mr. Tynes," I said loudly and quickly,giving him my name and relaying greet-ings from mutual friends, "I am here forjust a few days and would like, if pos-sible, to visit with you for a while." "Yes,yes," he replied, and said he would behappy to meet me and would come to-morrow afternoon at five to my hotel, TheRossia. Could I, he wondered, come todinner with his family then. My excite-ment would have to be subdued untilthen, but in the meantime there was SLBasil's Cathedral, where many weddingparties go to have their pictures taken,just a few blocks from the hotel, theKremlin, Lenin's tomb and the Circus.That morning our tour guide had pointedout Pushkin Square and the Push kin Mu-seum of Fine Arts - named in honor ofAleksandr Pushkin, a Black man wholived and wrote in Moscow during thefirst part of the 1800s. Catherine Push kin,his great-granddaughter, lives in a smalltown not far from Moscow, while through-out Russia, Push kin remains one of thegreatest men of literary history. His,"revolutionary poems and biting epi-grams," wrote Smith, "were always di-rected against dictatorial and tyrannicalrule."

George Tynes, now in his sixties, is atall hulking man, whose stature would be

imposing if not bent from age. His brownface has somehow taken on the look ofa native Muscovite-old and worn be-fore its time. I saw him immediately,dressed in a green all-weather coat anda black fur hat, and walked toward himthrough the crowd of otherwise whitefaces. Touched by unspoken understand-ing and circumstances, we dispensedwith nervousness and fell into quick andfriendly conversation, repeating many ofthe introductions and greetings fromfriends at home that we had exchangedearlier. Our excitement stood out, whilethe people around us seemed subduedand cold, which was-with the exceptionof the ballet where there was ice creamtopped with cherries served during inter-mission and the delicate balalaika music-to be my lasting and general impres-sion of Moscow.

Like many average working Russiancitizens, although he is retired, Tynes isunable to afford the large cash paymentrequired for a car and makes his way onpublic transportation-this time a taxi. Iwould have to wait until later to ride thesplendid Moscow subway, with its sta-tions decorated by ornate gold and mar-ble fixtures, and which like the trams (Iam told) are often crowded, and on which

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and giggling when I try to talk with them.Do I,Tynes asks, perhaps have any chew-ing gum for the children. Regretfully, Ihave already given what I did have awayto the many other youngsters who ap-proached me with small medals in ex-change for, "Chewing gum, chewinggum, please."

Emelia's two brothers live nearby, butonly Siava, the oldest son arrives.Reuben, a bus driver, is at work. Bothare married to Russian women and havefamilies of their own. "Hello, it is good tomeet you," Siava says to me in verygood English. A 35-year-old freelancejournalist, formerly with the Novosty PressAgency, Siava is now in school workingfor an advanced degree on "The BlackMovement in America." Somehow, Inever get an exact answer from himabout why, or how, he chose the subject.I felt that I was a curiosity to him also.

Before dinner, we talked about thehuge GUM department store, which Ifound depressing for its poor selectionof items, and prices almost three timesas high as those in the special foreigncurrency shops, where the Russians arenot allowed to shop. Although I felt ill atease in a city where so many soldiersare always about, I remark how kind thepeople can be.

Once, I tell Siava, when I was trying tolocate the right street for my bus stopon my return from the House of Books,which all book stores in Russia arecalled, I stopped several passersby toask if they spoke English until one youngman in a group of teenagers was able tohelp me. Before leaving, he replied to mythank you in his best English: "Don'tmention it." And twice, when I neededchange for a ruble, strangers handed mewhat I wanted, but refused to accept themoney lowed them in return.

George Tynes, originally from Roa-noke, Va., now considers the U.S.S.R.his home. Although he was able to attendcollege, which was unusual at the timefor most Black people in America, he

20 passengers pay their fares by an honorsystem.

I was eager to talk with him and toask questions, such as his opinions ondetente, and the U.S.-Russian wheatsales. But I sensed that conversationabout anything more than general ob-servations would not be welcome. On themain streets, I noticed, were newspapersposted for public reading. Since all Rus-sian stores are government-owned andregulated, there is no need for advertis-ing I am told. Although new and unfamil-iar, the passing landscape seems dulland monotonous, laden with large claycolored apartment buildings. Everythingis big and bleak, with not even a feelingof neighborhood to relieve the intensityof the concrete surroundings. The onlydegree and human measure I see areflowers laid at the base of statues alongthe way.

Since his 1931 move to Russia, fromWilberforce, Ohio, where he graduatedfrom college with a class of eleven, Tyneshas become fluent in the Russian lan-guage. On the other hand, his Englishis heavily brushed with Russian accent,sometimes too difficult for an unfamiliarear to comprehend. It was a long ride tohis home, and along the way we jokedabout his living in the "suburbs." Hisapartment building, not significantly dif-ferent from the many others in Moscow,is 14 miles from the center of the city.

It is dusk when we arrive. Inside themain door there is no furnished or tiledlobby like the ones often seen in Amer-ica, only a dingy but clean hallway wheretwo old women in scarfs and heavy wool-ens sit on a bench.

They stare blankly at us without achange in their wrinkled glares. Theybring to mind images of old seamstressesI learned of during a museum tour, who,before the revolution, often embroideredso many pearls onto the robes of prieststhat they usually went blind.

Just around the corner, in a cold, semi-dark corridor, two small elevators faceeach other. The one we took creaked to

the fourth floor and jerked to a stop. Itsdoor opened slowly onto another dimhallway. The building is not unlike manyAmerican low rent housing projects. Inanother apartment I visited, my passportwas required to enter.

Tynes' apartment is probably consid-ered above average because of thekitchen, which is not included in mostMoscow apartments. In the bathroom,stacks of old newspapers serve as tissuepaper. For Moscow living, it is comfort-able quarters and thoroughly neat. Al-though housing is at a premium inMoscow, I could see that much effort andmoney was put toward reconstruction ofthe beautiful and elaborate palaces andcathedrals left by the tzars.

The family size dinner table, coveredand graciously set with silverware andwine glasses, dominates the room. Tak-ing off my coat I look around and becomeacquainted as inconspicuously as pos-sible ... searching for clues as to whyTynes is in this country. Quickly, I catchthe African details on every wall, fromcarved wooden statues to panels ofprinted cloth. As is Russian custom, abottle of vodka is opened for a welcometoast. It is (I discovered in the previousdays) too strong for me, but I try anyway.My host laughs at my difficult attempt.

A Hugh Masekela album plays loudlyon the small stereo set. When I lookaround, Tynes' daughter, Emelia Mason,and her two daughters, Nastai and Eliza-beth, have arrived. Tall and statuesquelike her father, Emelia is a handsomewoman with nappy brown hair brushedback into the afro style. Emelia, whosemother is Ukranian, is a mathematicsteacher. Her husband, she tells me, is anuclear scientist from Liberia, WestAfrica. The little girls, who look no differ-ent from little brown beauties in theUnited States, speak broken English. Imust look again and again just to remindmyself they are not visitors to this countrylike me. Emelia, shy at first, sits quietlyto my right, between her father and me.The girls are to my left, staring curiously

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quickly informed me, "My father was apreacher, and perhaps because of thatwe were a little luckier than most Blacksof that period. We didn't suffer so muchas some families." Somehow though, heis too quick to criticize U.S. race relationsand his perception of his situation toopat and rehearsed, though what he saidcannot be denied. For instance, in 1930,the year before he left America, 20 Blackmen had been lynched, and racial dis-crimination against Blacks was quiterampant.

For years, Tynes worked as the chiefzoologist on a vast collective farm out-side the Crimean capital city of Sim-feropol. Eventually, he became technicaldirector of a game preserve on the out-skirts of Moscow, and is still consideredone of the leading authorities on fish andfowl in the Soviet Union. He shows themedals he received over the years for"agricultural achievement" and fondlyreminisces his life as a farmer-playfullyboasting of the good health he enjoystoday because of it. Curiously, none ofthe pictures in his photo album portraysany of those proud years.

He is no less prepared to point out thevirtues of the Soviet system, which ac-cording to his interpretation, "does notallow racism." People of color, however,although no longer an oddity in Russia,such as African university students, oftensay they live with the knowledge of adistinct dislike for them. In 1964, for ex-ample, several hundred African studentsmarched through Red Square declaring,"Moscow is another Alabama." With theoffer of free education in Soviet colleges,including the Patrice Lumumba Friend-ship University, the Third World popula-tion has risen from 134 in 1957 to about20,000 this year, according to newsreports.

Dinner with the Tynes family is as nearto "soul food" as anything I have tastedin days. Like the other tables I've dinedat in Moscow, there is a stack of whiteand a stack of dark brown bread, and theusual bottles of vodka and mineral water.

We have spinach souffle from a frozenfood package (which is a surprise to mebecause refrigeration is said to be aproblem in Russia), flavored rice andfresh fish. Dessert is cake and tea.

Because the room is small and inti-mate, we make all the sounds and chatterof a family at a Sunday dinner. Elizabethand Nastai clear the table and, just likechildren in millions of American homes,rush to watch the children's televisionprogram. The government-controlledRussian television is of better technicalquality than America's, but lacks in pro-gram selection. Its programming in-cludes, sports, films, concerts, plays andpublic affairs presentations.

The food was delicious and the com-pany gracious. Reluctantly, I realize thatit is getting late and time to return to myhotel. Now I talk in earnest, asking moredirect questions, but still receiving fewexact answers-a habit I have grown ac-customed to since arriving in Moscow.Evasion, it would appear, is an art withthe Russians. We talk for a time aboutother Blacks who visited Moscow, suchas the late Langston Hughes, who washired to write a script for a Russian filmabout Black-white race relations in theUnited States, but which was never pro-duced. I told them about Denver, whereI was raised; about Washington, D.C.where I attended school and now live;and about New Orleans, where mybrother is in school. We also discussedCalifornia, where most of my relativeshave moved to, and New York City, whereI taught school for a time.

When finally I said goodnight, so manyquestions remained unanswered andmore questions unasked. If I could, Iwould have talked with Siava about writ-ing, what it actually meant to eacl of usand how we came to be writers. I wouldask Emelia about family and raising chil-dren in Russia, the little girls and TynesI would ask about their dreams. I wouldhave asked about the whereabouts of Mr.Tynes' wife, whom the family avoidedmentioning. I felt a kinship with the Tynesfamily which I can only hope they share

with me. Just a year ago, Tynes visited the 21

United States, but his family was unableto accompany him, as is the usual prac-tice in Russia. Yet, should there ever be anopportunity for any of them to visitAmerica, I hope they know the first placethey can come for some good "soulfood." 0

Charlene Porter is a Howard alumna and a free-lance television scriptwriter. She visited Moscowand Leningrad last year for two weeks with aTheater Study Tour group sponsored by theAmerican Theater Association.

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