Things always look different in the dark

I remember a time in my childhood when my parents insisted on dragging me around to every one of their social events. I found them quite boring especially because a twelve year olds mind tends to wander frequently. While my parents were talking to their Georgian friends at the dinner table, I was thinking of all the better things I could be doing at that time.

Except, there really wasn’t much to do at my house. I would either be on the computer downstairs or watching pirated movies on the television in the living room. Yet, at that time, the electricity was out in the whole country, something to do with how the Russians were selling power normally supplied to Georgia to other countries. Thus the reason we were sitting at the dinner table by candlelight.

While my mind was wandering from the different shapes and colors of the candles set on the dinner table, I noticed the way it lit everyone’s face. It made everyone look like they were glowing perhaps. The shadows on the walls had an eerie tint of darkness that began to flicker with the way the candles were burning. The pictures on the walls were lit just enough for me to make them out. A family portrait in the middle of the room looked like it was perhaps taken from back in the soviet times. A picture that looked almost forced. No smiles could be seen on the children’s or the parents’ faces. It reminded me of that one picture of the farmer with the pitchfork and the farmer’s wife for some reason; I can’t really recall why. As my eyes ventured back down from the walls to the table I noticed in the corner of my eye my little sister.

There she was at the end of the table in her own little world playing with her stuffed animals. She apparently had enough of all the eating and the chatting that she turned off her mind from the chatter and began to focus on her stuffed dog and cat. I could tell that it was quite hard for her to pay attention being the youngest and yet she understood somehow that she shouldn’t bother my mom and dad with her boredom. My older sister on the other hand looked intrigued by the conversations around her.

She sat on the other side of me, her face not just glowing by candlelight but by her interest in the situation that was involving everyone at the dinner table. I could see on her face she was trying to decipher every word, soak in every sentence because for her it was important to listen. The way she was nodding her head along with the rhythm of the conversation told me that maybe I should be paying a little more attention to what they were saying. Yet, the conversation didn’t interest me at all. I was more fascinated by my parents’ reactions of it than the actual content. My mother, like myself, didn’t understand a word of Russian and relied on my father to translate for her constantly.

She seemed to be enjoying herself however. Her smile seemed to be pasted on her face, like that of a porcelain doll. She would occasionally chuckle while others were laughing, but that was only to hide the fact that she had no idea what was going on. My dad would translate after everyone had finished laughing, and she would laugh out loud at what he just said. My dad after translating would go back to listening to the conversation intently.

It seemed like he was enjoying himself but my dad and I were so close to each other that I could see right through him. There was just something in his face, more so in his eyes that showed some discomfort. I could tell that he was feeling uncomfortable like the rest of us.

The discomfort may have been caused by the fact that our hosts kept bringing plate after plate of food out onto the table and forcing us to eat more. I remember filling my stomach with food after the first main dish appeared; to my knowledge that would be the whole meal. Little did I know that there would have been four side dishes and dessert afterwards. I couldn’t bring myself to eat anymore which is why I started analyzing everyone at the table.

Unlike our discomfort our hosts seemed to be absolutely comfortable with us. The smiles on their faces, very unlike the picture up on the wall, showed me that they really felt like we were a part of their family. Their wonderful toasts of wine were all to our family, our health, our lives, like we meant so much to them even though they knew so little about our lives. Their warm, good-hearted personalities seemed to lift my mom’s spirit some. Which in turn affected my father, and I could tell affected me.

I was no longer bored, but more intrigued with the way our two cultures clashed. They were only trying to make us feel at home; when we weren’t accustomed to the type of royalty they were giving us. Their over-consumption of wine and their multiple toasts of it throughout the night made us feel awkward but gave us the feeling of acceptance; I don’t think it is in their nature to toast to someone they felt didn’t need it. As the toasts drew on, so did the night, and soon my mother couldn’t take staying up any later than it was; she decided to call it a night.

Just about the time that we were leaving the power returned, and lit up the whole living room. As my parents were saying their goodbyes I turned back to that picture up on the wall and saw that the mood of their faces had changed. Instead of no smile on each of their faces I saw a slight grin. Then it occurred to me that things always looked differently in the dark, and to really see true emotion it had to be with a bright and open heart. So right then I realized I had to put forth as much effort as my parents and older sister did in everything I do no matter how uncomfortable it may make me feel. After this insight, I turned to the host and hostess and tried in my best Russian to say “Было очень славно быть здесь” which means, “It was very nice to be here”. I could tell by the look on their faces that they knew I meant it.

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