The Projects: USSR Style

State Socialists prefer massive housing projects. Creating drones is their main goal. Citizens learn to do as they are told.

It is so much easier to control a population  if no one actually owns any property. Owning property suggests individualism, thinking for onesself and ones family. It is easier to limit populations to one child in a huge government housing project. There is no room for anyone else. Mass living goes with mass transit.

How come the Soviets forgot to use “Save the Planet by Taxing Carbon Emissions” propaganda in their election campaigns?

Answer: The government owned everything and as in so many American cities, candidates never had opponents in the good old USSR.   One Party, One Voice all singing in “harmony”.

In the 1950s and 60s billions and billions of dollars were spent building great complexes stories high and sections wide for the American black…Chicago, St. Louis, Minneapolis, etc, etc. The problem was there was no secret police to spare populations in areas with high crime rates.

Violent crime was rare in the good old USSR. One never knew who the police were. There were so many besides those in uniform.  Crime was slightly different. The people who disappeared were the more common folk, political bigwigs out of favor, and a few others who didn’t obey the rules of the drone life. In 1966 the black market was about everywhere in Soviet life. It was allowed, yet against the law. There were rumors of KGB (secret police) involvement to help the economy, but the KGB was involved in almost everything collective.

Families however small, were private, the place where free speech might occur. There wasn’t much to argue about. Citizens were freed from most important decisions. The government ran communications and the Communists ran the government. The Party lingo went “more freedom with fewer choices”.

The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics = USSR. What does the “Soviet” part mean? Answer: Communist Party Councils. To every USSR enterprise the Communist Party attached a Communist Council to enforce the policies of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union of that enterprise…Sports, education, trade, tourism, housing, spas, construction, decorations, celebrations, transportation, automobile production, tomato plots, movies, literature, theater, television, etc, etc. Each had two gargantuan bureacracies overseeing production run by the Party.

Think Democratic Party control freaks of the 21st Century passing laws to govern light bulbs, shower heads, calorie intake limits, dictate rain gardens, govern science, instruct global cooling, punish global warming, stop climate change, decide bonuses and salaries, order by Congressional vote to violate contracts, etc,etc. Advance friendships all over the world with love and understanding in the name of sisterhood and social justice. Pretend all is equal and if it isn’t say it is anyway, because it should be.

Boris and his wife lived in a huge Soviet project complex. Only government approved crime could occur in these mammoth complexes. Petty theft is alway possible if the thief is clever enough.

They lived on the fifth floor of perhaps fifteen. One walked. The kitchen was shared between two unrelated families who by bureaucratic decree would wind up living very close to one another. One could apply to the Commissariat of Housing to move, but in 1966 that was wishful thinking unless one was a Party member. The residence was a life sentence. Boris, his wife, his mother and, as I remember, the mother’s sister all lived within three small rooms, one less small than the others, probably 20′ by 15′. His younger brother lived there also and slept in this larger room. I had the impression the brother had business elsewhere occasionally. They had a toilet within the residence, but showers were communal at the end of the hall.

As Dennis so frequently reminds us and contrary to lefty dogma forbidding stereotypes, stereotypes aid the human being to make quick judgments to react to danger and perceive the moment. Everyone who has eyes makes automatic judgments about the human environment. Possessions tell us so much about people. Arguably, too much. I was very aware of the individual and family struggles within the oppressive State Socialist system of the USSR. Today’s lefties would call that right wing propaganda. The condition happened to be TRUE. One can deeply admire those human beings who despite the enemies of the human spirit find their way to be joyous.

When I reached the fifth floor of this grotesque, dank and drab housing structure, I rapped on the door per instructions. Boris opened it. His smile made me feel as if I were the most important person in the world. Maybe to them for the next four or five hours I was. I was so glad to be if that were the case. I knew I was among friends. 

What a wonderful time to be alive.

USSR: The Land Of Forced “Equality”

I like people. I like people alot and always have. Even the dolts..I have my dolt moments, so sometimes I feel right at home with them. It’s the political dolts that drive me wild. The deceivers. And the ones that bloat with moral and political certitude but have no clue what yesterday and today are about. Most of them are Democrats these days. In 1966 dolts flavored bureaucracies everywhere at home and abroad, especially in officialdom USSR.

I had no idea when Boris had to return to his work. I did know he was an engineer. I tried not to ask questions except in reaction to things he told me. Typically, I was the one Russians wound up questioning most of the time. But, not Boris or his wife whom I met a few nights later. We just talked.

To nearly all of the people I met or simply talked with, the moment I identified myself as an American, I became a celebrity, a star who could converse socially and quite fluently. Don’t underestimate the meaning of the word “socially” I have added here. I knew no language to tell anyone how to take apart a radio or anything mechanical, or debate matters of physical science. I was free and quick with normal social and cultural conversation. My understanding depended upon which Soviet citizens were speaking to me…If Russian was their second language, and for about 90,000,000 it was, how clear was their pronounciation? I also knew practically no swear words or colorful vocabulary. I stuck safely to my books and ears to learn and listen yet occasionally had to pretend understanding. Within the boundaries established by my old Tsarist time teachers, I pronounced precisely as they taught me. These folks, these elegant stately refugees from old aristocratic Russia had taught me the Queen’s English version of my Russian language….very precise, clear, correct, and upper class as if I had learned Russian from Henry Higgins. I had no thought how people perceived my language until I found out later in the month.

Boris’ wife was expecting their first child in a month or two. My first, a son, was born the past December. I told him it was the most inspiring moment of my life when my son first came home from the hospital to sleep in our bedroom. We talked neighbor talk. He wanted me to meet his family..and them to meet me. Could I stop by Wednesday? By all means…We chatted for two hours when Boris caught himself having forgotten the time. He asked that I not return to his office. He brushed it off as simply not a good idea. Later he told me that no one at his office suspected me of being an American. He said someone did ask him who this “pure” speaking friend was who had stopped by. He told him he had met me on the flight coming home from Bratsk. He eventually explained to me that I could be a danger to him if someone discovered I was an American and seemed to be a friend. For what purpose would I be a friend? Where had we met? Where is the American now? Why doesn’t the American have his Intourist guide with him? Why does he walk around the city alone? Why does Boris have an American friend and I do not? What did he do special that makes him more privileged than I?

Jealousy knows no bounds in a land of forced equality!

Boris confided that he probably would not lose his job on rumor alone. However it is more likely he would never be promoted with such rumors alleged in his file. Unless he had a friend somewhere among the secret police. Boris was about 36 years old. He had done well thus far. He was an engineer and had achieved the “honor” of being selected for kommanderovka, ie, going to Bratsk in Siberia for six months’ service at an elevated pay rate. He and his wife were expecting their firstborn. How international can it get?

Today’s Americans are such fools..spoiled..many so fat of brain or body. I was not fat then, but was I an American fool? What if someone did report him having an American friend even if it was one of only two weeks duration? What if his career was compromised? All these years I have had the most joyful memories of meeting Boris’ family and friends. What credits to humanity! He hadn’t explained to me any dangers yet. I had been trained to understand the brutality of this Soviet regime even though these times were no where near their most grusome. It is very hard for an American not to behave like an American. He was so winsome and friendly. Could that have come to ruin him? Friendships in State Socialist nations do have their reputations.

Meeting A Citizen Of The USSR.

Dressed in my State approved baggy pants I looked as dumpy as all the other natives around. Frankly, I felt right at home. Yet these were the days before the slump and slop look of American youth. Americans were still clean and handsome. Females still wore dresses and even looked feminine. They smiled. The great Democratic Party revolution into its Garbage is Good Days had not yet taken place. Americans were still a polite peoples in 1966.

There were tourists in Leningrad..Nearly all were from Socialist “Democracies” Stasi run East Germany, Poland, Hungary and many blacks from Somalia, South Africa, Uganda, and Kenya. There were good terrorist possibilities in those African places and dictators available to use them where needed. MauMaus needed help.

Back home in our Northland, Minnesotans were eating Wheaties and going fishing when there was time. Northrup King was still alive selling seeds at your favorite nurseries. City public schools were still civilized places where adults worked.

I bought an area map and found the park beside which I expected to see a 20th century office building. Boris’ map had the street crossings sowhen I arrived at the
spot, the 20th Century office building wasn’t there. Instead stood, no, hovered a quonset style structure about 250′ by 90′ covered with some sort of peeling metal and decidedly gray. One double door was the only entrance, yet there was no walkway to suggest that was the entrance. Weeds decorated the foundation. No doubt they were native plants…a must in modern Socialist states. No signs anywhere. I knew I was in the good old USSR, but I was still an American. What was I to do?

I pulled on the door. It was not locked..I entered. I alit upon a dirt floor into an unpartitioned expanse lit only by a handful of very dirty windows along the flanks of the building. Boris..USSR..1966…Minneapolis…Is this real? Am I really where I think I am? Do I really need to be here? As I walked ever so slowly forward, in the distance in front of me I saw a light framing a double door…an electrical light. Now what should I do. Well, I am an American looking for a friend. That’s what I’ll say if I’m caught.

I opened the door. Wooden stairs without any treads of the day, led up to what was very obvious, a room with people around. Up I went. They seemed surprised. I was glad. They were rather neatly dressed. They were young and female. It was a good sign.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Boris…Boris Sokolov. I am a friend of his. I’m not local here.” I was trying to sound local..as if I knew what I was doing. “He expected me at 11:30″. I suggested.
“He’s in his office. I’ll tell him you’re here. Who are you?” “Tell him Glenn’s here”. Trying to be careful, I pronounced my name rather like Gleb, a Russian name. After a few minutes Boris appeared..without a smile, but without a frown. “Could you wait for me in the park? I’ll be free at noon.”

Boris was free at noon. I had entered the private world of a citizen of the USSR. I was home.