10 3.20.
Zelensky was
making an
argument about
nationhood —
that it is formed
not by history or
by language, but
by individual
memories.Illustration by R. O. Blechmanpeople. Responding to the Kremlin’s
claims that it was protecting the separat-
ist regions from Ukrainian plans to take
them by force, Zelensky asked whom,
exactly, Russia thought he was going
to bomb. ‘‘Donetsk?’’ he asked incredu-
lously. ‘‘Where I’ve been dozens of times,
seen people’s faces, looked into their
eyes? Artyoma Street, where I hung out
with my friends? Donbas Arena, where
I cheered on our boys at the Eurocup?
Scherbakov Park, where we all went
drinking after our boys lost? Luhansk?
The house where the mother of my best
friend lives? Where my best friend’s
father is buried?’’
Zelensky was making an argument
about nationhood — that it is formed not
by history or by language, but by individ-
ual memories, by personal connections.
‘‘Note,’’ he continued, ‘‘that I’m speak-
ing now in Russian, but no one in Rus-
sia understands what I’m talking about.
These place names, these streets, these
families, these events — this is all foreign
to you. It’s unfamiliar. This is our land.
This is our history. What are you going
to fi ght for? And against whom?’’
He was also making an argument about
history. History was not something that
happened centuries ago, as in Vladimir
Putin’s boring essay, but something that
happened in the course of a single life-
time. Your home was the place that stored
your memories and the memories of your
loved ones. And when someone tried to
invade it, there was only one response.
As the fi ghting continued, and as the
Russian Army responded to Ukrainian
resistance by dropping huge bombs on
Ukrainian cities, the news and the images
out of Ukraine became bleaker. And there
is no question that the worst and most
terrifying parts of war take place out of
sight, with no smartphones fi lming. But
in that fi rst week, we learned import-
ant things. Few expected this level of
resistance from Ukraine. The country
had changed since 2014; it had taken
time to think about what happened in
Donbas and Luhansk, and to see what
became of those places. And in Zelensky
it had found a surprising leader — a Rus-
sian-speaking Jew who was nonetheless
a profound patriot of Ukraine. What he
has off ered is a vision of a transnational,
multiethnic, multilingual country on the
eastern edge of Europe, and something
worth fi ghting for.
Victoria Chang’s fi fth book of poems, ‘‘Obit’’ (Copper Canyon Press, 2020), was named a New York Times
Notable Book and a Timwwe Must-Read. Her book of nonfi ction, ‘‘Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence and
Grief,’’ was published by Milkweed Editions in 2021. She lives in Los Angeles and teaches in Antioch University’s
M.F.A. Program. Jane Wong is the author, most recently, of ‘‘How to Not Be Afraid of Everything’’
(Alice James Books, 2021). She is an associate professor of creative writing at Western Washington University.Jane Wong’s poem grapples with the making of a self that’s dependent on childhood, history,
comparison and societal expectations. Growing up can be overwhelming as we fi gure out
where we came from, who we are and where we are going (all at once!). Wong writes, ‘‘I was
taught that everything and everyone is self-made,’’ but the speaker is realizing that life will
come with its own surprises, regardless of our intent, or anyone else’s.Poem Selected by Victoria ChangLessons on Lessening
By Jane WongI wake to the sound of my neighbors upstairs as if they are bowling.And maybe they are, all pins and love fallen over.
I lie against my fl oor, if only to feel that kind of aff ection.What I’ve learned, time and again —
get up. You cannot have what they have.And the eyes of a dead rat can’t say anything.In Jersey, the sink breaks and my mother keeps a bucket
underneath to save water for laundry.A trickle of water is no joke. I’ve learned that.
Neither is my father, wielding a knife in starlight.I was taught that everything and everyone is self-made.That you can make a window out of anything if you want.
This is why I froze insects. To see if they will come back to life.How I began to see each day: the sluice of wings.
Get up. The ants pouring out of the sink, onto my arms in dish heavy water.My arms: branches. A swarm I didn’t ask for.No one told me I’d have to learn to be polite.
To let myself be consumed for what I cannot control.I must return to my younger self. To wearing my life
like heavy wool, weaved in my own weight.To pretend not to know when the debtors come to collect.Screenland