History and Geography

Yesterday I went to clean at the house of Orthodox Jews. I couldn’t take it: nothing was being sold, there was no income, yet bills had to be paid, cat food and litter bought — everything had become more expensive. I worked four hours very intensively and efficiently — I have a lot of experience in this field. I cleaned four rooms, the kitchen, a long corridor, the balcony, two bathrooms, and the bathtub. They paid me $60 — the bare minimum. It was upsetting: I asked some Spanish women — they get $20 an hour, I got $15. The hosts were polite. But when I left, I felt humiliated, as if I had been violated.
I went to the beach — I wanted to cleanse myself. I had gone to work in a good mood, and poems were running through my head. Something like:Everyone in this world has their role.;You are the queen, and I am the king.You are the master, and I am the servant.
I thought about how everything is predetermined. These Orthodox Jews — pure archetypes. You enter their settlement — and it’s like stepping into the 16th century. Some wear clothes and carry manners from the 17th, 18th, or 19th century. There’s no one from the 20th. All faces are serious, as if they are ready to raise the banner of revolution at any moment. And there are so many pregnant women with babies! Ten to fifteen children each — complete prosperity.
Today everything aches — back, legs. I remember when I first arrived in Monroe to work for Jews, the first three days I thought I would die from the pain. But after three weeks, I was running around like a mountain goat, having lost 5–7 kg. And then one day — I didn’t want to go. I was already sitting on the bus — a call from Russia: my father had died. The subconscious proved stronger than the conscious.
Recently, I read a letter from Berkovich. I discovered her by chance. The girl had written a play — and was imprisoned for it. Absurd and terrifying. It’s like imprisoning Chekhov for Three Sisters or Gorky for The Lower Depths. In Berkovich’s letter, she longs for her beloved, and her feelings are still alive. In Monroe, all feelings vanish. There, women work 10–16 hours, driven by a single instinct — to help their children buy a house. I remember an old woman from Ukraine: bent over, she kept cleaning, and if anyone offended her, she knew how to stand up for herself. They say she built houses for all her children. And now, perhaps, those houses were bombed or abandoned.
Recently, I watched an interview with Brodsky on a program about Shemyakin. He said, “It’s hard when your history is taken away. But when your geography is taken away — it’s even harder.” They took away both my history and geography. And most importantly — my civil rights. I wrote a complaint to the UN, live two steps from the Statue of Liberty, and no one cares.
While cleaning, the continuation of the poem came to me:Which role should I choose? The To be emperor or tsar? What does the people rally for today,What will make them happy?
We live in a democracy. So the people should choose what my role is called. Maybe better — “king.” All my thoughts about the people and the nobility, about rewards and punishments. Whom to reward? Whom to make generals, whom to make soldiers? For covering up, for shielding, for facilitating cover-ups. Nonsense ran through my head.
I also think: all these   and Erofeevs  write about oprichniks, about Putin. But about me — silence. Everything began with the violence against me and the war declared in 1998, and continued for decades. I wrote complaints to various legal organizations, even to the UN, but received no response. I wrote a book and self-published it on Amazon — Hell and Paradise. But neither political scientists, nor human rights activists, nor journalists, nor writers responded. As if the fact that my grandfather was not close to Stalin, but arrested and left to rot in prison, deprived me of my right to a voice. Meanwhile, the golden youth of Moscow — children of Chekists and professors — have international connections and are praised everywhere they don’t prevent the wealthy from violating civil rights. The world seems upside down. Solzhenitsyn used to write about political prisoners, but now prison guards are romanticized. Such subservience to wealth and power, such caste hierarchy, such stratification.
And still — that feeling of humiliation. At first, the hostess greeted me kindly: she smiled, offered me a choice — mop the floor by hand or with a mop, put a large bottle of water: “Drink as much as you want.” Then her three-year-old son and husband ran in. The boy, thin and ugly, shouted something in Yiddish. I asked the hostess what he said. She smiled: “He said your breasts are big.” I chuckled — it’s a child, after all. But the man’s gaze was unpleasant. He sat at the table, reading a prayer book, occasionally glancing up. I felt uneasy.
I remembered a friend who worked at a massage parlor in Brooklyn with full service. She said: “Orthodox Jews were the main clients, but paid pennies. If they left two dollars for a tip — that was good.”
Everything there is fake. Marriages are arranged like in the old days: matchmakers, viewings, weddings. Children are born one after another. At home, they speak a German dialect; many learn English only at school. But they automatically get citizenship: they were born in the USA.
On TV, Epstein’s victims were shown again. Girls 14–16, young women who came to build careers. One said she had worked three jobs at 14 to help her family. Jeffrey offered her $300 for a massage — what she earned in a week of hard labor.
When you go to cleanings, especially for Jews, you start thinking and weighing — where were you less humiliated. And you realize: that money wouldn’t even cover the dentist.
The day before, I was lying on the beach, reading a play left by a tenant. Modern New York. Half of it written in verse. From the first lines, I could breathe easily. The play mentioned men who present themselves as women. The hero said, “For $20 they will do anything you want.” I often see such people in the subway. Some are very beautiful, slim, organic. With fine taste, feminine and masculine at the same time. I even painted two paintings and wrote a poem about one of them. The paintings sold quickly — it means I managed to capture the charm.
I think about their social role: they are erotic for both men and women. They radiate freedom. The play and the poetry gave a sense of flight, breathed life. Plus, I was lying by the ocean, the water warm, the waves — swimming was a pleasure. In such moments, you realize what a priceless gift it is — simply to live.
And then — cleaning at the Jews’ house again. And the world, full of spontaneity, turned back into a predetermined world.
Conclusion
My experience is not just about one cleaning, one pain, or one injustice. It is a mirror of the entire world, where some live in archetypes and prosperity, while others exist in isolation and struggle for survival.
The scariest thing is not the work, not the fatigue, not the pain in the back. The scariest thing is the feeling of humiliation, the sense that your life and your voice matter to no one. Yet it is precisely in these moments that poems, paintings, and thoughts are born — creations that restore meaning and connect one to true freedom.
History and geography are not only about maps and dates. They are about the inner world of a person, their place, and their right to be heard. And as long as I can write and create — I still have both history and geography.