Two burly fellows delivered the patio furniture we bought yesterday.
“Where are you from?” one of them asked, looking at my last name in the paperwork.
“I’m from Ukraine,” I said.
“Oh!” the workers exclaimed in unison and exchanged a look. It was clear that this was not going to be one of the usual ‘a friend of a friend had a girlfriend from Ukraine’ moments.
“Which part of Ukraine?” one of the men asked.
“I’m from Kharkiv,” I said.
“Oh!” the workers exchanged another look. “That’s Eastern Ukraine, right? Are you here because of the war?”
“No, no, ” I said. “I’ve been here for a while.”
“Still,” one of the workers said. “We are very, very glad to have you here.”
“Yes,” his colleague confirmed with conviction. “It’s great that you are here!”
The three of us stared at each other with moist, solemn eyes.
What did it all mean?
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Working class Americans now know what Ukraine is and are supportive of Ukrainians.
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