I’m becoming more and more certain that Volodymyr Zelensky and I are cousins. As my father, who was born in Ukraine, often said when he uttered one of his ironclad dictums — e.g., you can’t gain more than a pound from eating all the chocolates in a one-pound box of chocolates — it stands to reason.
The notion was in my mind even before I heard someone on cable TV mention the Ukrainian president’s height, which would put him at around the middle button of Charles de Gaulle’s dress uniform — and which would be almost precisely midway between my height and my father’s. (Our family does not run to ranginess.) When I heard that comment, I muttered to myself, “Uncanny!”
And then I started checking off the ways Zelensky and my father matched up. Born in Ukraine? Check. Although my father was brought up from the age of 2 or 3 in St. Joseph, Mo., had an accent that recalled Harry S. Truman, and was familiar with Midwestern phrases such as, “Haven’t had so much fun since the hogs ate little sister,” he was born in a place called Sokol’cha, Ukraine.
Born into a Jewish family? Check. Stocky build? Check. An attraction, possibly genetic, to cities located at the confluence of two rivers? Check. Zelensky’s hometown, Kryvyi Rih, is at the confluence of the Inhulets and the Saksahan. Kansas City, where my father spent virtually all his adult life, is, of course, at the confluence of the Missouri and the Kaw.
Born into a Russian-speaking family? Check-ish. I can’t claim to know for sure that my family in Sokol’cha spoke Russian. But I know my father knew at least one Russian song, “Ochi Chernye,” because he often sang it on long car trips that also featured his rendition of “The Road to Mandalay.” “Ochi Chernye” originated as a poem by Yevhen Hrebinka. And where was Yevhen Hrebinka from? Ukraine!
Enough said? No? Well, there’s more.
Before I get to the real clincher, though, I want to point out that we have never been the sort of family that claimed connection with heroic figures as a way of catching a few rays of reflected glory.
Of course, we take pride in the achievements of our relatives. I may have mentioned from time to time that my cousin Keith once reached the finals of the Kansas state spelling bee. I have never made a secret of the fact that my cousin Neil (on my mother’s side, rather than what I now refer to as the Zelensky side) was the drum major of the University of Nebraska marching band.
But we have never claimed to be related to, say, Winston Churchill, the historic figure now often mentioned in discussions of Zelensky as an inspiring wartime leader. Long before Zelensky became world famous, my father’s family was so renowned for stubbornness that my mother regularly used a single word to describe the entire clan: mules.
We are not the sort of people who would claim a relationship simply because some cousin’s newborn baby resembles Winston Churchill. On the contrary, I’ve always been forthright about my belief that one of my nephews as a newborn had a strong resemblance to Clement Attlee.
So, the real clincher? Here it is.
Long before Zelensky became world famous, my father’s family was so renowned for stubbornness that my mother regularly used a single word to describe the entire clan: mules.
She always said that trying to change my father’s mind — or, let’s be honest, my mind — was “like talking to the wall.” A proclamation that could cause my father to end with “it stands to reason” might also cause him to begin with “I don’t care what you say,” even if you hadn’t said anything.
More than one of my Zelensky-side relatives served as the model for a fictional uncle I once described in a story as “flexible as a tree stump.”
