The first time I got tipsy was when I was in Ukraine. In the cultural sensitivity classes they explained to us that it is very rude to refuse a drink and to NEVER do it. or else. I’d see my dad attempt to refuse sometimes, in an effort to stay sober and from the 110 proof alcohol in their vodka. He’d slowly, slowly sip it, but they would be like “drink! drink! drink!” and toast so he’d have to finish his small, shot-sized glass with an iron ornate handle and clawed feet. He’d finally hold up his hands in surrender and I’m sure they’d think that the American was a light weight. He’d leave red-faced and warm from our dinners and I would laugh and laugh, not understanding. Then there was the time they wanted to honor me with a drink and my parents were like NO! but they cheerily served the scrawny, overly eager 14-year old with poofy hair. I gulped it down and it was like liquid fire, burning all the way down. But there was a part of me that liked it. I finished my little glass and they poured me another against my parent’s violent protests from across the table. They exchanged worried glances with each other and questioned what to do. (they don’t remember this, it must have been too painful for them to remember) In my pseudo-rebelliousness I knew they didn’t want me to have a drink, but I was more interested in appearing like an adult and drinking with them. Katy and Drew hadn’t been offered a drink! I sipped again and the fire spread to my belly. My parents decided we had to go and the drunk hosts tried again to detain us. They were laughing, I was laughing, it was warm, merry and wonderful. We walked outside to the trolley-buses in the artic weather with the below zero wind lashing at us and everyone huddled together for warmth. except me, “I’m so warm! I like feeling this way!” I told my parents with excessive joy.
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Josiah