How unique do we strive to be and what does it have to do with jeans in the USSR?

One memory stands out when I think of my childhood. In it I spread the new clothes my father brought me neatly on my bed. There are sweaters, blouses, dresses, and a pair of jeans. It’s the beginning of the 1980s, I live in Moscow, USSR, and I am one of the few with a parent who travels abroad. I keep those clothes on the bed for as long as I can, carefully moving them to a chair at night and replacing them in their rightful place when I get up. Sometimes I invite friends over to look at my collection.

In my world foreign-made clothes aren’t only an anomaly — they are a cause of envy. Even in the capital where we live and where most Soviet citizenry come on vacation to queue both at the Lenin’s mausoleum and at the GUM Department Store, fashions from abroad are rare. My new garments are the most beautiful things I’ve even seen and I know at school I’ll stand out wearing one of the new blouses under our drab uniform. And that makes me feel good.

Fast-forward through the next thirty years, a move to the United States, several careers, and plenty of pairs of jeans. I look back and wonder: why did I marvel at them? Did I feel special — and thought them stunning — because no one else had them?