Where are you from? (Please answer this in any way you'd like-geographically, culturally, artistically, politically, etc.)
The question "Where are you from?" should be easy to answer. This is why many people ask this question to a stranger in the first 5 minutes of a conversation. For me, the duty of compulsory small-talk is unbelievably stressful. The poor, unsuspecting stranger is expecting a one-phrase answer detailing my birthplace, or my current location, or at the very most: both. Yet this question is my cue to begin telling half of my life story. This is where I feel a twinge of remorse for the stranger who displayed the courtesy to attempt small-talk with me.
Here is my story: my mother is Ukrainian and my father is a Turkmen. I was born- not raised - in Yekaterinburg, Russia. When I was 2, we moved to Mary, Turkmenistan. This is where the stranger expects me to finish my story, but unfortunately, the bombardment of information is yet to conclude.
"Oh, and for a year, I lived in Cincinnati, United States." By the time I reveal this detail, the stranger's eyes have grown grotesquely wide in fascination and curiosity.
I often invent ways to condense my essay-esque answer, yet I always come to the same dead end: how does one condense his roots when he has so many?
My mother-tongue is Russian: My pride in mastering it is unparalleled as it represents my heritage, my nationality. Learning English on top of Russian was, however, one of the biggest challenges I have ever faced.
Then there is my Turkmen side. I live in Turkmenistan and I do speak Turkmen. My iron will and my natural haggling abilities are apparent thanks to my Turkmen upbringing. Furthermore, I feel it is my duty to dispel the falsehood of Middle Eastern stereotypes: "I do not live in a dessert, we do not ride camels every day, and I am not, in any shape or form, a terrorist." Turkmenistan taught me the concept of respect and tolerance: respect for my elders, and tolerance for the multitude of different cultures within Turkmen society.
Finally, there is my American side. In the past year, the United States chiseled me into the independent person I never thought I could be. Relying on myself for everything not only reinforces my anxiety for life in host family, It also instilled in me a sense of responsibility that, until a year ago, was unbeknownst to me. Cincinnati widened my perspective of this world. I no longer live there, but I stand as living proof for the old clichĂŠ: 'home is where the heart is.' Some part of my heart will eternally be in Cincinnati.
I am from, therefore, a mix of Eurasian and Middle Eastern cultures and heritages, with a recent immersion in life in the United States.
My conclusion is that roots are impossible to condense. The more one tries, the more one's sense-of-self is lost. Russia, Ukraine, Turkmenistan and United States are all part of me. Without them, this essay, these thoughts, and, in short, 'I' would not be. So, the stranger better be prepared to hear my honest, all-embracing answer, or not ask the question. Perhaps next time, I could hand him a copy of this essay, and having read it, perhaps he will be a stranger no more.
Please check my grammar and smoothness of essay and other sings :)
Thank you.
The question "Where are you from?" should be easy to answer. This is why many people ask this question to a stranger in the first 5 minutes of a conversation. For me, the duty of compulsory small-talk is unbelievably stressful. The poor, unsuspecting stranger is expecting a one-phrase answer detailing my birthplace, or my current location, or at the very most: both. Yet this question is my cue to begin telling half of my life story. This is where I feel a twinge of remorse for the stranger who displayed the courtesy to attempt small-talk with me.
Here is my story: my mother is Ukrainian and my father is a Turkmen. I was born- not raised - in Yekaterinburg, Russia. When I was 2, we moved to Mary, Turkmenistan. This is where the stranger expects me to finish my story, but unfortunately, the bombardment of information is yet to conclude.
"Oh, and for a year, I lived in Cincinnati, United States." By the time I reveal this detail, the stranger's eyes have grown grotesquely wide in fascination and curiosity.
I often invent ways to condense my essay-esque answer, yet I always come to the same dead end: how does one condense his roots when he has so many?
My mother-tongue is Russian: My pride in mastering it is unparalleled as it represents my heritage, my nationality. Learning English on top of Russian was, however, one of the biggest challenges I have ever faced.
Then there is my Turkmen side. I live in Turkmenistan and I do speak Turkmen. My iron will and my natural haggling abilities are apparent thanks to my Turkmen upbringing. Furthermore, I feel it is my duty to dispel the falsehood of Middle Eastern stereotypes: "I do not live in a dessert, we do not ride camels every day, and I am not, in any shape or form, a terrorist." Turkmenistan taught me the concept of respect and tolerance: respect for my elders, and tolerance for the multitude of different cultures within Turkmen society.
Finally, there is my American side. In the past year, the United States chiseled me into the independent person I never thought I could be. Relying on myself for everything not only reinforces my anxiety for life in host family, It also instilled in me a sense of responsibility that, until a year ago, was unbeknownst to me. Cincinnati widened my perspective of this world. I no longer live there, but I stand as living proof for the old clichĂŠ: 'home is where the heart is.' Some part of my heart will eternally be in Cincinnati.
I am from, therefore, a mix of Eurasian and Middle Eastern cultures and heritages, with a recent immersion in life in the United States.
My conclusion is that roots are impossible to condense. The more one tries, the more one's sense-of-self is lost. Russia, Ukraine, Turkmenistan and United States are all part of me. Without them, this essay, these thoughts, and, in short, 'I' would not be. So, the stranger better be prepared to hear my honest, all-embracing answer, or not ask the question. Perhaps next time, I could hand him a copy of this essay, and having read it, perhaps he will be a stranger no more.
Please check my grammar and smoothness of essay and other sings :)
Thank you.