Prompt: Consider something in your life you think goes unnoticed and write about why it's important to you.
When I was younger and my friends embarked on utopian escapades consisting of hamburgers, football, and polos at the Y. Day Camp, I commenced my annual exile to Russian sleep-away camp. This experience can best be described as a mass migration of Russian malchiki and devochki bunking up with their babooshkas and dedooshkas, celebrating all that is infinitely embarrassing and Russian for three solid weeks. This went on for years, and every time I came home from my Russian hyper-immersion, I swore this summer would be the last. Yet every July 1st, to my eternal dismay, I found both my bags and my person neatly tossed into my grandparent's car ready to be shipped off to the Middle of Nowhere, Upstate New York.
I am a first generation Russian American, and my struggle with that identity would be difficult to initially discern. My apparent confidence and pride in my upbringing belied the reality that as a child I was incessantly reminded of how my culture is a blessing, yet I treated it as a curse. My family grew up as Soviet Jews during the height of the Cold War and had to endure being second class citizens in their own country. They took major risks to relocate to the Land of Opportunity and fulfill their dream of preserving their Jewish heritage and providing their children a sense of freedom and pride. Yet as a third grader, freedom was a given and my grandmother's Russian headscarf and my parents' foreign accents were an embarrassment.
I did not understand why being different was so great, a problem that I faced from both ends. My family chuckled at my Americanized Russian, while my friends giggled at the English words I mispronounced in a "Russian-y" way. I always stammered out an apology after being corrected, believing my duty was to reconcile the gaping disconnect between my upbringing and surroundings. This way of thinking may have persisted if a friend of mine had not reassured me, "Don't apologize, I think it's cool how you said it." This was my Lightbulb Moment, switching my Russian upbringing from "embarrassingly uncool" to "uniquely awesome."
I am a traveler of two worlds, resident in none. Admittedly at times I yearn for the feeling of belonging completely and totally to one culture, but that is not a life I am privy to. I am lucky enough to have fervently watched Eurovision and Hannah Montana, lovingly tasted Jewish latkes and pizza, and devoured Pushkin's greatest works along with Walt Disney's. My roots tie me to my ancestors, flavor my everyday life, and color the way I view the world in the best way possible while my experiences opened me up to a world where uniqueness is admired and pride of one's culture and its idiosyncrasies is encouraged. I have been privileged enough to cross bridges through the worlds I call home, and carry with me lessons I've learned from each side of the divide. It is imperative not only to acknowledge my Russian American background, but also the quandary I once had accepting it, for even the imperfect bumps in the road are an important part of the journey in discovering myself.
When I was younger and my friends embarked on utopian escapades consisting of hamburgers, football, and polos at the Y. Day Camp, I commenced my annual exile to Russian sleep-away camp. This experience can best be described as a mass migration of Russian malchiki and devochki bunking up with their babooshkas and dedooshkas, celebrating all that is infinitely embarrassing and Russian for three solid weeks. This went on for years, and every time I came home from my Russian hyper-immersion, I swore this summer would be the last. Yet every July 1st, to my eternal dismay, I found both my bags and my person neatly tossed into my grandparent's car ready to be shipped off to the Middle of Nowhere, Upstate New York.
I am a first generation Russian American, and my struggle with that identity would be difficult to initially discern. My apparent confidence and pride in my upbringing belied the reality that as a child I was incessantly reminded of how my culture is a blessing, yet I treated it as a curse. My family grew up as Soviet Jews during the height of the Cold War and had to endure being second class citizens in their own country. They took major risks to relocate to the Land of Opportunity and fulfill their dream of preserving their Jewish heritage and providing their children a sense of freedom and pride. Yet as a third grader, freedom was a given and my grandmother's Russian headscarf and my parents' foreign accents were an embarrassment.
I did not understand why being different was so great, a problem that I faced from both ends. My family chuckled at my Americanized Russian, while my friends giggled at the English words I mispronounced in a "Russian-y" way. I always stammered out an apology after being corrected, believing my duty was to reconcile the gaping disconnect between my upbringing and surroundings. This way of thinking may have persisted if a friend of mine had not reassured me, "Don't apologize, I think it's cool how you said it." This was my Lightbulb Moment, switching my Russian upbringing from "embarrassingly uncool" to "uniquely awesome."
I am a traveler of two worlds, resident in none. Admittedly at times I yearn for the feeling of belonging completely and totally to one culture, but that is not a life I am privy to. I am lucky enough to have fervently watched Eurovision and Hannah Montana, lovingly tasted Jewish latkes and pizza, and devoured Pushkin's greatest works along with Walt Disney's. My roots tie me to my ancestors, flavor my everyday life, and color the way I view the world in the best way possible while my experiences opened me up to a world where uniqueness is admired and pride of one's culture and its idiosyncrasies is encouraged. I have been privileged enough to cross bridges through the worlds I call home, and carry with me lessons I've learned from each side of the divide. It is imperative not only to acknowledge my Russian American background, but also the quandary I once had accepting it, for even the imperfect bumps in the road are an important part of the journey in discovering myself.
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