A lived experience is a constantly expanding, eclectic collection of events. So naturally, life experiences themselves are often best explained in anecdotes. I do not consider my first-generation identity to be an innate characteristic, something which accompanied the fluid of me as I entered the world at birth. Rather, it is the product of events that, by accident or the selective nature of the human mind, have stuck with me through the years. In sharing this life narrative, I hope to share my childhood experience navigating a first-generation identity, as an American-born daughter of two immigrants.
In Kindergarten, the marked official start of the American education system, I learned the English alphabet and practiced writing my letters. I came to school and sat in plastic chairs and giggled at rainbow letters. But in the warmth and comfort of my own home, I spoke Russian. My mom and I watched Russian cartoons together, cooked Russian food, and read Russian children’s books. Home was a different world, one that existed behind the closed front door of my suburban home, shut tightly.
One afternoon a week my mom drove me to Russian lessons. I was so hesitant to admit to the extent of my bilingual ability that I purposefully refused to read in front of my Russian teacher. I feared being inadequate at proving my culture, especially in front of the raw power that was my five-foot-tall, bespectacled instructor. I remember sitting at the desk in her apartment, chubby cheeks resting on my fists, glaring down at the characters on the page. As I crossed my eyes, the letters morphed into funny little creatures, scattering across the paper and blurring at the corners. Only with persistent coaxing from my mother, who stood over my shoulder encouragingly, and numerous promises to reserve judgment from my Russian teacher, did I finally begin to read. And I read well, exceptionally so.
In first grade, my class was assigned an exercise in cultural narrative. We were told to dress up cloth dolls to represent our cultural heritage. My mom enlisted my grandmother’s help in dressing mine up. My doll came out wearing a traditional Russian sarafan and kokoshnik headdress. She glowed bright red, her whole body embroidered in golden ribbons and blue gems. Her lavishly decorated outfit felt weird and lofty stuffed into my zip-up hoodie, and I kept having to tuck her red sarafan back into the grey fabric of my pocket on my walk to school. When I finally withdrew her from hiding, the girls in my class gathered around in a flock. They looked my little Russian doll up and down, looked at her red peasant dress and her gold trapezoidal headdress, their brows furrowed. Then they looked down at the dolls in their own hands, little ladies wearing plaid skirts, earthen colored dresses and princess gowns—clothing inspired by the contents of their own little girl wardrobes. Amused, the girls stroked my doll’s red dress, then turned and ran to play on the playground together.
When I got older, my elementary school decided to expand upon this idea of cultural appreciation by holding an annual cultural celebration week. Students were told to bring cultural food to class in order to celebrate and share their life experiences with their classmates. One day I went home and asked my dad what food he thought the American kids were going to bring in. He replied, “aren’t you American?”
My classmates brought in pasta and bread or some form of European-born sweet. Some brought latkes or risky “ethnic” foods. Most food contributions, even the foreign Indian curry, were devoured in seconds. All the foods were delicious, full of rich, satisfying flavor. When asked how the food related to their culture, kids proudly explained that it represented their English/Irish/German side or their Italian/French/Scottish roots.
Then came my turn to bring my Russian-Jewish cuisine to class in a plastic Tupperware. I spent a stress-filled week racking my brain for anything that wouldn’t leave the aftertaste of fish, mayonnaise, or sour cream in the mouths of my unsuspecting classmates. My nose wrinkled at the thought of bringing olivye or tefteli to school. My mom suggested I bring in a warm pot of borscht. “No, I responded, “no one else brought soup! Plus, it’s bright red. They’re going to think it’s weird.” So we settled on the simplest, least sour-cream-and-fish flavored Russian dish—potato patties. With no translation in English, the only way to describe this food is to describe its contents: a mashed-potato patty, baked and stuffed with mushroom and onion sauté. I used to devour potato patties by the plateful at my grandmother’s house.
My classmates watched eagerly as my dad delivered a steaming mound of patties, placing them at the back of the classroom. The steaming treats they saw in front of them were neither pancakes, nor eggs, nor mashed potatoes. They approached the patties timidly, taking a meager fork-full in their first bites. Then another, and another. Until the whole stacked-to-the-brim Tupperware of patties was empty. One mother came up to my dad after the feast, asking for the recipe.
As I got older, the cultural appreciation assignments diminished and celebrations became a thing of the past. I began to translate for my mom’s thick accent, which I never thought of as being particularly thick, at open houses and school events. I watched as people asked her to repeat herself or plastered on smiles, not bothering to ask her to clarify. I stood beside her as teachers and parents inquired where her accent was from. She would smile kindly and say that she grew up in St. Petersburg. “Wow! Russia,” the inquisitor would respond, wide-eyed. “I knew it! I could tell by your accent.”
Freshman year of high school I was assigned to look into my family’s history. My English teacher assigned us to write a narrative research project about a family member that we considered to be a hero and explain why we thought of them this way. I chose my dad, of course. After all, I had grown up hearing bedtime stories about my father escaping from a dangerous land through great feats of bravery and intellect. I heard the story of his journey to America. He sold his grandmother’s pearl necklaces for much less than they were worth in order to fund their train ride to freedom, or, in this case, Italy. After giving away his possessions in preparation for the journey, his family was forced to use stacks of yard-sale-bought books as chairs. Upon arriving in Italy, my dad’s family rented an apartment above a market square and attempted to trade the last of their possessions for money and food. They drank Italian wine and cooked omelettes with Italian spices. Later, after months of saving, they were able to fly to America. It was in California that they purchased their first home—a small apartment in San Francisco. I would doze off to the sound of his voice telling me great adventure stories and as I fell asleep I remember thinking, my dad is a superhero.
Growing up between two cultures certainly came with a unique sense of uncertainty, as my childhood, and teenage years, existed as a tug of war between the forces of assimilation and individuality. I felt myself wanting to become more American, to grow into the cultural label I witnessed enveloping and protecting the lives of the neat, suburban families around me. At the same time, I could feel my heritage beckoning me towards it with satirical fables and fragrant cooking, pulling me away from the suburbs of California and towards a bigger country across the Atlantic. I knew Russia as a land of steeples and churches, of tree-lined lanes and cobblestone streets—a place that my mother once called home. And yet, I also knew it as the terror forcing my father and his family out of his home when he was only sixteen. This straddling of nationalities, the unfamiliarity of the present and the fear of the past, kept me in a constant state of imbalance. Yet it is also what kept me awake to and aware of the social realities within this country, a place chosen to house my family’s future. As much as they succeeded in sheltering me from the weight of the first-generation experience, my parents were never able to fully shield me from my curiosity. This curiosity to uncover and collect culture wherever it is hidden has given me the freedom to shape a cultural identity that is undoubtedly, uniquely my own.
Image Credit: Feature, Alina Kalmeyer