My mother immigrated from St. Petersburg, Russia to New York in 1993 after marrying my father, an American. Unlike those who move to the United States in search of economic opportunities or for a good education, my mother came without any plans or ambitions. In a sense, her immigration was unintentional and unpremeditated: she fell in love and followed her American husband back to his home.
My mother’s adventurous spirit carried her to a country which had enchanted her as a girl. She loved American authors such as James Fenimore Cooper, Jack London, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, whose novels promised beauty and freedom.
To be sure, these writers did little to prepare my mother for life in New York. She settled in suburban Westchester, in a culture that was unfamiliar and alien for someone who had grown up in the state-controlled Soviet economy. At first, American consumerism was overwhelming: for just one product, like hand soap, suddenly there were ten different brands to choose from! The most difficult adjustment was to America’s “car culture.” My mother had never learned to drive, since cars were a luxury in the Soviet Union. Driving was a difficult skill to learn, and to this day she still dislikes driving and misses her city sidewalks.
My mother eventually adjusted to life in the U.S, got her driver’s license, perfected her English, and became an adjunct professor of Russian. Her life had improved significantly: she moved from a small Russian apartment to 3-story American house, bought her own car, and now had enough income to send money back to her parents in St. Petersburg.
But despite these material gains, my mother became increasingly disappointed with America, for New York did not live up to the promise of Fitzgerald or Hemingway. Her disappointment was spiritual: suburban American values were incompatible with her urban, European sensibility. Certain parts of American culture and values still feel unnatural to her: Why does everybody walk around holding a Starbucks drink? Moreover, why is their coffee always so weak? Why do our neighbors strive to have the largest car or the largest house? Why must everyone drive? Where are the sidewalks? Becoming fluent in English and learning how to drive were not enough to make my mother feel at home. Though she has acclimated, she does not feel entirely comfortable. She will never become a suburban mom, as long as she remains a child of the urban Russian intelligentsia.
Though my mother dislikes these elements of life in New York, she has stayed nevertheless. She loves the United States for the natural beauty of its oceans, mountains, canyons and plains. She indulged this love by traveling all over the country, from Maine to Arizona. She embraced the country and it has rewarded her enthusiasm with rich experiences. But one immigrates not only to a physical landscape, but also to a culture and way of life. This latter, spiritual aspect of her move to a new country remains incomplete.
My mother’s story of immigration is not yet finished. Her journey, which began unintentionally, has now become purposeful. She seeks a place where she feels more at home than in the States. Part of this search includes returning to an urban way of life, but part of it also means escaping American culture and values, which remain unnatural for her. My mother has begun to discover France. She feels that Parisians share her values: sidewalks, strolls, small cars, strong coffee and often pessimistic—or, to her, realistic—frankness. My mother is unlike those immigrants who settle permanently in America, or who earn some money before returning to their home country. For her, New York may prove a temporary stop en-route to somewhere else.
