User:David
From The Peopling of Astoria, Queens
my mini bio
This past Summer, as I was heading towards my cross-country running path at Forest Park, two lost girls approached me. Barely able to speak a word of English, they made a futile attempt to ask me for directions. I was able to make out the hint of a Russian accent in their virtually non-existent English and immediately started yapping away to them in Russian, completely enthralled with the idea that despite our apparent estrangement, we shared an undeniable bond of language. A language is a culture, a tool, a gift, and an accomplishment. Only in New York City can one undoubtedly find someone else to have a conversation with in their native tongue. My journey to New York started at the young age of nine months, from the city of Tashkent, Uzbekistan.
I was born into a family with both Russian and Bukharian Jewish roots. However, my family is more fluent in the Russian language than they are in Bukhori (a dialect of Persian). During the collapse of the Soviet Union, my parents, as well as a large sector of the community, decided that a change was needed. Half of my family (more of my mother’s side) immigrated to Israel. I was only an infant when my parents decided to trek their way into the United States after long consideration. On April 25th, 1988 my mother and father, sister and brother, aunt and uncle, two cousins, grandmother, and myself began the immigration process at Austria.
I’ve heard stories of turmoil and fortitude as my parents discussed their trip to Italy after just one month. This was, however, what the immigration process had entailed. The majority of us lived very comfortably on the outskirts of Rome, where hot days and steamy nights were common to Soviet immigrants during the era. While communication was not a problem most of the time, my mother once told me a story of how she experienced her share of pandemonium.
On July 14th, 1988, I turned a year old. My parents had seemingly decided that my indelible gift would be tan lines that would remain for quite some time. I was left alone on the balcony of my fourth-story apartment. The keys were no where to be found for hours. My mother cried for help, but could not seem to get across the Italian-Russian language barrier. When I was finally approached, calm tears came running down my face while I practically burned.
Although I cannot remember the incident, I am glad it took whatever it did for us to reach our final destination at Forest Hills, New York. Forest Hills serves middle class to upper-middle class residents of Queens, predominantly of Jewish backgrounds. There are several synagogues and Russian-speaking individuals, making it a “home away from home.” Even with this unity, diversity still remains. If I had to choose only one area of my learning to cultivate, I would undoubtedly endeavor to learn as many languages as possible because learning a language in this great city, you invariably learn and are exposed to so much more. The ability to speak with practically anyone with whom you desire is tantamount to possessing a universal passport. Living in New York City enables a person to work, learn, explore and even love virtually anywhere in the world. I am glad the transition to citizens of the United States from the former Soviet Union was so successful.