Immigration Narrative.
Immigration has a profound effect on most families. It usually leads to a change in the family. Often enough it leads to the loss of multiple traditions, sometimes languages, and often times even histories. My families story was far different. My family comes from a small oft-forgotten part of the former Soviet Union known as Moldova. Prior to that my family can trace its lineage to Germany, and Romania, as well as to Iraq, and Poland. Never-the-less despite the conglomeration of cultures, and ideas that the afore-mentioned list may offer, as far as I can remember we have considered ourselves Russian.
Strangely enough, immigration is the reason that my family feels as Russian as it does. When I lived in Moldova as a little boy, I remember being told by both teachers and peers that I could not be a Russian, nor could I even be considered Slavic, because I was Jewish, and being Jewish was an ethnicity on to itself in the Soviet Union, a sentiment that carries on in Russia, and most of the members of the former Soviet bloc. To make matters more complicated, Moldovans at the time weren’t exactly sure who they were. As a country, Moldova is really a Soviet creation to weaken Romania. The country used to be a part of Romania, and there was a distinct culture shock when the split occurred. Some parts of the country were occupied by Slavic people, such as my parents, while others were occupied by people had a Romanian sentiment, and felt that Moldovan nationalism was an echo of Romanian nationalism. The result of this complicated cultural difference, was the creation of a pseudo-independent country called Transnistria, which is not recognized by Moldova, or the UN, but has its own borders and its own government. What this looked like for a boy who was just 7 years old, and awfully confused about his cultural identity was rather complex. Having been told that I couldn’t be Russian, nor could I be Romanian, I assumed that I was simply Jewish. The issue was that being Jewish really didn’t mean very much at the time. My grandparents, and parents had religion stifled by the Soviet Union and pogroms, and so they lost touch with the traditions and cultures that Judaism came with. I was essentially considered Jewish by the outside world, and yet had no idea what that meant, therefore had no idea who I could feel an ethnic connection with.
Immigration helped solve my ethnic crisis very quickly. When my family moved to America, we came to the most Russian part of the USA, Brighton Beach. There we made friends, and attempted not to lose out language and what semblance of culture we brought with us. The chief religion of Russian living on Brighton Beach was Judaism, yet the majority of them considered themselves very strongly Russian. The bond of language brought the Russian people from different countries together. Elders who held on to the strict ethnic sentiment of my past were alright with recognizing my “Russianness” simply because of my fluency in the language. With the amount of teenagers who lose their language, and their culture upon arrival to the US, I was considered Russian just by virtue of knowing what being Russian meant. To be completely clear, this made me rather happy. Additionally, with the rather large Jewish population in New York, I was able to get in touch with that part of my culture as well. Traditions that my family had been carrying out in Moldova, like lighting candles suddenly came with a meaning attached to them.
I remember the first time I was asked who I was in primary school. My school was a Russian private school, and practically all the teachers spoke to the students in colloquial Russian. When you are asked “Ti otkuda” which roughly translates to “Where you from?” You are expected to answer not with your birthplace, but rather the country of your ethnic beginning. I answered that I was from Russia. I now realize that this is basically a complete lie. And yet, I continue answering similar questions that way. Even though my family has practically no connection to mainland Russia, the culture imprinted onto my parents by post-Soviet Union Moldova, was that we were an extension of Russia, and therefore Russian.
I also remember one day, when I was playing with a group of kids in the park and one of the kids accidentally asked me something in Russian rather than in English, and I answered in kind. The question was completely insignificant. As was the answer. But that bond was instantly formed. We both knew Russian. That boy is my best friend to this date. It is rather interesting that something as simple as language can bring people together so efficiently. I realized this tidbit at a very early age. I came to the realization that I never wanted to forget Russian. I began finding classical Russian literature, and reading it from cover to cover. It was my favorite activity for a long time. While other kids in class would be playing with their yugioh cards, or their game boys, I would be reading Anna Karenina from a dusty tome that my parents gave me for my birthday. Reading in Russian quickly became another representation of my Russian culture.
I think it is rather remarkable, that being displaced from the country where I grew up made me so much more in tune with who I was culturally. It is a testament to the American ideal. A person can come here and become another part of mainstream America, or that same person can choose to keep what makes them, them, and even amplify it. An option that seems to be far more oft-executed nowadays. An interesting country indeed.
May seem like a rather ordinary book, but this is a hardcover handmaid version of the first edition of Anna Karenina that was passed down my family. (the hardcover was handmaid by a craftsman, with the manuscript carefully attacked inside)
