David

I met David right after I stopped dating a boy whose parents hated me because I was Jewish. David did not seem to care. His brother was half Jewish and his mom's best friend was Jewish as well, he told me. We liked each other right away, but I knew I had to bring him home to meet my family. I did not really care what he would think of my family, but I was a little worried about what they would think of him.

At first, they did not care either way. They thought he was just another boy. And since he wasn't a nice Jewish boy, they did not feel the need to promote any interest in him. I could not tell what they were thinking, until one day, David had dinner with my entire family.

As soon as he got there, I heard mama mutter something about picky Americans, but then she smiled and offered us borcht. I cringed at the sound, and declined, but David to everyone's surprise readily accepted. We all held our breaths as he ate the soup spoon by spoon. Here, try it with sour cream, said Edik, and passed the container. Thanks, I love sour cream, said David. As mama watched him with satisfaction, she laughed and said, you know, David, you are more Russian than Irene. Everyone else laughed too. Then I heard babushka whisper to mama that David could easily pass for a Jewish boy.

I knew right then that they approved. Four years later, my mother is still convinced that David is more Russian than me. And every time he comes over she feeds him and says, here is another food you can eat with sour cream.

Smells

Ask any Jewish or any Russian person what his or her house smells like and they will tell you: fried onions and fish. Those are the two most potent stenches, and my house for one reason or another alternates between the two aromas though it has a myriad of scents to choose from.

Not the fish again, I scream coming into the house.

It's good for you, mama yells from the kitchen.

You know I hate fish.

Well, don't eat it.

But why do I have to smell it? Can the house ever not smell of food?!

Silly girl, it's a good thing that we have food to smell!

I have no response to that. I sigh in submission and retreat to my room. When I come down, mama has a plate set out with a piece of fish on it.

Here, just try it, she says.

I don't want it.

That's because you don't know what is good for you, says mama in a huffy tone.

Of course, only you know what's good for me! I retort back.

Your brother likes my cooking.

I didn't say I don't like your cooking.

Actions speak louder than words, mama exclaims triumphantly.

It is not until I remind her of the fishbone that got stuck in my throat when I was little that she smiles again. My near death experience makes her feel better about her cooking and she makes me an omelet instead.

Don't worry, she says. We'll open the windows, and the smell will be gone by tomorrow.

Umhmm, I mumble, knowing fully well that the smells will never wane.

A Different Breed of Women

Women brought up by Communism are a different breed of women indeed. Weathered by years of unfairness, they are hard, brash, and bitter. Each wrinkle on their face is the result of restrained anger and unappreciated trud²⁷. They have lived their lives as disciples of their government, dependable mothers, accommodating wives and men's equals in the workforce without the parity. They worked long hours alongside men before coming home to nurture children, keep up the home, and take care of their husbands. They kept their husbands strong while enduring abuse in return. Yet their indispensable roles were only celebrated once a year, on March 8, the International Women's Day.

These women are big on the notion of tough love, as at any minute they could have been stripped of their husbands and children, not to mention their lives. They forfeited their right to openly pray to their God, but in the privacy of their minds, they prayed to a god that didn't answer. They forwent formal education, as the jobs they worked required physical strength and not intellectual power. In fact they came to resent those women who slipped through the cracks of Communist platform and enriched themselves with education and skills.

Those who slipped through the cracks are rare and few. They still possess many qualities of those fully induced by communism, but they also possess resilience. They preserved an open mind that for years had to appear closed to others. These are the women who embraced the revolution in the early nineties and had an easier time adapting. These are the women who refuse to stop talking now - now that they are allowed to speak. And as these women speak, their stories horrify and amaze me.

I Got a Weird Letter The Other Day

I got a weird letter the other day. It looked like an overdue library notice or perhaps a belated pay stub. Tear along the dotted lines it said. So, I did. It was an official appointment to take my citizenship oath. The letter that my grandfather missed by a week. The letter that my grandmother will never get. I looked at the date of the appointment. It interfered with a prior commitment, but in an instant it became a priority.

The day of the appointment, I made my way downtown. David came with me. We decided to make a day of it. We rode public transportation, and then counted off the blocks to the INS building. Finally, we saw it, a White Marble Giant. I hesitated before entering, afraid that it will swallow a dwarf like me. Still, I took a deep breath and entered. The marble radiated coldness and formality. Metal detectors formed a picket line along the entryway. It was almost as though they were the Giant's teeth discriminating against the food they let in.

Finally, we were inside. We were the first ones there, and a guard escorted us toward the room. It was locked, so we waited. Slowly, other people began to arrive. The more of us gathered, the meaner the guards became. They herded us out back into the entrance hallway and ordered us to line up. They refused to answer questions and avoided all eye contact. I was embarrassed for the older people waiting in line. I was saddened by children's averted faces. But mostly I was angry at the rude guards for their inability to share our long-awaited victory our achievement of becoming one of them.

The room was finally unlocked, and we were allowed to enter. This is it I thought and squeezed David's hand. He smiled. One by one they called out names. Juan Garcia. Thao Chen. Rachelle Kirst. Vasiliy Petuhov. Amir Patel. Finally, they called mine. Armed with my nearly expired Green Card, I approached. Sign here, the lady said. Steadying my shaky hand, I signed. She took my Green Card, and handed me a certificate. Congratulations, she said, and called out the next person's name. What? I thought. Where is the ceremony? Where is my little American flag? Don't I need to say an oath? I must have looked disappointed because the lady looked at me with a softer glance and told me I was free to leave. I looked over at David. He was smiling, but I felt silly. I felt silly for bringing him to a ceremony that didn't exist

Outside, he took a picture of me with my certificate in front of the Giant, and then, we went out for lunch.

So, Are You Greek?

Are you Greek? Italian? No, Spanish, you must be Spanish.

The questions still loom in the air. Now, I could just say I am American, but something inside doesn't let me. The label just doesn't fit right. It's a bit too snug, too confining.

Oddly, it is only the lack of something that makes us yearn for it, and once we get it, it no longer consumes our every thought. Since coming to the States, I have wanted to become a U.S. Citizen - to belong in the ultimate way. Now that I am, I still do not feel that I fully belong. Only now, I'm not saddened - I feel lucky. I see the melting cauldron bubbling and steaming, blending all cultures into one rather odd looking and smelling stew. And I resolve to preserve that what has been haunting me my entire life - me.

There is far too much history for me to just let it all be reduced to a bland-flavored mass. No, I have heard far too many stories, and have felt far too many emotions to just close the door on that part of myself. Yes, I know that people are afraid of what they don't understand. I say let them be afraid. Let them be afraid and inquisitive. Let them ask the What are you? questions. And although now, I can answer American, I won't. Instead I will say I am a Russian Jew from Latvia and watch the inquisitors squirm with discomfort.

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