Flower bouquet in hand, a teenage girl reluctantly rings the doorbell of a familiar home. As expected, she is greeted by the barks of an anxious dog and its owner pleading, “Come quick, come quick!” as he struggles to keep hold of his beloved pet. As ordered, she quickly shuffles over to the small, yet homely, kitchen where her mother chats with one of her friends. Her mother’s friend promptly greets her with a hug and a kiss, insisting that the flowers were unnecessary, and immediately gives her a generous portion of freshly cooked food. As she eats, the man who greeted her at the door sits at the end of the table, lovingly petting his over-sized lap dog as he occasionally looks up from his computer screen to listen to the gossip coming from the two women. Uninterested, she repeatedly checks her phone to find a better source of entertainment to replace the dreaded social interaction she is witnessing.
As a child born from first generation Russians, this scenario was all too common throughout my childhood. My parents were always a bit worried that moving to America and raising me there would mean that I would likely lose my cultural ties; naturally, then, when they found a community of Russians in Little Rock, Ark., my parents made certain that I communicated with them as much as I could.
When I was growing up, I only heard people talking about the political, economic, and formal differences between The United States and Russia. Rarely, though, did I hear people discussing the smaller, not so apparent cultural differences I dealt with on a daily basis. Nobody ever talked about the discrepancy between senses of humor, for instance, that was so prominent between the two cultures. I could never understand why my friends from school never found my parents to be funny, or why my parents failed to laugh at any of my “American” jokes. But the struggle went far past the misunderstood humor. How was I to explain to my friends the superstitions that my parents and I lived our lives by? How was I to respectfully ask that my friends not whistle in our home because it was considered bad luck, and then proceed to provide them with a rational explanation for why?
Despite this cultural divide, it seemed like every time someone found out I was Russian, their main concern was the language barrier, not the culture. “It must be hard understanding English when you speak so much Russian at home,” they would say, with a very apologetic look on their face.
Respectfully, I would reply, “No, not really, actually,” when all I really wanted to say was, “I speak English fine, thanks, and I would love it if you stopped treating me like I didn’t.” It was never the language that was the problem --it was having to integrate two very different cultures into my life that proved to be problematic.
You can imagine, then, the confusion and frustration I experienced as a typical second-generation child. Going to a culturally American school during the day and coming home to a very Russian household by night meant that I was constantly mentally juggling different ideas and practices. This constant juggling quickly became overwhelming, and so by my teenage years, I did what many second-generation kids will do: I picked one.
As most teenagers do, I grew distant from my parents, and chose to spend more time with my peers. Detaching myself from my parents didn’t just mean our relationship was at stake, though, because it also meant I was distancing myself from part of my culture and upbringing. I gradually grew embarrassed of my parents and dreaded any instance in which they communicated with my friends. And when my parents took me to Russian parties, I escaped from the adults and found comfort in spending time with their children who could also relate more to the surrounding American culture. To me, being associated with my Russian family made me feel lesser, and so I used any opportunity I had to avoid them.
I am relieved to say, however, that in recent years, this has not been the case. I have learned that there are ways to incorporate two distinct sets of cultures without having to reject one completely. I have learned different lessons from both of my cultural settings, and I have grown into a well-versed individual as a result.
This past week, I was that teenage girl with the bouquet in her hand, except this time I was not ashamed. I laughed, I was entertained, and I was grateful to be spending time with people more in tune to my Russian upbringing. After years of practicing appreciation for my culture, engaging with these adults feels like engaging with my friends, and I no longer feel detached. I have finally reached contentment with the cultural diversity that has guided my life, and I could not be happier.
