That first night was definitely my hardest. That’s what I hear from my mom anyway. She’s not my birth mother, but she’s my mother. The one that taught me about life and how people are in the real word. The one who fed me took care of me and made sure that I was completely comfortable in my new home.
To be honest, I can’t tell you how I felt on that first night in that hotel room in Moscow because an 11-month old shouldn’t have that kind of memory. I know that I was not okay with where I was. I didn’t even know where I was. All I knew is that I was not in Orphanage #13 and that that’s where I wanted to be.
Now, the place I want to be is right here where I am. Of course, I want to travel and go places in my future, but Wheeling, West Virginia will always be home to me. Yet, Moscow is my other home. It never ceases to amaze me that I am able to say that, because when most people think of “home,” they think of one place. I always think of two places. One is the place that made me and the other is where I learned how to truly be me.
People always ask me if I remember anything about my time there. What is an 11-month old girl going to remember about her surroundings and the people she was with? The second question is almost always whether or not I would be intrigued with the idea of going back over to see my parents.There has always been an element of mystery involved and to me, I would like to keep it that way.
I am infatuated by the mystery of it all. Did I get my blue eyes from my Russian mother or my father? Where does my love of music and dance come from? The questions have always intrigued me and I enjoy making up the answers in my head. They change from time to time, but the story that I have always gone back to is that my father has dark hair and deep blue eyes that can drive a woman crazy. I like to play with the thought that that is why my mother fell in love with him. I also imagine that my mother was once a ballet prodigy and dreamed one day of being able to dance with the Moscow Ballet. Looking back on my short time as a ballerina at the age of six, I love the feeling of knowing that I could have had the possibility of following in her footsteps and carrying on her dream.
Coming home from Moscow, my mother remembers flying over fireworks in celebration of the Fourth of July. That day has always been special to her in more ways than one and I have grown to think of it as not only as the celebration of America but of me becoming an American. While I wonder about the mystery of my Russian parents, I often find myself thinking about how my life would be if it weren’t for my two amazing parents. 4,000 miles was not enough to keep us apart. If there ever were a time in my life that we reach a distance that far apart again, it will never keep me from loving them as much as I do.
I say that I have two homes: one I visit in my imagination and the other I live in with my parents.
