First generation American duality
a short essay/stream of consciousness + resources for Ukraine
I feel…unattached.
Or maybe the word is disconnected?
All I know is that, when talking to a friend today, I compared myself to a balloon. For the longest time I was a balloon attached to a string, the string attached to a hand, and that hand attached to a human with his feet firmly planted on the ground. While I was never on the ground myself, I was adjacent to it. I knew it existed beneath me. But then he let the balloon go.
The obvious metaphor here is my breakup but that was just the last string. For years now, I’ve felt the things that ground me slipping away. I’d argue they started slipping away the second I entered the American public school system; the second English overtook Russian as my primary language and the second I began preferring macaroni and cheese as an after-school snack over my Babushka’s kotleti. I think having a Brazilian boyfriend and immersing myself in his family and his culture staved off the inevitable identity crisis but now that that’s gone, she has arrived with a vengeance.
The dual identity dilemma of a first generation American is not a new one. I don’t want to spend time analyzing how our parents’ attempt to assimilate and our desperation to fit in (both survival mechanisms in their own right) placed American culture above the one we were born into, and how that planted the seed for an internal conflict we didn’t even know we’d ever have to deal with. Many people have done that, and they’ve done a great job. I don’t know the psychology behind it; it’s not something I’ve ever studied - it’s just something I feel.
I feel it when I talk to my mom on the phone: she speaks to me in Russian, I respond in English. Rarely, I’ll attempt to speak Russian but usually immediately revert back to English because I’m shocked by how unnatural the Russian feels and the shame this causes is too much to analyze within that moment. I’d rather just get to the point and ask her whether the chicken thighs I thawed three days ago are gonna poison me or not instead of thinking too deeply about which words I’m choosing. It’s the conversation that matters, not the language in which it’s spoken, I tell myself.
I guess I never really noticed the things as they were slipping away. I think I just kind of woke up one day and realized how fucking American I am. And isn’t that what I’d always wanted? Wasn’t that the point? Isn’t that why I’ve spent thousands of dollars chemically straightening my curly Ashkenazi Jewish hair? Isn’t it why my parents risked it all to flee the Soviet Union? They wanted me to have this life. They wanted their children to be American. So we got what we always wanted and what we worked so hard for.
As I write this I stare at my Babushka’s soviet-era orange polka dot pot. It’s well-used and at least 50 years old. I use it to store the coffee pods I feed into my luxurious espresso machine - how’s that for symbolism? I like to keep random reminders of her around. I like to use her things and to feel her presence near me. It reminds me where I come from, and it comforts me.
I started writing today not really knowing what my point was. But I guess with all the horrific news coming from Ukraine, I find myself thinking about this duality again, and identity as a whole. Unlike most Americans, I have a more or less direct connection to Ukraine. Both my parents were born there and grew up there, many of my ancestors are buried there, we have family friends there. But I feel a disconnect.
Part of me knows that some of the disconnection can be attributed to the general numbness of my current life. There are many, many moments where I feel like I’m cosplaying as myself - going through the motions, doing what I’m supposed to do, but with zero emotional investment or attachment. That sort of just happens when you’ve gone through an emotionally traumatic event and I think it’s probably better than the alternative.
But a large part of it comes down to my own family’s identity struggle: my parents don’t identify as Ukrainian OR Russian. They identify as Ashkenazi Jews who have been displaced throughout Europe for many generations, never truly belonging anywhere and historically ostracized by both nations. I never really knew how to explain to my classmates in a small suburb of Columbus, Ohio that even though I spoke Russian, I wasn’t Russian and even though my parents were born in Ukraine, we weren’t Ukrainian. When you grow up in America, your definition of “Jewish” lives within the confines of a religion so it was always incredibly frustrating to me that my parents couldn’t seem to choose a nation and that they, unreligious as they were, identified firmly as Jews. So what were we?? What was I?? When I pressed them on it, they always said the same thing: “tell them you’re American. You were born here.” And they were right. I was. I am. Even though the people who made me were born in Ukraine and the blood that runs through me holds generations of trauma and violence, I am an American.
Today, I can see the nuance and the beauty in the duality. I’m close enough to truly understand struggle: to have seen my parents go through immigration and to have been raised by grandparents who were marred by the horrors of the Holocaust. But I am privileged enough as an American to finally be able to help.
Resources for Ukraine
According to many Ukrainians my sister is currently communicating with, one of the best things we can do right now is donate to the severely under-funded Ukrainian Army:
https://ukraine.ua/news/donate-to-the-nbu-fund/
Some general resources/organizations/donation links:
https://docs.google.com/document/u/0/d/1CdrWLAkEaOMV7fBbIWzHsgHmFz8s1GM6e_7a57oc3ug/mobilebasic
https://help.unhcr.org/ukraine/
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1kZGavFn7X9kVmu7SPxNTWEVzhUEVsjNSYbMoJhwgxcU/mobilebasic
https://novaukraine.org/?fbclid=IwAR1pp2BNiZOPk5n8m3knStC4bzPP0uUwC4bwOalHvTX0gTjWA7JT4CJwn_U
https://donate.jdc.org/give/393256/#!/donation/checkout
https://donate.wck.org/give/236738/#!/donation/checkout
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1IPj4dRoPeQpV5kiQ2CnDtTpsIsys3T2I3m9QN81KbUI/edit
(please do appropriate personal vetting and research before making monetary donations)
I'm sure you have heard from many, but I want to thank you for your honesty, and helping me to put in words things that have simmered in my mind for years. As a child who immigrated with his family when he was young to this country, the need to fit in when young, and how that affects the feeling of identity as you grow into yourself, I felt seen by your words. The bilingual conversations with my parents, the guilt that I should be more in touch with my culture, it's such a weird balance to navigate. Thanks against for your honesty and being vulnerable putting this out there.
I'm sorry for your struggle Emily. You have a voice and you are using it wisely. My contribution is going to the Joint (JDC). I believe they have the ability to make use of it quickly and most efficiently. MLL