Tatyana (Russian through and through,
Herself not certain of the reason)
Loved that cold perfection too,
Loved Russia in the winter season
I messed up reciting, in Russian, the second line of this excerpt from Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin in sixth grade. My tutor looked at me sternly through her wire-rimmed glasses and said, “In Russia, every truck driver can recite it!” My only excuse for such obvious incompetence is that I left Russia when I was seven.
Since immigrating to the US, I’ve often been asked, “Oh, you’re Russian? Do you miss home?” I’ve never known what to answer. Mostly because I am not quite “Russian through and through.” Yes, I was born in Russia and I have the birth certificate to prove it. But if you look closely, the ethnicity section of my birth certificate says “Jewish,” not Russian. Jews in Russia have always been considered foreigners, so my family’s relationship with Russia has always been somewhat complicated.
Strangely, an utter lack of identification with Russia didn’t prevent my parents from hiring a Russian tutor and making me read Eugene Onegin when I was twelve, attending an average American public middle school. As a result, when I imagined a visit to Russia, I pictured beautiful women in ball gowns, with suitors dueling for their honor. More recently, while packing for Russia, drunk armed soldiers eating piroshki and Putin riding on a bear also came to mind.
What I wanted most out of my trip was to see Russia outside of literature and the American press. I was curious to see whether I could fit in. Naturally, my family was not pleased when I decided to visit the country they had made such a great effort to leave.
“Don’t smile on the street! Don’t laugh! Don’t take your phone out! Don’t leave your passport in the hotel! Don’t talk to strangers! If you get arrested…”
“I won’t get arrested!”
“If you get arrested, deny all charges!”
“Ok… I get the p…”
“We’ll miss you! … And don’t keep money in your outer pockets!”
Thus did my parents prepare me for a three-week college course in Moscow. With money and documents stashed in several different suitcases and with only fear in my outer pockets, I set off on my journey.
I spent my free time after classes trying to blend in with the crowds. What my parents told me about not smiling in public turned out to be useful advice. In Russia, a perfect “resting bitch face” must be worn at all times. This does not, however, mean that people are cold and unfeeling. They are simply more honest in expressing their emotions. If a Russian smiles or asks, “How are you?”, they genuinely do want to hear all about how you almost got frostbite on the way to the metro and how your mother has started spring cleaning two months early. Even though I’ve been back in the US for a week, I’m still having a hard time forming a perfect mandatory half smile when I pass people in the dining hall.
Though Russians can seem cold and unfeeling, it’s a facade. What is truly cold and unfeeling is the Russian winter, a source of great national pride. It has been a decisive factor in several military victories, such as the defeat of Napoleon when his troops almost froze to death and were forced to retreat. In frigid weather, Americans tend to stay at home. In Russia everyone is out ice skating, going to the theater, taking walks, and eating ice cream.
On one frigid, windy day, I attempted to go to one of Moscow’s many art museums. As I discovered later, the line outside made the news that day, because those eager art connoisseurs who didn’t pass out from the cold and leave in ambulances managed to break the museum doors in, and many rushed to warm their toes in hot water in the bathroom. I gave up after half an hour in this line, while the group of elderly women around me persevered. Clearly, I was not Russian enough.
Instead, feeling a little defeated, with three pairs of socks on my feet and two sweaters under my coat, I went to an outdoor flea market. I meandered dejectedly through rows of painted Putin matreshkas, Soviet propaganda posters, and fur coats. In a far corner of the market, several rows past the tourists, I spotted the perfect set of hand-painted wooden figures and started to bargain down the price. In my frustration with my inability to fit in, I hadn’t realized that I’d spent most of the day outside, in the coldest weather I’d ever experienced, and navigated my way around the metro without a map. Without really noticing it, I had somehow adopted a flawlessly Russian demeanor, a clashing mix of indifference and fervor: Russian through and through.
On my next trip to Russia, and I’m sure there will be one, I will not be so worried about my identity. I will bring my nicest boots, put on a dispassionate face, and may even be willing to give up my toes for art.
Braving the cold