fan_ta
01-24-2014, 01:32 PM
By Diana Bruk
Being a Russian-American immigrant is like being the child of bitterly divorced parents. Everyone is always asking you to choose a side. Throughout my childhood, both Russians and Americans used to incessantly ask, “Are you Russian or American?” “Do you love Russia or America more?” And when I innocently and honestly answered, “Both,” the response provoked only perplexed brow-furrowing and suspicious eye-squinting from my interrogators.
My attempts to cook a “real American Christmas dinner,” were also continuously foiled. No matter how vigilant I was, beets would find their way into every salad, my ban on herring and onion was never observed, and the turkey, no matter how I basted it, stubbornly tasted Russian. I was not allowed to leave cookies out for Santa, because my mother thought it was a stupid tradition that would invite infestations of roaches and rats. The worst moment, however, would come when it was time to open the gifts, as that was when the skies darkened over my father’s head in the manner of the Old Testament. I learned, after those first few Christmases, never to buy anything fragile.
read more:
http://www.guernicamag.com/daily/diana-bruk-a-russian-jewish-american-christmas/
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splendid!
a superb exposition on the value of 'polyglot family and EWSHUN' and how they can offer wonderful paths to explore....
Being a Russian-American immigrant is like being the child of bitterly divorced parents. Everyone is always asking you to choose a side. Throughout my childhood, both Russians and Americans used to incessantly ask, “Are you Russian or American?” “Do you love Russia or America more?” And when I innocently and honestly answered, “Both,” the response provoked only perplexed brow-furrowing and suspicious eye-squinting from my interrogators.
My attempts to cook a “real American Christmas dinner,” were also continuously foiled. No matter how vigilant I was, beets would find their way into every salad, my ban on herring and onion was never observed, and the turkey, no matter how I basted it, stubbornly tasted Russian. I was not allowed to leave cookies out for Santa, because my mother thought it was a stupid tradition that would invite infestations of roaches and rats. The worst moment, however, would come when it was time to open the gifts, as that was when the skies darkened over my father’s head in the manner of the Old Testament. I learned, after those first few Christmases, never to buy anything fragile.
read more:
http://www.guernicamag.com/daily/diana-bruk-a-russian-jewish-american-christmas/
=========================================
splendid!
a superb exposition on the value of 'polyglot family and EWSHUN' and how they can offer wonderful paths to explore....