Two Cultures, One Self

Who Am I?

Good question.

She was standing in the middle of her living room, wearing a worn-down, oversized, genderless T-shirt and a pair of elegant four-inch heels. Who did she want to be today? The answer would depend on how she decided to complete her outfit. She could either match the shirt with a pair of shapeless sweatpants and be a comfort-seeking American, or she could put on a deep-cleavage sexy top and be a stone-faced Eastern European.

“Who am I?” became a lifelong question for her. Born in the USSR, she moved to the USA—from communism to capitalism, from a stoic, expressionless culture to a culture with a smile on every corner of the street.

From a Cyrillic to a Roman alphabet, she asked the question “Who am I?” with an accent. No one understands her accent. Her family is concerned that she does not sound native any longer. Her new friends remind her nicely: “Honey, your accent is beautiful…BUT it is so strong.” So, she spoke out silently.

She was both Soviet and American. And at the same time, she was neither. She learned to wear a mask depending on the occasion. She learned to fit in depending on the location. She learned to live her life as if it were two parallel lines. And she was stuck in the middle, between them. She felt as if she belonged nowhere. She could not help but always compare: “over here vs. over there,” always determining who to be today.

Like most people, she found comfort in food. As we all know, food is a universal language. But even while tasting the flavors and textures, she had to pretend. After three decades, she still despised American green bean casserole. She simply could not comprehend: “What is a casserole!?!”

“Aahh, it is absolutely delicious,” she lied to Susan and walked away.

The same applied to Soviet cuisine. For example, Kholodets—or, as they call it, aspic—or jelly made out of meat!?! Who can eat that? Oops, it was one of her childhood favorites, but now it seems as though those taste buds dissolved long ago. And why do they put mayonnaise into every dish? As a grown-up, she had learned to cook better. But as a guest, she applied her best social manners, smiled politely, and complimented Natasha for hours of hard knife work.

And now, she could not wait to walk into her own kitchen, her own comfort space, where she could munch without judgment and pretense.

The struggle did not end with food. It spread to the rest of life's principles and values, both seemingly important and not. Fashion, style, and body image are such mind-blowingly significant key factors, especially for a woman.

She grew up with a slogan every girl proudly obeyed: “Beauty demands sacrifice!” She learned to wear heels at the age of fourteen. Half-size small shoes meant bloody blisters and nothing more. Her mom did not feel sorry for her painful feet, as she chased a bus in three-inch heels while the blisters were popping and fluid was oozing out of them. Coming home, she felt bad about eating bread and pastry because it meant extra kilos around her waistline. She still couldn't resist a few sugar cookies, her favorites, and then she paid the price—hours of jumping with a jump rope—and a constant debate about whether eating supper was a good idea. She knew how embarrassing it was to be heavy. Her cousin was that girl. She was called “fat” to her face and pointed at by many dirty fingers. She did not want that reputation! She did not want that body! 90-60-90 was the body of her dreams, a silhouette every girl desired. And her desires were no different.

And then she came to America, a country that welcomed a body-positive image and had a name for the imperfect waistline. They called it “love handles.” She called it extra weight. They called it a “muffin top.” She was simply embarrassed. She felt uncomfortable for them—those women wearing low-rise jeans, showing their “love handles” and feeling no shame.

She could not help but criticize. As time went by, she realized she was looking down on both sides and both cultures. She disapproved of her own culture of women who tried so hard to impress. And she silently judged the new, to her, culture of women who seemed not to try at all.

What was she supposed to do? What style was she supposed to choose? At times, she wanted to scream. Unfortunately, she knew no one would understand her; either over there or over here.

Hence, she kept cool and chose her own style. Like always, she wore a mask depending on the occasion and continued to fit in depending on the location.

She had always complimented her American friends and co-workers, but even without trying, she had always felt overdressed.

She had always complimented her Ukrainian friends and acquaintances, but internally and profoundly, she knew she had stopped trying as much as they did.

She created her own cocoon, where she made her food and wore her style—her space, where she could be herself, where no pretense was needed.

She managed to live both lives in parallel. At times, it felt exhausted. But she was never bored. Maybe she found herself between those lines. Or maybe she understood the true meaning of being an immigrant.