| Girl develops cultural clarity in foggy city (10/09) | | Print | |
| Written by Irina Kirnos | |
| Friday, 16 October 2009 | |
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Even though moving and being the outsider was a difficult experience, I discovered its positive aspects. As a new American, I could to learn a new language, establish my place in society and eventually find my identity. I was not considered “that alien girl” for very long. After just three months of being submersed in American culture, I quickly learned English and became just as American as the other kids. My transformation was complete. Just like the other kindergarteners, I would jump rope during recess, crave Happy Meals and watch Barney. Ironically, being surrounded by Americans caused my Russian speaking abilities to weaken to a point where I couldn’t say a sentence without making a mistake… or three. Once I assimilated and began to enjoy living in Texas, my mother announced that we were moving closer to my grandmother — to San Francisco. I was so excited; television had brainwashed me to think that California was the happiest place on Earth, like Disneyland. I expected every day to be ideal beach weather but was hit with reality after my first night, when I looked out the window to check out my new neighborhood and discovered a vast, milky substance that made it so I couldn’t see the building next door, a mere twenty feet away. The sun rarely made an appearance at my new home. What came as an even bigger surprise to me was that San Franciscans had their own stereotypical ideas of Texans. I often had to assure my classmates that living in Texas did not automatically require you to have a twang or wear cowboy boots and plaid shirts. I felt like an alien — all over again. I longed to go home to my friends and the sunny weather, but my mother had already declared that there was no going back. San Francisco wasn’t all bad, however. Because of its unique diversity and “melting pot” characteristic, I found people that came from a similar foreign background and could relate to many of my experiences. For once, I wasn’t the only one who celebrated Christmas on the first of January and belonged to the Russian Orthodox church. Also, I wasn’t bombarded with stupid questions about my foreign roots as I had been in Texas and didn’t have to worry about being misunderstood anymore. San Francisco was much more diverse and had a Russian community — something San Antonio lacked. Back in San Antonio, the only other Russian speaking person I knew was my mother, whom I primarily spoke English with anyway, so it had been easier to forget the language and lose contact with my roots. But in San Francisco, surrounded by other Russian people, I reconnected with the culture I had lost in Texas. Now, on the weekends I can eat hot Russian piroshki from the bakery on Geary, come home to watch a cheesy Russian soap opera with my mother, without English translations, and visit a familiar Russian store for candy and blinchiki — all of which feels great after being an alien for so long. As I began to identify with other Russians, I was encouraged to improve my language skills. My family decided to send me to Russian language and literature classes, to further connect me with my origins. In fact, tomorrow morning, when most normal teenagers will be in bed sleeping or watching the morning cartoons, I will be sitting in class, likely discussing a novel of the famous Russian writer Alexander Pushkin. Now, after seven years of living in San Francisco, I still smile when I see a Texan license plate and my ears perk up when someone mentions the Lone Star state. However, I don’t regret moving to San Francisco for even a millisecond. Sure, I miss being greeted with sunshine every morning, but I think fog is a fair enough trade for culture and identity. Share this article:           |
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to listen.
