Where I'm Writing From

A post-trip reflection:

I often feel like an imposter when I write about all things Russian on this blog. Sure, I’m from Russia and I speak Russian, but consider: I left that country when I was nine; I don’t really follow Russian news or politics; my Russian is riddled with English words, phrases and slang; I have a lot of trouble writing in Russian (I can read it, but much slower than English); and, as a coupe de grace, I really don’t know much about Russian cooking. Reader, I’ve been leading you astray.

Yes, you can read about borsch and blini on the blog, but I don’t cook them very often. I don’t know how to make vareneki or kulibiyaka or kulich or even everyday fried potatoes and kotleti. Truth be told, I’m not really interested in cooking or eating these foods. Too high carb, too greasy, too much work.

I’ve built a chunk of my identity on being “Russian.” I’ve written dozens of school and college essays on my “multicultural” identity. Teachers and admission counselors are suckers for that sort of thing, you know. I’ve based my blogging projects on Russian themes, a good niche opportunity. I don’t know of any other English-language, Russian-themed cooking blogs (although the Russian-born writers of Beyond Salmon and Sassy Radish feature the occasional recipe).

When my train rolled into St. Petersburg this past July, I felt jittery with excitement and anxiety, like a baffled tourist in a foreign land—-which is exactly what I was. Should I take the bus or the tram? Which one? Where do I buy the tickets? How do I validate them? Where’s the Hermitage? How much is 100 rubles in dollars? (Not much.) Within four days, I was told that I don’t have the fortitude for life in Russia, that I wouldn’t be able to re-adjust if I moved back (I won’t) and even that I have an American accent (a stinging and untrue accusation--I may speak ungrammatically at times, but I don’t have an accent).

So I may be from Russia , but I’m not really “Russian.” I certainly wouldn’t be considered Russian had I stayed in Russia , not with a Jewish father and a Tatar mother. I’m not really Jewish, either—neither my parents nor distant relatives in Israel could muster much enthusiasm for our possible move to that country, and I’m on a vague, mostly disinterested periphery of Jewish life here. My mother’s Tatar background is a mystery.

Neither am I 100 percent American—I speak Russian at home. I like beets and herring. I grew up on Marshak, not Dr. Suess. I tell people that I’m from Milwaukee , but I’ve also spent stretches Madison , Wis. , and in Ohio . I’ve attended nine different schools before I graduated from high school. I’m from everywhere and nowhere.

I know there’s a hint of self-pity in what I’m writing, but I’m mostly ok with being a cultural and ethnic mutt. I don’t have much use for introspection and identity politics. It’s just that every once in a while, like when looking over old family photos or talking with people whose relatives aren’t scattered throughout three continents, it makes me a little sad.