Where I’m From.

Last week I shared a bit about FGM with my new therapist. [note: yes, I seek therapy; I wish everyone could/would.] I shared how angry I was about the years spent swallowing anglocentric norms as the ‘correct’ way of being. Assimilation was my family’s survival strategy and I internalized the belief that anything different was off putting or even shameful. I know better now, but it’s still really tricky to explain who I am, or where I’m from.

I’m not quite American.

“Well, of course,” my therapist exclaimed. “You were raised by people with a different language, different traditions, different foods, and different values.” The American label was an obvious mis-fit to her, but not to my family. When I talk about uncovering my cultural identity, my aunts respond with, “what are you talking about, you were raised here.” From their perspective, I am the epitome of American. I was educated here, I speak English without an accent, and I followed all the Jewish American rites of passage.

But I’m not simply Jewish.

I don’t know what to eat at Passover, or what to chant over wine. Everyone from my Hebrew-school classmates, to my husband’s extended family, is shocked when I stumble through most Jewish traditions. In the USSR, we were labeled as ethnically Jewish (as noted in our passports) but barred from practicing religion.

And I’m definitely not Russian.

See above passport comment. Russia made sure to note that people like me are NOT Russian. But try explaining that after sharing you were born in Moscow!

So then, how am I supposed to answer the casual question of, “where are you from”? Maybe that’s not such a casual question. Last month I had the privilege of working with the Community Language Cooperative on a professional development series hosted by my employer. They introduced me to the “Where I’m From” poem by George Ella Lyon. The poem encouraged us to use our most poignant memories and our most vivid sensory experiences to describe the people, places, and things that shaped us. My version goes like this…

I am from resourceful immigrants and determined survivors.

I am from whispers in Yiddish and curse words in Russian.

I am from family secrets, not heirlooms, held tight to the chest.

I am from unspeakable loss.

I am from Soviet medals of academic achievement.

I am from achievement as survival; “te Yevrey, te doljin bit oumney”.

I am from The Bolshoi Ballet, to the Mountain View Performing Arts

From a Rabbi in the shtetl, to confusion in your conservative temple.

I am from doll sized pancakes and condensed milk syrup

From hand-pickled cabbage and gizzards for dinner.

I am from a 3 channel TV with Matlock at 3.

I am from Vertinsky, The Beatles, ABBA, and Backstreet Boys.

I am from a valley by the ocean where the world came to work.

I am from SATs in middle school, and heartburn in high school.

I am from leaving.

I am from two little girls who make me, as much as I make them.

Sometimes I think I’m peculiar for needing this much text to answer a seemingly simple question. But then I read other “Where I’m From” poems (in this extraordinary project) and I wonder… maybe we all need a little more room to describe how we came to be. If you ever ask, what would it look like to soften your eyes, lower your voice, and make space for the real answer?

One of two photos with me and my grandfather. 1988.