Electric experiences

There it is - the night I have been waiting for. I am driving through the brightly lit highway into my future, highway that belongs to the city that I lived in my entire twenty-one years. I am well travelled- (who wouldn't be, living in Europe), but I had never before decided to leave everything familiar behind to enter the great American unknown. All I know about what to expect- is what had seen in the movies and what little I had picked up from a handful Americans I had gotten acquainted with in the last ten years. It isn't much- they all are proud to announce: "The US is huuuge!" or "I'm from Georgia" as if being from Georgia should impress me. Yet, I play my part and tickle their ego by widening my eyes and knowingly nodding in return: "Oooh Georgia? Yes-yes, I heard it is beautiful!". I smile back at the memory, hopeful that now, I am going to the country where my authentic self will be celebrated. Where you can't impress anyone by being "THE AMERICAN" and where everyone is equal. "Goodbye, corruption! Adios, to the never-smiling Slavic faces!" And as if to remind me what terrible life I am leaving behind, a whiff of sewage treatment plant waves goodbye back to me. The August night fell quickly on the city today. I still can make out the silhouettes of skyscrapers on the right bank of Kyiv and a cluster of well lit Orthodox churches on the left. I will miss taking tour groups through my city, pointing at the golden domes of Churches to wonder-eyed Americans and telling them the sacred tales of one of the oldest domains of Christianity. "The domes are golden, because it is believed that when God looks down on Earth, the domes shall reflect the sunlight and catch God's eye, thus letting Him know which country to send His blessings to". And I receive amazed "Oohs" and "Aahs" in return. Or this one: "This particular dome is blue with golden stars can you guess why?" and while my American tour group is coming up with witty answers, I withdraw to my swarming thoughts, among which my mother's advice lingers: "Americans are easy- they love being entertained- like children". I smile; She is one of the greatest entrepreneurs I have met in my life. Suddenly, I am violently jerked from my musings by a suffocating urge to throw up. My father pulls the car over and I tumble out on the grassy curbside. My mom follows me out of the car, supporting my arm. Hot tears are rolling down my cheeks, my stomach, though empty, heaves, as if my whole body is trying to purge itself of memories of my old life. I am mortified: There, fourteen hours and nine thousand kilometers away my new life is eagerly awaiting me: My future husband is buying a new car for our small future family. My future father-in-law is pacing nervously, in anticipation of his new daughter. I fall on my knees and look at my mom and for a brief, comforting moment I am a child again. I am five years old, and I am small. She is looming above me, smiling tenderly and tells me that all is well and she is near. And agonizing wave of adulthood covers me. Two searing streams pour out of my puffy eyes carrying my memories and my emotions. All the words I have said to her, all the things I have done, and she is still here, near me, supporting my arm as I'm throwing up my fears. How can she love me so much and how can I dare to leave her behind? "What date is your ticket for?" I ask mom. "I'll be there soon after you- in December" "It's a half year! what will I do without you?"

Eight years have flown by; I stand tall and walk firmly, knowing I have made something of myself in the country beyond. I am leading my husband by the hand out of the airport - I am back. Still in slight disbelief, or maybe affected by jet-lag, I see everything in a haze with familiar fuzziness around it: Taxi drivers coated in cigarette smoke, busy departers- grouped like ants, carrying their heavy suitcases to busses. And in naïve, movie-like attempt to immerse in my surroundings, I close my eyes and breathe in full lungs of air- "Am I truly back!?". My hand is squeezed gently and I am reminded of my companion, who, despite attempting to mask it, feels just like I did in the foreign country all these years ago: He is wide eyed, agitated and nervous.

"Shock number One - Black and white"

Tonight will be endless, with conversations flowing and intertwining like silk ribbons and tea filling the cups in the best traditions of late night "around-the-kitchen-table-chats". I will be entertaining my hosts with stories of "Shocking America" and my grateful audience will reward me with laughter. " I remember the first somewhat of a "shock" to me was the amount of SUV's on the highways!". And as I tell this story my memory paints a true picture of that day: It is August fourteenth, and exhausted by worry and intermitted sleep on the plane I make my way through Detroit Airport with unsure steps. My suitcases seem to be lost and I have no wifi to connect with my fiancé. There are SO many black people around me and I feel curious. Back in Ukraine, only once I met a dark-skinned boy, from Cuba. I approach a heavy-set black airport worker, who is most polite. He takes me to the correct exit, where my fiancé is waiting. I see the worry dissipating from his face and a quiver of smile stretching his lips. "Shock number one - I make a mental note- A LOT of black people" .

"Shock number Two - "The US is so huuuge""

We started our marital life in the countryside, which was Shocking in itself for a well-groomed, well-rounded and well.... a city-dwelling girl. Echoes of gunshots shook the shoddy window frames of our country house in the afternoon and bonfires lit the star-studded skies at night. Still afternoon heat spread the smell of manure that invited itself and seeped through the cracks of the house as an unwelcome guest. I had never encountered such events solitarily or combined in my life. First year proved to be especially difficult to me. Generosity and sincerity made up for the lack of culture in the countryside. Extravagance was replaced by simplicity and everything, Everything seemed sooo big. "The US is huuuge!" I whispered a once heard phrase to myself as rusty truck on elevated suspensions rattles by on a dirt road. Immense fields swallow gigantic tractors and gargantuan combines produce massive bales of hay. In that moment I felt so small, as if my whole being shrunk into a clump of unimportance. Everything I was, everything I used to be- didn't matter here. And at once subconscious memories, maybe told to me when I was little, maybe written in my DNA surfaced: "A man kneels down to collect a lump of soil in his fist. He is clutching it as he boards the ship. A woman holds the hem of her jacket, inside which she encased an old necklace." I had brought but a suitcase of clothes and a carry-on filled with my books. I sold everything I could sell and gave away everything that could be taken. I stripped myself of me and felt naked and alone in this great new country that expanded a little more to accommodate another immigrant. "Shock number two- how BIG everything is" I whispered to myself.

"Shock number Three - Drugs and the restaurant industry"

My second year quickly filled with new achievements for I took the opportunity to re-invent myself. Since dwelling in the past hadn't produced much fruit, I learned to drive my big car and went to the Big City looking for work. The city unhinged it's industrial jaws, devoured the final traces of my innocence and recycled me into a rigid iron machine. My veins roared with new liquids and my mind buzzed with new ideas. Rare moments of freedom were being filled with fiery intellectual debates with my peers and goals to make the world a better place. I went into the restaurant industry with an open heart and a romanticized ideas of creating meals worthy of Kings. I entered the steamy world of curses and perpetual pressure, that proved good only for sealing jars of emotions. And I encountered words that cut sharper than Shun knives, leaving scars on my tender psyche that are still yet to heal. The first twelve month my Authenticity radiated through every pore of my body. I was a shiny new coin, with an exotic accent and a happy personality that nothing seemed to be able to knock down. I thought I found my tribe - people who I can talk to in the same universal language of food - and they will understand, looking over the words I mispronounce. Successful and rapid ascension in the ranks of the kitchen grew thick and bitter leaves around my soul. Layer by layer my ideals peeled, revealing the ugly degrading core of kitchen industry, infested with drugs and leech-like creatures, who mere twelve month ago had kind and smiling faces. I had rarely seen my husband and rarely slept, picking up every shift and slack, and in a dreamy haze I heard my own voice telling me that the more I give - the more I am earning my place in the America. "I am living the American dream" I told myself in a hypnotized voice "You are living in a dream" whispered my mind. "Shock number three" revealed itself in my second restaurant, where one of the ways to get through the shift was a skunky, yet enticing relaxant. It opened it's cloudy embrace and I fell in forgetting myself.

"Shock number Four - American manners"

"Oh my god!" I wince as a heavy woman in front of me leans on her shopping cart, exposing a dimply behind flirtatiously uncovered my her stretched pajama pants. The hems of the pants are dirtied by the ground and frequent stepping on, and my wild imaginations pushes the unwelcome image of her going home home and climbing onto the bed in those same pants that just touched the same ground as the spittle of homeless man outside the store. I look away. My eyes catch the plaid underwear protruding below the T-shirt and exposing a round behind hanging above the jeans of a young man. The Jeans would, in fact, fit him quite well, but he chooses to wear them below the hips and support them with his free hand "Whyyyy?". The thought of upcomming diner at the restaurant distracts my mind and I choose to dwell in it instead. Little do I know that today is supposed to be the day of discovering the " Shock of American manners" for me. Mere four hours from now, I will start feeling uncomfortable by the level of general noise in the crab shack. Someone is calling the waiter, someone is laughing loudly, disregarding the surroundings - my blood pressure rises- someone is telling an obnoxious story, that I do not want to hear, yet the teller has to tell it on elevated volumes because every. One. Must. Be. Heard. This is bewildering. Never could I imagine such level of disregard to surrounding people. Yet, as we say in Russian " this was just the flowers" (just a child's play) for the "berries" ( the heavy stuff) shall find me at the end of the dinner. Even gingerly accepting that basic manners are generally overlooked, couldn't prepare me for the restaurant attendees burping and passing gas during dinner without apologizing. As well as stretching and yawning at the table as if you are in the bedroom, for it shows your level of comfort and Everyone should be comfortable in America. Level of rudeness has reached it's apex in my European eyes, when after barely thirty minutes into our already unsettling meal we were presented with a bill and informed that we can pay it when we are ready. Arguing that I wasn't ready for it in the first place was of no use, because, to be frank, I was ready to get out to never re-live this experience in any other restaurant ever again and again... and again...

"Shock number five- the borders of Identity"

"On the way to your apartment I saw a funny billboard- It showed a fat belly with the measuring tape around it and proclaimed: "Time to hit the gym". You'll never see THAT in the US". My friends are chucking "No way!" "Yes way!" I retort. "Everyone is free to be as lazy as they please. It is paradoxical to see overweight people using small motorized carts to do junk food shopping. You know, I've lived there for eight years already and it's still boggles my mind. I got to give the government of Michigan props, though, they seem to be trying and putting up posters about healthy eating habits, but maaaan... Lately I do feel like we live in the "wall-e" movie". Another roar of laughter, and though accepting it as payment for my little story, I feel unclean telling it. I know well, that many people have diabetes, many - do not have proper education about health and healthy food. But sometimes, just sometimes my ego poisonously whispers: "You are better, You are skinny and YOU did well with your life". In such rotten moments I choose to stop and think that everyone is doing as good as they know to do. The judgement I learned to pass in Ukraine will neither help nor support them and I wish them well instead. Ukraine has a different culture and every culture has it's own quirks. It has been an ongoing process for me to learn to smile - you won't find people in Ukraine simply smiling, because they feel good. They might have a wonderful day- but smile.. smile needs a reason. Learning to stop passing judgement and learning to not open my soul to every stranger. I remember my youth in Kyiv. It was beautiful: I made friends easily, people of same age or much older sometimes. Neighbors, coworkers, my doctor, a college mate, person in line in front of me - people, who want to just be friends and nothing more. You talk a little on the street, in the park, at the doctor's office and if you click- it is acceptable to invite them to your house. You wouldn't expect to get robbed, raped or murdered. You just make tea and put out cookies and that's how you make new friends. Old friends show up without invitation or knocking and you take them to the kitchen to have one of those soulful "around-the-kitchen-table-chats". And you befriend, and you live, and you show your smile to those who you trust with your soul. I have lived in the US for eight years. I connect with strangers even easier than before and people love my personality, alas - I only have three friends. Three. How many times have I made exquisite dinners for my US neighbors and we spent lively wine-filled nights laughing. How many times have they answered when I needed help? How many times I hoped for a call back from a colleague about the evening out we agreed upon, for her to bail in the last minute. Is it the Universe protecting me from people I don't need or is it my Ukrainian limitless heart that is reaching out to a foreign culture, telling it that it's ok to love a stranger, ok to treat your guest as royalty and ok to show your tears in public. Only the smiles are reserved for friends. It has been an extraordinary experience for me - to live in the United States. Where do I begin with my ancient history tales of culture and where do I end with needing to fit in, in not so welcoming, all-accepting country made for and by Immigrants. And how exhilarating it is ride the wave of assimilation only to be spat out by another wave of cultural unacceptance. And every time I get up, dust off my knees, wipe my palms and put on a big smile - partly- because now I am American; Partly- because I open my heart to New friends.

The End