The Foreigner’s Daughter
“Foreigner.”
That’s how they used to refer to my father when he first immigrated to the U.S. with my mother. It wasn’t a hidden name, it wasn’t something they were ashamed of saying, rather, it was his nickname and, to them, all that he stood for. Seemingly enough, my father used perfect English with them, and was even a professor in teaching the language. It wasn’t that his English was impaired, but rather, that he identified closely with another language.
As a baby, I was briefly raised by my бабушка, a Ukrainian woman who was very proud of my heritage and language ability. She taught me Russian, and only spoke to me in Russian and occasionally very broken English. When my mother came home on late nights, her time spent with me was concise but even then, she would hum the melody of город золотой afraid to speak in Russian to me through her American accent. In my infancy, my father worked tremendously so he would leave early and come home late, and besides the irregular visits of my grandparents, they were my only source of my Russian family.
When I was around three or four, my parents decided to take in two boarders: Dinara and Selim. At the time, I didn’t quite grasp the concept of boarding or why they were staying with us, but I enjoyed the time spent with them. Selim became as close as a brother to me, and I referred to Dinara as моя другая мама, my other mother. (I remember at one point I mentioned this to my first grade teacher and she assumed my dad was performing polygamy).
Soon enough, I had unknowingly incorporated Russian words into my speech. One way I used to code-switch was when I was younger, my mother would heat up my milk for me, and as I grew up I continued to love it. I wanted to distinguish to her the difference between warm milk and cold, so I would use the Russian word молоко for when I wanted warm milk, and the English word “milk” for when I wanted it cold. For me, it was an intimate form of speaking; I was understood when I switched from Russian to English. Essentially, Russian television was how I improved my abilities. Ну, погоди! was a favorite amongst our household as well as Чебурашка and Винни Пух. These were iconic Soviet cartoons my father watched as a child, and through showing me them, allowed me to connect further with my Russian culture and identity.
Although my father had Russian friends, there were exceptions, like Murtaz, a Georgian man who lived with my father and mother before and briefly after I was born. Like all of us, Murtaz would code-switch between Georgian and English. Sometimes, he would refer to people as “goga” in his speech. Soon enough, I began calling my дедушка, “goga”, since I interpreted that everyone was “goga” to Murtaz. Strangely enough, after I began calling my дедушка, “goga”, everyone else started calling him goga as well. Although it wasn’t a Russian nickname, it was still a connection with with my дедушка and I, as I was surely the only Belarussian girl referring to her дедушка as “goga”.
For me, it was normal to switch between languages and social context, even at the age of four, my father had an abundance of Russian русские друзья in Huntsville, and on most weekends, we would gather at another Russian-speaking household. It was such a common occurrence I didn’t think much of it as a kid, but now as I am older, I realized my father was able create friendships with people in my city through his mother tongue. Although it was the one thing that set us apart from the rest of the residents of Huntsville, Alabama, it held my most comforting memories. It didn’t occur to me that I was any different from my American peers until I finally began school. In Kindergarten, my teacher grew worried that I couldn’t even spell my own last name, and was still unable to do so until the second grade.
My father continues to push me in my studies of Russian, since over the years I’ve lost my grammar abilities and vocabulary through American schooling. In spite of the fact that my father exposed a large portion of Russian culture to me when I was younger, once I hit school, my Russian culture and language was slowly stripped of me. Of course, at school, I had no one to speak Russian with, so my practice faded, and whilst I took lessons, they weren’t long enough for me to reach my level again. Sadly, I’ve lost a piece of myself and my heritage growing up, not completely, but to the point where I struggle communicating with my бабушка. However, I continue to push through my language studies and embrace my Belarusian side, since it is one aspect of me that bonds me and my foreign father.
