On 10/21/07 this country celebrated 15 years since I joined with the “tired, … poor, …huddled masses yearning to breathe free” when I first set foot at the Kansas City International Airport. I had a long journey in front of me, full of discoveries, surprises and even more surprises. I watched, I listened and learned about this country, people who live here and “The American dream”. Over the years I learned that many things are not what they appeared to be from behind the iron curtain. As an old American saying goes: grass is always greener on the other side of the iron curtain. For example, Kansas City International Airport is not so much “international” and Yakov Smirnoff is not really a “dynamite Russian comedian”. Being a foreigner (albeit an American Citizen for the past 10 years) automatically makes me an expert on all things American. I don’t vote, and that gives me the right to bitch about the morons who elected current president, and all the other elected officials from senator down to mayor,as well as the morons who will elect the next batch of representatives. The only acceptable vote for the past 15 years would have been “none of the above” and I consistently voted that way by just sitting on my ass on election day. English is my second language and that gives me the right to make up my own words and rules of grammar, as well as substitute any words I don’t know with a four-letter word of my choosing, and I am an expert in that area. I don’t want to hear any complaints about my English skills. I am a better speller than 99% of native speakers. Over the years I was surprised to discover that unbelievable amounts of bullshit are being dumped on average American citizen on daily basis. Bullshit totally covers this country, clogs up hearts and minds of it’s citizens, controls policy matters, elections, education, medical care and love life. It takes a foreigner with a steady hand and a special shovel to uncover the truth from underneath the layers of bullshit lovingly piled on the average American. So here I am…. and I am ready.
Since not too many of you will ever come face-to-face with these guardians of law, you may find these photos entertaining. Pictured are reportedly the new Militia uniforms, continuing in the fine traditions of the old Soviet ugliness and institutional design. Looks like the models are the real men and women of the Russian Militia; it’s hard for anyone else to imitate the indifferent, self-important faces, with dead eyes and no sign of mental activity.
For today’s musical number I present the song “We Are The Moscow Militia”: We have one tradition we can’t forget – We are the people’s Militia, people are our friends.
By the time I was growing up, the International Day of Worker Solidarity celebrated on the 1st of May became just another day in a long weekend of partying, spring outings, camping trips and fun. May Day usually started with the demonstration, the biggest one of course in Moscow, attended by the Politburo of the CPSU with the General Secretary himself, broadcast for hours on all three TV channels. Each self-respecting city had a smaller version with the local Party bosses in charge. During my years in technical school I’ve participated in one or two demonstrations. We were issued some uniforms and signs and walked with the crowds through the central streets of my city. Although the event was mandatory, we were happy to oblige, sixteen-year-olds don’t need much to entertain themselves in a crowd. So the smiles you see in the clip below are genuine, however, I highly doubt they have much to do with the world proletariat and their solidarity. “Workers of the world, unite!”
Happy May Day!
The text on the poster is “May 1st 1920″ and on the bottom ” Through the debris of capitalism to the world brotherhood of workers”.
Now take a short trip thirty-some years and several thousand miles away.
The Jewish Federations of North America are conducting a campaign under the title “What’s your #ish”:
Being Jewish means something different to everyone. Whatever it means to you is your #ish.
(For those who are not familiar with Twitter, “#” denotes a tag that they can easily track and display the content on their website)
Cutesy marketing but the question is something I think about often. What does it mean for me to be Jewish, or Russian-Jewish, or even Russian-Jewish-American as the top of my blog announces to the visitors? This post has been stuck in my head for a couple of weeks, I thought how to make it non-offensive and given up; I made some mental notes, then some written ones and I am still not so sure what it will look in the end. All I know at this point that it will contain a lot more “I dont’s” than “I do’s”.
Here we go:
I don’t believe in God, I don’t do anything religious, I don’t attend a synagogue and when I do on some occasions like weddings, I feel uncomfortable seeing how people are asking and thanking God for things. I don’t feel superior, I just don’t get it. I grew up with the notion that the “Religion is the opium of the people” and so far haven’t seen anything to change my mind.
I don’t cover my head, I work every Saturday, I go out on Friday nights (if I am lucky); I spend most of the Jewish Holidays at work, and fast on Yom Kippur mostly to see if I can stay away from food for a day. Long time ago when I still lived in Ukraine, I went to a synagogue with a group of friends during a holiday, I think it was Simchat Torah; a group of men was dancing there like it was the best day of their lives. We looked at each other and left. Since then (late 80’s) I only visited a synagogue once (without being invited to a wedding or Bat/Bar Mitzvah)
I eat whatever I like. My kitchen is the opposite of kosher. At any time I have enough pork in it to make a small pig. My Dad used to pack a slab of salt-pork when I went on trips – it didn’t require refrigeration. I like ham and cheese sandwiches; I mix meat and dairy at will. I have no interest in finding out which foods are kosher and what’s not allowed and why. If it’s tasty I’ll eat it, kosher or not.
In my whole life I’ve only dated a Jewish woman for two months; I never made a point of looking for one (which cast a lifetime of not-so-well hidden-sadness on my Mom). My short experience was filled with drama, but I am sure both of us being Jewish had nothing to do with it. Sometimes I think it would be neat to try, but so far it didn’t work out this way. Lately, I’ve been thinking that only a Vietnamese woman who knows how to cook Pho can be my true love. Every week I go to the Vietnam Cafe hoping to get noticed.
I don’t get conversions to Judaism. Things like this (watch the clip) don’t make me tear up with joy. To be fair, I don’t get any religious conversions; sometimes I try to guess the reason, most of the time I just shrug. Maybe we need someone to observe the rules we don’t like, pass around those righteous “I stand with Israel” emails and fight our battles on Facebook and Twitter. Whatever.
I don’t stand with Israel, I don’t feel that it’s my country even though I have relatives and friends there. Israeli Independence day does not invoke any feelings in me. Let me correct that, I don’t stand with Israel automatically because I am a Jew. I stand with Israel because I am a thinking person who can see through the provocations and lies which are so transparent, you have to be an idiot not to see what’s really going on. I can go back through the last 100 years reciting episodes like this for hours. There are less and less people like me even among the Jews. It’s everybody’s loss, not because I am so smart but because the rest of the world may see it when it’s too late, but what’s new. In the meantime, I do what I can, just little things.
I still prefer the sound of the Yiddish language to the Israel’s official Hebrew. I remember my Grandma speaking Yiddish with her friends in the little town where she lived and although I don’t speak and hardly understand either, Yiddish with its schlimazels and meshuggeners sounds like music to my ears, while Hebrew sounds foreign and cold.
That should be enough for now. The “I do” part is not nearly as extensive:
I like Jewish food, more precisely Eastern European Jewish food, and even more precisely my Mom’s cooking. I am sure some of these recipes were passed down through generations, others were made up on the spot to use what little food was on hand, but it’s my comfort food. I don’t think I ever identified it as Jewish, just like I never identified spaghetti with Italian. And most of the time there is a box of Matzos in the house.
I play the Jewish national sport – guessing who else is Jewish. It was a lot more fun in the USSR since many famous people hid their Jewishness as well as they could and during movies and concerts every Jew in the country was pointing them out.
I can’t think of much else. In my childhood it was easy, my Jewish nationality was stamped right there in the “fifth line” on my passport. Tens of thousands of people strove to have this line changed to something else, so their kids would not be subjected to the antisemitism and discrimination. Then the same people paid big money to change it back so they can emigrate to Israel or the USA.
I think about it a lot. Do my multiple “dont’s” betray the memories and dreams of my ancestors, who carried their Jewish identities through a lot tougher times than I could imagine? Would they be proud of me? I don’t know. When I think about my connection with my people, there is no place where I feel it more than at the Jewish cemetery. I wrote about it before, but the Kansas City cemetery I was writing about is faceless and sad. The Jewish cemetery in Odessa, Ukraine where some of my relatives are buried is full of life; it has faces, it tells the stories. Life stories, love stories, tragedies, achievements, accidents, births, deaths, emigration, relationships, memories. My Dad took me there once or twice and we walked around visiting our relatives, his college professors, famous restaurant singers, doctors, teachers, criminals; he knew many people there, too many. Now during my rare visits I walk around as well; I don’t know anyone, but it doesn’t matter: I come to feel my roots, or as some marketing schmuck would put it “my #ish”
My Grandparents. The plate on the left at the bottom is for my uncle who died in New York
Maybe it’s better that my parents let me figure this out on my own. It’s taking me a long time but some day I’ll get there. My daughter is a lot more decisive with these things, I never push her one way or another but she seems to have a pretty good idea who she is.
Maybe this #ish thing is just skipping a generation.
*I knew this would turn out long, and I didn’t even get to include the video of dancing Jews.
By the time I was growing up, the International Day of Worker Solidarity celebrated on the 1st of May became just another day in a long weekend of partying, spring outings, camping trips and fun. May Day usually started with the demonstration, the biggest one of course in Moscow, attended by the Politburo of the CPSU with the General Secretary himself, broadcast for hours on all three TV channels. Each self-respecting city had a smaller version with the local Party bosses in charge. During my years in technical school I’ve participated in one or two demonstrations. We were issued some uniforms and signs and walked with the crowds through the central streets of my city. Although the event was mandatory, we were happy to oblige, sixteen-year-olds don’t need much to entertain themselves in a crowd. So the smiles you see in the clip below are genuine, however, I highly doubt they have much to do with the world proletariat and their solidarity. “Workers of the world, unite!”
