It's 3am and I can't sleep. Tonight I attended the first session of a grad class I signed up to take at school called "Equity, Justice, and Education." As is typical with such classes, you start by telling your story. As is also typical, you run out of time before everyone's story is heard and I will likely tell mine next week. In the meantime, though, it's swirling in my head, keeping me awake, and asking to be released. So, maybe it's a sign that I should revive the blog, almost a year since I abandoned it.
I teach in a very diverse school. We have students from all over the world; many of them are first generation immigrants. And every year they ask me what my nationality is. That question always made me cringe and wish that they just wouldn't put teachers' first names on the students' schedules! I mean, really, if they're going to call me Mrs. Shafran all year, why do they need to know that my first name is Olga?! It's such a give away! But, I try to answer the question. Depending on how much time I have to engage in this clear attempt to side track the study of Mathematics, I tell them either, "I'm Russian," or "It's complicated," or, my personal favorite, "I'll tell you later, if you behave really well!" Because the truth is, it IS complicated. I was born in a country that no longer exists (USSR) in a republic of Belorussia (loosely translated as White Russia, more on that later) now known as Belarus (because in a teenage-like rebellion attempt and a sweep of nationalism at the time of the collapse of the Soviet Union, the people decided they no longer wished to feel like Russia's inferior sibling, at least in name.) Clearly I can't say that I'm Soviet anymore. And although generations of my family were born in or around those parts, the true Belarusians would never let us forget that we are NOT Belarusian. Belarus has its own language, and I even used to speak it at some point because we studied it in school, but it's very similar to Russian, perhaps with some Polish mixed in, and everyone around me in the capital spoke Russian exclusively. So Russian is my native language. And that's why sometimes, often times, I just say I'm Russian. This is ironic to me because no true Russian would ever let me get away with saying that, and also because neither I nor my family ever actually lived in Russia.
The reason why my family never fully fit in back there is that we are Jewish. Judaism is a religion, but the Soviet Union was an atheist state. So Jew became a nationality instead. Sort of like the Roma people or the Armenian people, we were "others" living in diaspora and treated as such by the state's infamously oppressive regime.
The first time I traveled internationally with my US passport and had to fill out the immigration form upon return, I automatically wrote "Jewish" under "nationality." Then I paused to look it over and realized that's probably not what they were asking. So I changed it to "US." I've had to fill out this form many times since then, and I don't think I ever managed to write "American" in the blank because I don't feel entirely American even though I've lived two thirds of my life here, have US citizenship, and don't have an accent.
When we first came here, my family marveled at how everyone could hyphenate their identity to become an American. Korean-American, African-American, German-American, Mexican-American, etc. We also longed for a hyphenated, brief, way to describe ourselves. I'm still searching.
But the real question that was asked tonight was about race. When did I first encounter race and realize my race?
I realized I was different when I was 6. My best friend from pre-school and kindergarten told me at the end of the summer before first grade that she can't be my friend anymore. Her mom said that I'm Jewish, and now that we're all grown up and starting school, she really shouldn't hang out with Jews anymore. I assured her, of course, that I was not. She pointed out that, according to her mom, Shneyderman is such a Jewish last name! I thought, surely there must be a mistake, which is what I told my mom that evening. Turned out, there wasn't. I cried. Overnight I learned to hate a part of myself that I knew absolutely nothing about. I think prior to that incident, I had never even heard the word. I could not wrap my mind around this notion that there was something inherently wrong with me and my family, something so bad that people can't even be friends with us, and yet this illusive something managed to hide itself so well, that I wasn't even aware of it.
This story and the feelings that went with it is so familiar to so many Soviet Jews. It is one of the many reasons why 1.6 million of them left the former USSR between 1989 and 2006. One would think that this experience would create in my people the ability to empathize with others who face discrimination. One would be wrong at least one third of the time in my personal estimate.
White Russia is called White because it is. Very Aryan. Mostly blonde and blue-eyed. We lived in the capital city, Minsk, home to a large university with a study abroad program. Some brave souls from sister socialist countries of Africa ventured out to study there. I don't know how many lived in Minsk at any given time, but it was probably no more than a handful. When people saw a black person on the street, they would avert their eyes and try to sneak a peak. Kids stared openly, followed them around, and called them "shokoladka" (chocolate bar). None of this was done with any malice. They were just SO exotic. I remember the first time I saw a black man. I also stared trying to understand how it is possible for skin to be a different color.
Until I came to the US, I don't recall ever seeing anyone of any other race. All white and that one black person.
I love my people. I want to make excuses for their racism. And I will, actually, make some. But really, I can't understand their refusal to think deeper, empathize more, learn more. So instead I distance myself from these conversations, and often from the larger community as a result. Something I should probably work on in this class.
We came here poor. In a socialist state everyone was equal, although, of course, some were more equal than others. But when it came to emigrating, we were limited in what we could take, and everyone came here with very little. Those who were younger went to school or to work. But there is a whole generation of grandparents who received welfare for a few years and then social security retirement. They qualified for low income housing. In Chicago, this meant they were usually the only white folks living in buildings traditionally occupied by black folks. And they were in for a shock. Urine in the hallways and vandalism of apartment buildings were commonplace in Russia. But somehow in the US a lot of our grandparents saw it as a black only issue. These Jews were, for the most part, the intellectual types, highly educated engineers, musicians, doctors. If not for their age and the language barrier, they would have gladly gone to work. They looked around at their neighbors who were young and able-looking, and yet did not go to school, and did not work, and they couldn't understand it. They also couldn't communicate with each other. So they became fearful, distrustful, and judgmental.
In our socialist state, education was free and standardized. Same textbooks, same curriculum, all across the vast land. The idea that education can vary as much as it does here, and the impact that has on peoples' lives, is not one that makes full sense to an average "Russian-American." I dare venture a guess that their own education on the racial history of this country did not go far past Uncle Tom's Cabin. And so, a lot of my people are stuck in a racist mindset.
How racist?
A few months ago I was sitting in my dentist's office waiting for the anesthetic to kick in, unable to speak clearly, and very uninterested in speaking at all. The dentist had stepped out. His assistant was watching TV and waiting with me. I don't know if she was Jewish, Russian, Ukrainian, or something else entirely, but she spoke perfect Russian. The news was on. It was just before Christmas. One of the Chicago Bulls adopted a family to buy presents for. What a hero. Totally newsworthy. "I get giving presents to the kids, but it just seems that it's always the kids of parents who just don't want to work that get these presents!" says the dental assistant. I sigh. "Surely you realize other factors in their lives are involved in the situation beyond their lack of desire to work," I say and turn my head the other way. "Of course! Of course!....Slavery....." I sigh. And I make a choice not to say anything else at all. And I still wonder a month later whether I made the right choice. Because she doesn't stop. "They do make excellent drug dealers, though, don't they?" I'm looking away. I think everything about my body language communicates my desire for her to stop talking. "Oh, I know, I know, they're not all the same," she continues. "For example, I live in Glenview. And a black family lives in a home on our block! Totally normal! They even jog! They have two girls. They're always well-dressed and clean. The husband goes to work every morning with a briefcase!" She thinks she's being very open-minded now, I realize, still wondering if I should say anything with my mouth half numb. "Oh, and get this! They recently got a dog! What a riot! My husband and I were cracking up. Their dog is entirely white! They're all soooo black, and the dog is sooo white!" The dentist returns, she stops talking, I get my cavity filled and get out.
While someone in a position to read my blog might be picking their jaw up off the floor at this point, I want to get to the most difficult part of the story for me. I believe that a typical Russian-speaking person, whether still living in Russia or living in the US, but not quite assimilated or "Americanized," would hear that and think nothing of it. They would say that the real problem is political correctness. They would say that all white Americans feel this way. They've just been taught not to say it out loud to strangers whose mouths are half numb.
I know this is a deep-seeded issue. I know I still have a long way to go. I don't know if I will ever get to a place where I feel truly comfortable with my Jewish liberal guilt, white privilege, and conversations regarding race.
