15 years

When I visited Kishenev this summer, the only thing that felt like home were the young girls running around with their silly smiles. They reminded me of myself. They remind me of who I was when I lived in Kishenev. Their innocent smiles and kindly brave eyes, made me feel homey and nostalgic. Oh the nostalgia. For long lost memories, ingenuousness, and dreams. Their big teethed grins are me, smiling inside that little packed car driving away from my house on Vasedenenya. My childhood.
 
I don’t know what I expected. I was seven when I left. How much can you remember? How many street names or parks or monuments can your memory hold as a child?
 
I remember people. I remember feelings. I remember adventures.
 
I remember that on some day, I felt really special because lots and lots of people came to my house with presents for me. “Zdnom rojdenya!” [happy birthday!] They’d say and kiss me and hug me so tight. And I’d let them because then they would hand me that stuffed animal I had my eyes on. Or I distinctly remember this one year when I was playing an intent game of Chutes and Ladders with that happy tall uncle in my room and then everyone stormed in telling us we have to go. Quickly quickly quickly. And everyone. Parents, brother, aunts and uncles and cousins, would all run outside to the far end of the street and we’d all stand in one spot and wait. And then the booms would start. Boom boom boom the lights in the sky went. “Fireworks, just for you Elinochka,” someone would whisper in my ear. And Id smile.
 
I remember walking back from kindergarten and there was a big big big hill. And my dad would always hold my hand. As we slowly walked down, my dad’s voice was entirely too fast with excitement. “I have a surprise for you, when we get home.” And I would keep asking what it was and he enjoyed keeping it quiet behind his mysterious grin. I quickly ran up the 3 flights of stairs and I flung the apartment door open, and the first thing I noticed were the stuffed animals. All of my stuffed animals were perfectly seated on all the sofas. Except there was one stuffed animal, I didn’t recognize. And it moved! Immediately my eyes opened up with thrill. A cat! Apparently, my dad didn’t want the cat sitting and scratching the furniture, and so he put stuffed animals in hopes of scaring the cat. But oh that cat was smarter than that. Basyak turned out to be one of my best memories of Kishenev.
 
I remember these small pictures and comics that would neatly be folded into a gum package. My friends and I would trade these small slips of papers. They were our currency. I’d always like to think I was the richest.
 
I remember Chinese jump rope in the front yard. I remember gossip on the front step. And the small trees with the orange berries that I was told not to eat and I was also told not to climb the tree itself, but I never listened and climbed anyways. I remember the big willow tree and in its shade we’d play “house.” I remember the wallpaper next to my bed that I loved to peel into animal designs. You had to know how to properly pop the bubbles underneath, and peel perfectly with fingernails. My mom would always yell at me for destroying the wall.
 
I remember the evening that my aunt was visiting and a big snow storm had just gone by. It was perfect for sledding on the soft pearl white snow. So my mom let me stay up past my bedtime. And under the stars, we went sledding. I remember how all three of us tried to fit on that small wooden sled. And how we’d all fall off and roll around in laugher. Yes, I remember a lot of laughter. And how perfectly it echoed.
 
I don’t remember the anti-semitic comments left on our door. I don’t remember the crooked sidewalks. I don’t remember the danger of communism collapsing. I don’t remember my grandfather being deathly ill. I don’t remember the poverty, the sadness, the hopelessness that clung to every corner in the city.
 
And that is what I saw when I visited Kishenev this summer. All I saw were broken sidewalks and broken smiles. I was so sad, I couldn’t even bare to take pictures. And now I wish I had the pictures. Just as a reminder of where I come from. Just as a reminder of how grateful I ought to be that I am here. With luxuries galore. From the soft toilet paper and hot water to the technical mp3 player and laptop.
 
Sometimes I worry that my parents made too much of a sacrifice leaving that country. It was done for my future. Sometimes I worry I am not living up to my potential and I am letting them down. Would they have been happier in a country where there is no language barrier? Would they have been happier with engineer jobs?
 
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we never left. Would I have been happy? [Happier?] I don’t know. I think we can be happy or unhappy anywhere. I never would have known about things like an mp3 player. I would have been just as happy with my record player. We cant be unhappy for the things we never experienced. How can I miss something if I never had it to begin with? I would have faced different kinds of difficulties. Who’s to say which difficulties are better?
 
I do know that on some level, by moving here at the age of 7, I was pressured to grow up faster. Being 8 meant being 13. A family of 5 came with 50 bucks in their wallets to this country. We used up the entire 50 dollars when we went food shopping for the first time. I had one or two toys. I had a few outfits. I was ridiculed for being the tall Russian who looked like a boy.
 
But it’s funny, Im not even Russian. I am Moldovian. There is a difference. Moldova is very poor. They speak a language that somewhat resembles Spanish. Right now, the country is lost. There are ads everywhere, but who can buy the Mercedes or the expensive clothes line? While riding the bus through the city, I spotted an old lady leading a pack of goats. Where did this old lady come from? Where does she think she’s going with her farm animals?
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Kishenev is a city, but not much of a city. Everything closes at 6pm. There is no night life. There are no tourists. All the buildings are falling apart. But there are Mercedes dealerships everywhere.
 
This is where I am from. Moldova. Is it my home? Is it Patria Mea? I don’t think so. I don’t know if it ever was.
 
I remember when we were driving through the country, the small abandoned shacks looked hopeless and the empty landscape made you sigh. But then all of a sudden, I looked up and saw yellow. This bright yellow that stretched for miles and miles and miles. Sunflowers. All raised up to the sky. And I was in awe. And in love. The yellow almost looked bittersweet. And I almost felt like there is a part of me that will always be Moldovian.

October 27, 2006 marks 15th anniversary
of me coming to America.
Gosh, i sound like such a silly immigrant.