I Was Brought To This Country To Make My Parents Cry

It’s Guest Post Wednesday and it’s Yulia’s turn. Yulia is Russian and Jewish, so she’s just like me, except she’s really funny and a great photographer, so check go read her blog, She Suggests! AND a friend of mine emailed me not that long ago, letting me know that Yulia is hysterical and is going to write a book before I do. To which I say: Good call!

Thank you for allowing me to humbly participate in your adopt-a-significantly-less-popular-than- Marinka blogger outreach program. I am thrilled to be here and will commence to delight you with my tales of immigrant childhood in mean streets of San Francisco, where at least once a week someone would steal from you your very own newspaper.

If only I had had a Chinese Mother

Alternative title: I was brought to this country to make my parents cry.

I come to America, fresh faced young girl, my belly is empty (is added for dramatic effect) but my heart is full of hope, de-worming medication and dreams.

Like many immigrants who are employed in their home country as doctor or engineer but whose credentials are overlooked in America, I too am facing harsh reality of compulsory schooling placement test.

Result?

I am eight years old and already am bitter disappointment as according to test I am “average eight year old” and recommended to begin second grade. Parents cry and tell me they did not bring me to this country to have me fail. (This we call foreshadowing.)

As I gain mastery of English language beyond “cat” and “bird” I am still on average trajectory and do not skip grades. Parents are inconsolable. But I apply myself to the arts, following in their path, in home country parents were distinguished stage directors.

In fifth grade I land lead in school play. Success! Parents see performance on opening night and cry, they tell me play was produced completely unprofessional, as if by children, and they did bring me to this country to have me fail.

I am accepted to college. Parents momentarily overcome with joy!

I explain this College is not Harvard, Yale or Stanford. Parents cry and tell me they wish I was not an only child, perhaps imaginary second child would not fail. (My imaginary sibling and I are bitter rivals to this day.)

During high school graduation I am awarded prize for community service to school. Parents cry and tell me they did not bring me to this country to have me become social worker. They refuse all pictures for memory preserving of “shameful pseudo communist award.”

In college I select “Communications” as major. Parents think I’m making joke. When they see it on my diploma they cry and tell me to go back to college and finish with a degree this time, they did not bring me to this country so that I would refuse respectable career path of Doctor, Lawyer, Engineer or in the case of woman, Accountant.

I meet the love of my life, he is Russian and Jewish. Success! Parents momentarily overcome with joy relief! I announce that love of my life is moving us to Reno. My parents cry and tell me they did not bring me to this country to achieve oxymoronic accomplishment of living in Biggest Little City (in sin!).

Today, as a stay at home mom (and blogger), I disappoint my parents at least twice a week from a healthy four hour driving distance.

I hope you have enjoyed my life story, wrapped up in clever tutorial format. Please to see you soon.

One year ago ...

• Testing - 2013