I’ve always been fascinated by history precisely because it lies at the root of so much of what we encounter in the modern world. The world is just a long sequence of cause and effect. When I read the news or visit a new country, my mind immediately starts trying to form a chain, linking the past with the present in an effort to understand: How on earth did we get here?
Currently, I live in Moscow, but that’s only a small part of my story. My life began somewhere else, and, as can be expected, how and where I grew up played a large role in bringing me to this moment.
I am a proud representative of Middle America. I’ll take Chicago over New York any day, and I think the West Coast is far too chill. My middle school is, quite literally, located in the middle of a cornfield, and yes, there is something to be said for Midwestern values. Some of my fondest memories growing up were visits to my grandparents in Des Moines, Iowa. My brother, dad, and I would pile into the car for a five and a half hour trip of NPR, Arbys, and corn. At some point, we would inevitably start playing the “Alphabet Game”, when you must find a word somewhere along the highway, detours, and rest stops that starts with each letter of the alphabet. This becomes significantly harder once you cross the Mississippi River, and it’s three hours of nothing but cows, cornfields and trucks. It’s also at about this time that you run into the pesky Js and Qs. These trips taught me that yes, you can love a truck stop—looking at you Iowa 80.
At the same time, the older I got, the more stifled I felt in my hometown. The summer before my junior year of high school, I had the opportunity to participate in a summer camp at Northwestern University. For eight weeks, I lived in one of the university dorms, attended creative writing classes, and hung out in downtown Evanston. It was amazing.
It was also nothing I had ever imagined myself doing. Growing up, I had severe separation anxiety from my mother, so going away to “camp” was never something I desired. Even being a week away from home was challenging for me. That summer, finally being on my own in a bigger city, was eye-opening. My parents repeatedly remarked on the vast changes they saw in me between the start and end of that summer.
Geneva, my hometown, is about 99 percent white. Our mayor is currently serving his fifth four-year term. We have only one high school and numerous local celebrations, like Festival of the Vine, the antique car show, and Swedish Days. Many people are born in Geneva and never leave the area.
Northwestern’s summer camp was different. My closest friend at the program was from Singapore. For the first time, I met people from all over the country, people whose roots were in Asia or the Middle East. People who were Jewish or Hindi. Most importantly, I met…liberals! After that summer, I felt increasingly distanced from the rest of my peers. I remember most vividly the presidential election of 2008, when Obama was running against McCain for his first term. The night of the election my high school hosted an election watch party. I don’t particularly remember why, but a few of my friends and I decided to attend. We all gathered in the cafeteria, watching as the results from the electoral college rolled in on the TV screens above. On the ground, in my school cafeteria, it was nearly impossible to pick out the blue in a sea of red, like trying to hear the flute in the marching band. A local news agency came and asked some of the students who they would be voting for and why. I listened as all but one said McCain and then promptly began railing against taxes and the evils of abortion and gay marriage. I yearned to be back at Northwestern, away from what I then viewed as this “provincial” mindset. I wanted to leave Illinois.
As much as I wanted to go to the East Coast for college, that’s not how things worked out. I found myself at Northwestern University, where I had attended summer camp not long ago and which was situated just an hour and a half from home. Of course, there was plenty of diversity, plenty of people with fascinating life stories, but it no longer felt like enough. I had already experienced Evanston and Northwestern. Then, my junior year, when I made it to Moscow, I finally felt that I had made the great escape I had always been searching for. I had wanted diversity and the international experience, and I found more of it than I even knew existed in Moscow. As the fall term approached its end, I found myself not wanting to return to America at all.
Upon coming back to the States, I quickly became depressed. Reverse culture shock coupled with some serious personal challenges left me utterly heartbroken. I completely isolated myself from my university friends and my extracurriculars. I never left my apartment. I rarely attended classes. It turned out living close to home came in handy—I regularly spent my weekends in Geneva. All I could think about was getting back to Moscow; that’s all I wanted. I chose to return to the same study abroad program that summer, and I could feel relief wash over me the minute my plane landed in Russia. I became determined to move to Russia after college. So, that’s what I did, and I’ve never looked back.
That being said, age is funny. It breeds nostalgia and wisdom (we hope). Being able to look back allows room for perspective. Life in Nizhny was hard. As the days got shorter and weeks went by without any sun and one of the streets I regularly tread became completely covered in thick layers of ice, I missed America. I missed Geneva with its salted roads and my small-town comforts. I missed our “Third Street” with Graham’s Chocolate Shoppe and the makeup store that made all my beauty decisions for me. I missed my Sunday forest marches with my parents and our dog along the Prairie Path and the pizza place we ordered from every Friday. Most of all, I missed my friends. I have had the same group of best friends since I was in the fourth grade. Through high school and college, despite all assurances to the contrary, we never drifted apart. Even in Russia, thousands of miles away, Renae is still my soul sister and unofficial psychologist, Allison is my brave and hilarious personal cheerleader, Eli is my sounding board for all running, dog-related, and nonsensical matters, Caroline is my fellow mid-life crisis companion, and Claire is just…wonderfully Claire. I found, quite objectively, the best friends possible—all in my little town.
The habits and values I learned growing up in the Midwest I still carry with me, no matter how many days I spend abroad and no matter how many times people in Russia tell me they’re ridiculous. I like leaving tips and always smiling when walking into a store or greeting new people. I am never curt with people on the phone. I say “Please”, “Thank You”, “Excuse Me” and “Sorry” way more than necessary. I can’t resist good corn on the cob or 7/11 coca-cola Icees. At the end of the day, I value loyalty, honesty, and hard work, and I like to think that most people are good (well, some days). And, in the words of my mother, I know that home is where your people are.
I often get asked whether I consider myself Russian or America, whether or not I would consider myself a “citizen of the world”. I don’t really think any of those statements quite accurately describe me. At heart, I’m really just a Midwestern girl who loves her family and friends and hopes that maybe, somehow, someway, she can make an impact. Cheesy and cliched? Yeah. But that’s the truth. What can I say? Those are my roots. That’s my history.