Russian-speaking past
I grew up speaking Russian and decided to leave it behind. But what should I do with my 30-plus years of memories and experiences tightly intertwined with the language I don’t want to speak anymore?
I grew up speaking Russian. Almost all of my memories are in Russian and are influenced by Russian culture and content. The movies that we watched during the quiet family evenings in my childhood. The Tchaikovsky ballets that my siblings and I attended with Mom every winter break. The songs I listened to on repeat when I fell in love for the first time and the songs I listened to when my heart was broken. The diaries I kept, the poems I wrote, the letters and messages I sent. The inscriptions under photographs in family albums, every birthday card, every family joke. The language that is associated with so much pain and destruction, the language that I want to forget, holds all my family memories. My Ukrainian husband is from a Russian-speaking family, too. I’ve been thinking and asking myself for a long time: How to keep the memories and more than 30 years of our lives, but let go of the language that is an essential part of them? Is it possible to separate them at all?
Every time I hear Russian on the streets, in cafes, or in stores – it triggers me, and I try to avoid those who speak it. However, I don't have this reaction when I speak it in my family. In my head, there is a clear distinction between the Russian language my family speaks and the Russian language of Russians. We often insert Belarusian words and sayings, and my husband’s family adds Ukrainian. When I was 18 y.o., I was told by a Russian guy I was in love with that I spoke with a “funny, weird accent” and that I should get rid of it if I wanted to be viewed as a “civilized person and not some villager.” Back then, I was mortified by these words, but now I take it as a compliment. My accent makes the language “mine” and distinguishes the language that holds my memories and the language of the occupiers.
I am well aware that the only reason my family speaks Russian and my memories are connected with Russian movies, books, and songs is Russian colonialism and deliberate erasure and belittling of Belarusian culture. More than anything, I want to break free from the cycle of colonial abuse that my and my Ukrainian husband's family have been subjected to. However, I don’t want to feel ashamed of my Russian-speaking past, and I want to hold my memories and experiences very close to my heart. It’s a paradox that when you want to escape colonialism, you think that you must leave behind and erase a part of yourself – only to fall for the same colonial trap again: erasure of everything that makes you “you.” I realized that I shouldn’t erase anything. On the contrary, I should try to save as much as I can because colonialism has already erased too much.
While memories in Russian dominate in my life, I have memories in Belarusian, too. The children’s night program in Belarusian that I watched every night. My favorite poem, “Heritage,” by Belarusian poet Yanka Kupala, that I know by heart and recite every time I miss home. The joy I felt when I got 96 points out of 100 in the Belarusian language college entry exam which was a rare result among my peers. My favorite book, “King Stakh's Wild Hunt,” by Belarusian writer Uladzimir Karatkievich, that I read dozens of times. It turns out that my mom took this book to Poland when she left Belarus, and she sent it to me last Christmas. It is an old, worn-out book with folded corners and occasional tea stains. When I saw it in the package, I felt like I met an old friend. I opened the book, and to my surprise, it had the author's autograph on the first page. For some reason, I’ve never paid attention to it before, but it means so much right now.
I have memories in Ukrainian, too. Starting from Ukrainian TV programs I watched during my childhood summers in Crimea to the present times. The Ukrainian songs I sang with my friends during winter hikes in the Carpathian mountains. The Ukrainian jokes my husband shared with me. The long hours of translations from Ukrainian to English that not only resulted in important documentaries but also brought new friends.
I’ve changed countries, and I’ve changed myself. My life has so many languages now: English, Ukrainian, Russian, Belarusian, and Polish. However, no matter what language I spoke at different periods in my life, it doesn’t make my memories less “mine” or “wrong.” Yes, many of my memories are in Russian, but they happened with a Belarusian person. With the knowledge and understanding that I have now, I want to make new memories and fill my life with the culture that I choose and which is native to me, not the one that was imposed on me. At the same time, I want to hold on to my memories and treasure them because they make me who I am.
Heritage Yanka Kupala, 1918 Translated by Vera Rich From forebears' ages, long since gone, A heritage has come to me, Among strange folk, among my own, Me it caresses, motherly. Of it to me dream-fables sing Of first thaw-patches, vernally, The woods' September murmuring, An oak-tree lone, half burned away. Memories of it, like storks aclack Upon the line have woken me, Of a mossed fence, old, gone to wrack, Fallen near the village, brokenly; The dreary bleat of lambs that pours Out in the pasture, endlessly, The caw of the assembled crows, On the graves in the cemetery. And through black night and through white day I keep, my watch unceasingly, Lest this my treasure goes astray, Lest by drones it should eaten be. I bear it in my living soul Like torch-flame ever bright for me, That through deaf darkness to my goal, Midst vandals it may lighten me. With it lives my thought-family. Bringing dreams of sincerity… And its name, all-in-all must be My native land, my heritage.
There is a very popular song based on this poem by the Belarusian band Pesniary, written in 1972. I love it dearly. You can listen to the original version in Belarusian language here.
Warmly,
Darya
Email: daryazorka@substack.com
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This is a very good essay Darya. 👍🌞💛
Thank you, this is an interesting topic. Are you, who you are, if you don’t speak your ethnic language. My mother tongue is sweet to me. I can listen and it sounds like love, like laughter from the other room. My grandmother’s soft rebuke, secrets shared between mother and daughter. It is mine and not mine. It makes me cry. When it is spoken and I understand the smallest detail I congratulate myself. I’m afraid my lack of language makes me an imposter and yet I still call it mine.