Russian Doll
If in the USA every teenager dreams about their first car, then every teenager in Russia dreams about America.
America for us is a paradise on Earth. They have the best movies in the world. They have Apple, Google, Nike, and a dozen other brands those Russian teenagers think are cool. They don't have poverty or crimes; they have democracy and freedom of speech. For me, for a short time, the USA was a place where I could be myself: think what I want, say what I wish, and love what I want.
Then, on the 24th of February 2022, my country attacked another independent and wonderful country, and after this, my dream became a nightmare.
I remember my last morning in Russia. I woke up because someone’s small feet were trampling and jumping on me and my bed. Opening my eyes, I saw a laughing two-year-old boy. It was my brother. His hair was the same color as sunlight. He was looking directly at me with eyes the color of ripe olives. As soon as he saw that I noticed him he started to sing his favorite song about a blue tractor and tried to pull me off the bed.
When I was awake and ready for breakfast, he victoriously retired to build a Lego tractor in the living room. I stayed standing in the middle of the room thinking about how this two-year-old man would live without me.
The road to the airport was stressful. This was the first time someone from our family has flown so far abroad. The airport in my town was a small and stuffy building the size of the ICC library. And here I was standing in it with two suitcases to fit 18 years of my life. My family was sitting on the bench near me. They were crying, but I didn't feel anything. I didn't feel the anguish that I wouldn't see my family for a year or the joy that this day had come. I was leaving Russia. I just turned off my emotions and did what I had to. When they announced boarding for my first flight, I calmly stood up, hugged my family, and said one phrase “See you in May.”
“Welcome to New York, "said the soulless voice of the flight attendant as soon as the plane touched down. “Welcome to New York?” I repeated in my mind. “Am I really in the USA?” After eight hours on my fourth flight on this trip, it was almost like I’d forgotten where I was going.
When I went into the airport, the stuffy air hit me right in the face. I was extremely happy, and tired. I did not sleep for 48 hours (about two days). But there was no time for relaxation or tears. I had only two hours before the next flight and a huge queue in front of me in passport control. They were all loud and I had not heard so many languages in one place before in my life. After 1.5 hours in this crowd, I started to panic and tried to ask people to be first because of my connecting flight.
Finally, I was in front of a tall officer in a blue shirt who asked me questions about my plans in the USA, and after 5 minutes and my attempts to remember how to speak English she gave me my passport and said, “Have a wonderful year in the USA”. I grabbed my passport and looked at the seal. My tears started to run, and I did not know how to stop them. I didn’t have time for that.
I was in the biggest airport in the world, and I only had 30 minutes before my next flight to Washington D.C. I ran to the place where I could find my suitcase and I started to look for my huge red travel bag, but I didn’t find it. I started to ask every employee there how I could find my luggage.
After ten minutes I understood that my suitcase was in Paris, and I was in New York. I was tired, alone, and I already missed my next flight. I came to my terminal and all that I could do was sit near the wall and cry. I wanted to sleep but I couldn’t. I didn’t have a sim card or debit card. I didn’t have someone here to call and ask for help. And anyway, it was late night in Russia. I needed to solve my problems by myself. For some reason, it was this thought that helped me gather the rest of my strength and go on.
I didn't know anything about the rules of flights to the USA, and I didn't fly so often in Russia. I was in Washington D.C. late at night on this day and I planned to spend the night in this city and fly to Tulsa in the morning. It wasn’t happening. My flight was cancelled twice, and I spent two extra days in Washington D.C. I had terrible jetlag and a lot of problems that I needed to solve. Despite all these negative moments, I didn’t give up and did my best to get to Kansas as soon as possible.
When I drove into the college grounds, I felt relieved that this long journey was ending. It was a long-awaited meeting with the place where I would live and study. Before I moved to the USA, I studied at one of the oldest universities in Siberia and my classes were mostly in old and gorgeous buildings, which had been built at the end of 18th century. My university had a huge campus, high-rise buildings and energy of rush and big city. ICC was completely different. The tallest building on campus had only three floors, and I could walk around the campus in 15 minutes. My first months at ICC were filled with a lot of surprises, funny moments, and acquaintanceships: with people around me, with rules, and with culture.
I didn’t have a lot of culture shock, but some things were strange for me. I didn’t understand why students wore pajamas in classes, why all drinks have ice, or why a duvet cover is just a piece of fabric, not a material sewn together with a hole for a blanket. One of the brightest moments that I had my first month was my trip with friends to Miami. We spent 4 days near the ocean, palm trees, and sand. We had a lot of fun together and I felt infinitely happy and young. When you feel young, it seems to you that all the possibilities of the world are open to you, you can do whatever you want, and no one has the right to take this feeling away from you. But life and adults have their own plans for you and your destiny.
On the 21st of September, I woke as usual at 8:00 am and I felt unexplained anxiety and panic. I didn't read much news from Russia and tried to distract myself from it with art and preparing for rehearsals for “Our Town", where I had a leading role. That morning I decided to read. After opening Telegram, one of the most popular social media apps in Russia, I was flooded with messages that a military mobilization was beginning in Russia. A voluntary draft. It was like being rinsed with ice water.
I watched as my country escalated the war in Ukraine. Tears rolled down my eyes, and my lips quietly began to repeat the same phrase: “what are you doing?” The world works like this: adult men have decided that they are gods, and they will be forgiven for everything. They will be forgiven for the murders of eighteen-year-old boys, the death of ordinary people, and the crimes that they and their associates commit.
I am the type of person who will cry alone, gather all their strength into a fist, and go about their business with a smile. I did the same thing this morning. I gathered myself and went to an acting class. Every acting class usually starts with a conversation about our days, and what is happening in our life. I am usually one of the most active participants in this small talk, but I said nothing. I just looked at the black floor.
“Hey, how is your week?” Paul was a great instructor and an amazing actor. He was in his late 40s with a red beard and light white skin covered with freckles and some cool tattoos. I needed some seconds to realize that he was talking with me.
“I am fine.” As soon as I said it, the tears started to run.
Paul’s face changed in a second. “Are you okay? Do you want to share something with the class?”
“Mobilization starts in Russia today and one of my old friends going to war. He is eighteen.” I couldn’t say anything else. I got up and ran out of the classroom.
The last time I cried in a public restroom was in 11th grade, and I was crying about a B on my final test in Law class. I wish I could cry on this day about my grades too. I was crying because an old guy who has already lived his life was sending young boys to die and kill.
When I got back. hugs brought me out of my thoughts. It was Haley. A girl from the acting class with light blue eyes and long blond hair. She hugged me and said a lot of support and kind words that helped me a lot. The rest of the class, my friends and Paul, were talking about their experiences connected with wars and horrible news. It was important for me to know that I am not alone with my feelings and problems. That day is like a veil for me now. I got used to the idea that I couldn’t change anything. One day followed another and that was it.
I enjoyed what I had, prepared for the premiere of “Our Town”, and did everything to make this performance good. During this period, I felt like Nina Sayers from “Black Swan". I wanted to be perfect. I wanted to speak fluently in English. I wanted to have no accent and every time someone told me like “oh, I like your accent! Where are you from?” I was angry with myself. Increasingly, the words “you're not good enough for this” “they chose you simply because they don't have other people” and “they laugh at you and your English” appeared in my head. Every mistake was a huge blow for me and the saddest thing in this story is that I blamed myself for the mistakes of other people.
Everything changed during the performances. Every day for four days I went on stage and gave the audience everything that I had. I gave all my energy, and emotion. But especially for Friday's show.
When you’re in a play where there are no familiar faces in the audience, you don't have any excitement or fear. You do what you must, calmly and measured. But on this Friday show, I couldn't measure my knees. They were shaking like they were ready to tap dance. All because my host family and my friends were sitting in the auditorium. On stage, I kept hearing whispers in Russian.
The final scene. I'm sitting on a chair in the far corner of the stage, the blackout, the rest of the actors are leaving, the music is dying down, silence. Every time the play ends, I experience an amazing feeling: relief mixed with sadness that the story has ended. And excitement. You don't know how the audience will react. And here you are alone with these thoughts in your head, and already in the next second you are covered with a wave of applause and shouts of “bravo". I thought there was nothing better than this feeling, but it turns out there is. It’s when people shout “bravo” to you from the audience in your native language.
Of course, my family and I are safe. We sleep in our beds. Bombs are not being dropped on our house. But knowing that only made me feel worse. That evening, on stage, I realized that all the terrible things I said about myself were lies. We have a proverb in Russia: “не было счастья, да несчастье помогло” which means, as the saying goes, there was no happiness, but unhappiness helped.
Akhmatova is an international student from Russia. She studies English and Theatre. She adores learning new languages, music, and ballet.