No Matter How Hard You Try…

Sometimes, you really and truly can’t win. Take this personal essay by Alexander Nazaryan from New York Times blog, Proof, about boozing and beet-eating in Brighton Beach. The piece is colorful and flush with mentions of pickled herring on dense black bread and vodka and toasting and the mafiosos of Brighton Beach and the fat cats in Moscow. Generalizations to be sure, but that doesn’t make them entirely inaccurate. It is primarily–outside a bit of additional reporting–a first person account of the culture, food and drink the author has rediscovered.

Writing about Russia, though, seems to elicit the most polar-opposite reactions, more so than writing about any other nation or its people. There are three distinct dissenting groups who react when writers like Alexander, who is much like me–having left his native country as a child, attempt this feat.

The first is group is the most vocal. They’re the same group that openly and audibly dismiss the New York Times stories about Kremlin corruption with the refrain “you don’t know anything about Russia” and “mind your own business.” Russians tend to be insanely defensive about, well, everything. Interestingly enough, there are plenty of darkly humorous anecdotes in Russian relating to the pitfalls of Russian governance and culture. They shall only be uttered by Russians, however. In this instance, these commenters seem to focus on the writer’s use of inaccurate Western stereotypes of Russian life, both now and during Soviet times. Some, like the first commenter, nitpick; others, like the second, just dismiss the thing altogether as being rife with “cliches” and so unworthy of their time:

This brief but surprisingly imprecise essay features several misleading clichés and stereotypes about Soviet everyday life. I would like to point out just two of them. First, contrary to author’s opinion, there was no German pumpernickel bread in the Soviet Union. Second, borscht and meat-stuffed cabbage leaves (golubtsy) were regular folks’ daily food and not a rare delight accessible only to “Politburo fat-cats.” I believe that The New York Times could have easily checked such basic facts, known to millions people.

Sincerely,
Evgenii Bershtein
Associate Professor of Russian
Reed College

The article reminds me the early accounts of trips to Moscow by young western journalists – so full of stereotypes and clichés. A splendid example of poor taste.

— Grigori Leschenko

The second group is the “how dare you glamorize this culture” and “Russia is a sad, sad place” group. In this instance, these are the commenters who think that since the piece doesn’t acknowledge the traumatic effects vodka has had on the Russian people, it is doing a disservice. Some, like the last commenter below, go even further, denouncing Russian culture as a whole and pointing out that the warm, personal toasts are meaningless and only a means to end.

Read with bemusement the article as well all the comments.
Not one of the russophiles bothered to mention the horrendous human cost of alcoholism caused mostly by the imbibing of vodka on the health of Russians and the third world level of life expectancy, not even considering the deathly effects of the various dietary, artery clogging poisons that are being consumed while washing down the gullet with vodka.
That kind of lifestyle through a haze of vodka may make it easier to tolerate or ignore the recent assassinations of the attorney and lady journalist in Putin’s paradise.
Las

— Laszlo Kiraly

Alexander, you must have misplaced a word in title: it is not Country, Vodka and Sour Cream, it is Country Vodka and Misery. Having immigrated as a child, you have no idea how many lives and families are destroyed by this vodichka. It does not deserve to be cherished. Moving early in the US, you have missed some true stories about people being murdered, raped or simply frozen to death because of the over-consumption.

As a college student in Russia, I and my buddies drank vodka whenever we could secure two dollars needed for a bottle, which happened to be three-four times a week. Now, looking back, I am ashamed of myself for wasting so much time and efforts of my youth – it was all for nothing.

Also, Saint-Petersburg was never a part of Russia; drunkards in Siberia generally do not spend lots of time discussing Solzhenizin; there is a more important issue – how to get another bottle.

— Yuriy

As an American of non-Slavic descent who has lived in Russia and neighboring republics for 12 years and speaks Russian with near-native proficiency even (especially) after his 3rd half-liter of Stella Artois (I refer to the present moment), please allow me to set you straight:

1. There are plenty of bars in Russia. Minor point, though. More importantly,
2. The first evening you spend in a cramped Russian kitchen feeling the warmth of the vodka and the company, you marvel at the heartfelt toasts. The second night you hear the same exact toasts. The eleventy-thousandth night you begin to wonder, is anyone in this country capable of an original thought? Subsequently you realize that these people are not speaking from the heart, but rather repeating out of habit nonsense that someone once told them.
3. Be glad that you grew up in America. I can tell from the way that you write that you are American, not Russian. This is a good thing for you and for your children. You are richer both materially and spiritually because of it. Visiting Brighton Beach now and again and impressing your friends with your local connections is cool, but that’s where the benefit begins and ends. You’re not missing anything by living your life in America, and you’re gaining everything.
— Ethan

The third group is unique to the author and others like him, who were born in Russia, but who spent most of their lives as Americans. This group’s major argument, and it is a rather condescending one, is that since we haven’t lived in Russia a sufficient amount of time and do not understand it as it exists now–post-collapse and with a growing (before 2009) middle class, we are wholly and in perpetuity restricted from ever commenting on it or our relationship to it. Please. Who do you think our parents are? Or our grandparents? Or our aunts and uncles? Here’s a hint: they’re not Spaniards. These people tell us about their experiences and they have unique stories to share. Our relationship with our abandoned culture is, in my opinion, deserving of mention, no matter how fraught with “cliches” you think it may be.

So you left when you were a kid, but you do know why people back then drink alcohol and keep slipping cliche like “marxism” into article. What a great insight…..

Russians drink? Check out how people in New Mexico sober up only to get to liqiuor store. Mind you – they arent really affected by commie dogmas at all.

Its typical racial sterotype, like scottish people with red hair and bad teeth, fat americans with chewing gum or tiny japaneese guy in huge glasses.

People in Russia never truly were big on drinking. In fact lots of old sayings are totally against drinking.

And reason why people used to drink any amounts of alcohol there – was exactly same as everywhere else – escapism. To create brief moment when you not pressed by anything but drinking. Except it never works.
— Sergei

Putinka vodka (seriously); image: putinka.ru

How to Save the News and Why Citizen Journalism isn’t Journalism

Okay, I’ll admit, that’s a pretty hard line to take in the current debate of what exactly comprises “news”. But I think (for now) I’m sticking to it. Many people point to the demise of newspaper readership as an omen. People want their news now, like RIGHT NOW, mere milliseconds after an event has taken place and don’t have time to wait for a pesky reporter who needs to arduously gather information and oh, you know, make sure it’s actually accurate. The fore bearers of traditional media’s death sit across from fluorescent screens and tweet and tumble about how when it really counted, their compatriots were there, on the front lines. And it’s true, people’s individual accounts–updated via various new, up-to-the-second platforms–of the tragedy in Mumbai and the U.S. Airways Flight 1549 landing in the Hudson, for example, lent a personal angle to those larger than life stories. As the New York magazine piece on Twitter intended to show, here’s real value to this type of communication and information dissemination, especially in a disaster-type setting. But these are THEIR stories, not the whole story. Who do you look to when you need real answers as to WHY something happened? Who will win the trust of government officials and covert sources, hell, even regular Joe Shmo sources? Citizen journalists don’t garner that sort of respect, can’t build that kind of trust, based simply on the fact that they are too numerable. They are, arguably, the eyes and ears of the world, but what they do isn’t journalism, it’s personal, single-point-of-view, stream of consciousness rumination.

It’s sort of like the personal essay. I write a great deal of personal essays; they’re a masturbatory exercise in ego lifting and a great deal of fun to write, but they aren’t always newsworthy and tend to exist in a sort of information vacuum. Sure, you could round out a particularly pertinent person essay with quality reporting, but in the end, it will remain, well personal.

People won’t miss real journalism until it’s gone, I know. I can already tell. So how to save it from an inevitable demise? Michael Hirschorn over at the Atlantic paints an after-the-rubble scenario where the news is aggregated (a la Huffington Post) and star reporters become a commodity and a brand. He points to the likes of Paul Krugman and Thomas Friedman as some who would thrive under this new model. A system that glamorizes “star reporters” is extremely dangerous, in my opinion. I enjoy Thomas Friedman, sort of, sometimes, but he is not the kind of reporter who is of real value. Most of his pieces are awash in generalizations and personal anecdotes. Yes, journalists need a healthy ego, but they also need to be OK with anonymity and want to do their job, akin to many non-profit workers, for the mere love of the mission of journalism itself. The real reporters and heroes of journalism are the tenacious inner city staffers who expose corruption and poverty or the bureau chiefs and journalists in far flung locations like Khodzha-Durbod, Tajikistan, who tell us of the fears of Tajik villagers who have moved to Russia for money; of them having to protect themselves against xenophobic gangs who roam Moscow, for example. Maybe these people and these stories can paint a clearer pictures, help us understand not just the news, but the mentality that helps drive and shape news makers.

So what to do then, if the hope that the best reporters shake out of this thing, doesn’t fructify? Walter Issacson’s piece in Time magazine is the most in line with my views of any recent “death knell for news” story I’ve read. His main argument is that newspapers shouldn’t be beholden to advertisers. I agree–it’s a concept that should be stretched to all facets of print media. The readers should really be the ones to decides whether a paper or magazine stays or goes. Quality magazines, like the recently resigned Domino, close because of ad dollars, leaving a very devoted readership without a beloved product. In an ad-driven model, there’s no respect for a reader’s loyalty and intelligence. Issacson suggests newspapers begin charging for content; he contends that readers understand the value of quality reporting, and although they were bred through the Internet age to be able to get even the best content free of charge, they can be retrained. Personally, I would pay $20 a month to be able to read the New York Times site with impunity. I’m not sure if others would. I hope they would. In a world were information on every subject is ubiquitous, can the average person really discern quality? Will they choose a piece of analysis that has been fraught over and fact checked (not that the New York Times fact checks) over a piece of sensationalistic mumbo jumbo? Maybe the answer is a combination of the pay-for-read model and a decrease in output. Perhaps a New York Times-type paper can become a weekend-only affair, concentrating their resources on analysis as opposed to breaking news. Maybe new media platforms and blogs, like gothamist.com will have to step up to the plate with original reporting on local issues. The end of the daily tangible paper may indeed be upon us.

Subway Stories

There’s much to complain about when it comes to the NYC subway. The trains can be mind-numbingly slow (and “train traffic ahead of us” is no excuse when we’ve been stuck here for 5 minutes and there are no other trains that run on this track). There are often people playing loud music, or leaning on poles during rush hour, or sitting with their legs open so wide, they take up three seats. At night, you have to contend with pukey club-goers or unannounced track repair work. The intercoms are an abomination–as a New Yorker I’m embarrassed every time a tourist strains with futility to hear the announcements; the buzzing, barely distinguishable voices on the other end speak only gibberish. I imagine Tokyo or London or Paris would never stand for such amateurishness.

And yet, the subway can still be a source of wonderment and discovery. Everyone (well, almost everyone) takes the subway. Like H&M and Prospect Park, it is New York’s great equalizer. Its tight quarters force you to mingle with every possible sort of human. When I’m not stressed out or late to work, the subway can even be relaxing. I become enthralled by the cultures, the personalities, even the specific moods of fellow strap hangers.

Here are a few observations from recent train trips:

A man with a Yarmulke reading a newspaper in Arabic. I know there are hundreds of thousands of Jews who trace their ancestries to Arab nations, and that there’s a number of them in the city, but I’ve never personally met any. Sephardic, and generally non-Ashkenazi Jews are insanely intriguing to me because their Jewish culture is so different from my own; the food, the holiday traditions, the dress–it all seems so wonderfully exotic.

A Russian babushka-type reading the New Yorker. As a Russian immigrant, I often stereotype my fellow Russians. I except the younger ones to wear stilleto-ed boots, leather jackets and designer sunglasses and the older ones to don fur hats and oversize coats. I except neither to be very interested in American culture or the country’s intellectual discussions and goings-on. This woman, god bless her, made me unburden all of my preconceived notions.

This guy, who plays the most gorgeous music on a full-size piano in the NYC subway. According to the Times, he keeps several pianos throughout various storage units in the city. Each piano is stored relatively close to a preferred busking spot. I first heard his piano-playing the other day on the Union Square platform. I had just missed a late night train. I was annoyed, tired and cranky, but after hearing him play, I was soothed, transported elsewhere. The melodies were incandescent. I even welled up at one point, the music was so beautiful.

Photo: Andrew Henderson/The New York Times

People I Envy

Flight Attendants: I wonder if they’re all as calm as they appear when those wheels leave earth and the steel tube we’re all in stretches towards space. I mean, this is their job. Most of us wouldn’t subject ourselves to being crane operators (for example) if we were afraid of heights. When the plane begins to shake like I carnival ride, I search their faces for even a hint of perspiration or a blushed cheek, but usually find nothing. I ache for that kind of cool confidence when I fly. Instead, my palms soak as if I dipped them in water and my heart feels heavy like a boulder. It doesn’t seem natural-does it?-for human beings to lock themselves in a long skinny aluminum can carrying gallons upon gallons of highly flammable fuel and float for hours through an atmosphere that was designed to sustain bird migrations and not 90,000 lbs of flesh and metal.

Science-Types: These are some of the most passionate people in the world. While some of us search for jobs we don’t dread waking up for, these people become enamored, obsessed with a certain topic and willfully try to learn all they can about it. They spend hours in labs, often alone, looking at molecules through microscopes and eventually end up with cures for devastating diseases. I envy that kind of dedication, commitment and focus. I really envy the focus. I can’t seem to land on one of the millions of career alternatives floating through my brain. They just all meld together in my psyche, swimming around as possibilities, but I can’t seem to grasp at any one of them. The refrain goes: “I’d like this, but maybe this would be better…” If only I were obsessed with the fauna of the Southwest, for example, I’d know exactly what I’d need to go to grad school for, the types of jobs that would be available upon graduation. Best of all, I would know that in the end, my job would bring fulfillment.

Loners: There are people who are hardwired to be OK with being alone. I’ve always thought I was one of those people, that I could just runaway and be OK, that I didn’t need anyone. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, as the years have passed I’ve come to learn that’s not the case. I need people–friends, even acquaintances will do. Some individuals though, can disappear, and hike through the Canadian countryside and be sublimely happy. Sort of like Chris McCandless, about whom “Into the Wild” was written. People like that don’t seem susceptible to devastating heartache, of the sort that comes along with unrequited love or the demise of a friendship; at the end of the day, they (and perhaps an expanse of rolling hills and a fiery sunset) are all they need. I don’t know, though. Maybe I’m not envious. There’s no better feeling than knowing someone needs your attention and affection, that something or someone outside yourself matters. I want to explore and be brave and uncommitted, but in the end, it would mean denying my own biology.

Multiple Identity Disorder

A lot of ink has been spilled trying to put into words what it means to be an American, or an American-slash-whatever. Each is accompanied by its own set of definitions. Being an American might mean that you believe in the ideals upon which this country was founded or that you can relate to mainstream popular culture, or that your own identity is a hodgepodge of disparate things. Being an American-slash-whatever might mean that you have a toehold in two separate worlds. Perhaps you’re caught somewhere in the middle–embracing a new home, while at the same time holding true and fast to your mother country’s traditions.

I find myself in the precarious situation of having been cast in the middle of the middle, a no man’s land of identity. As a Russian Jew who immigrated to this country at a very young age, I have almost wholly embraced an American way of life. I read American books, watch American television, listen to American music and it’s been this way for as along as I can remember. My Russian-ess does manifest itself in peculiar ways, mostly in the way in which it helps me relate to my parents and grandfather. When I was young, my mother taught me patriotic Russian songs, not for their message but for the ease of their lyrics; they were something she and I (both nearly tone-def but intense music lovers nonetheless) could sing together on long car trips. My parents never embraced American food and so at home, I was fed a steady diet of kasha, chicken cutlets, pelmeni and borscht. Early on, I resented my parents for their unwilligness to order pizza (the two times we have done it, years into my twenties, the pizza was always picked up–it’s utter laziness to have the delivery man come to your door, after all) and to provide the M&Ms and Reese’s I gobbled up with intensity at my friends’ houses. Now, though, I treasure a hot meal of plov when I make my way down South to my parents’ home. The Russian-ess was strongest, however, in the way we rejected it. “We weren’t Russian” I was constantly reminded when I came home and told my parents that new friends could tell I wasn’t “American.” “You’re not Russian, you’re Jewish,” they’d say. After all, that’s the way they had always been perceived by fellow countrymen. Their passports didn’t say Russian, they said Jewish. There was always talk of how when we left, it wasn’t so difficult to cut the cord, because it was never our home; we were always outsiders. This notion of being the “other” in the country we left behind was as much a part of our Russian identity as was the traditional Olivier salad we made for family get-togethers.

This disconnect with my home country was they way I thought most Russian Jewish immigrants felt. A while back, I attended a panel discussion about the reconciliation of the Russian, Jewish and American identities at CUNY Graduate Center. I was sort of surprised with the way I ended up feeling at its conclusion. I had found it extremely hard to relate to some of the panelists. Many were older when they immigrated, but still, I had expected some sort of kinship. The panelists spoke of never really being accepted my American Jews and even finding a distaste for them after being forced to go to a Yeshiva (in Brooklyn, these were some of the few institutions that offered tuition-free schooling for new immigrants, many of whom were taught to be wary of public schools) from a young age–a place where fundamental ideals were passed off as mainstream. That, I can understand; it was a place where we were told not to trick-or-treat because the Christians purposefully and maliciously put needles into the candy. (I think I escaped the same cynical fate by moving away from NYC and into Southern suburban America early on. I had an entirely positive Jewish upbringing.) But, they also spoke of trying to reconcile their Russian-ess and Americanism, sometimes decrying the latter for its fervent commercialism and puritan values. Many mentioned frequently venturing back to Russia, making new friends and enjoying the familiarities of the motherland they missed.

And that’s when it dawned on me, they weren’t the exception, I was. My family had purposefully chosen to abandon the world they had grown up in. Russia was always seen as a place we had escaped, not a place that was a part of us.

Almost every other Russian I know, even those my age, even Jewish Russians, still has countless satellite channels streaming news and programs directly from Moscow. They still have primarily Russian friends and listen and keep up with Russian music.

And so, I find myself in this weird place, away from the Russian-Jewish-American identity crisis, forced to deal with an identity confusion of my own. I can’t extol the virtues of my homeland, but it’s still a part of me, somehow. I guess, maybe, this is what being, simply, an “American” feels like?

How the “Perfect” Job is Like the “Perfect” Guy

When we were teenagers, we had his picture in our heads. We’d go to bed with him smirking at us after he’d spent the day carrying our backpack and reading us his poetry, which was always about how incomparably beautiful we were. He was masculine and athletic and yet brooding and delicate. He was…perfect. And he wasn’t real.

We pursued as a close a version as we could find to these idealized man-boys, often finding that their carefully crafted exterior masked a bland, often-uninteresting, even-more-often-emotionally detached interior. The masculinity translated into archaic views on gender. The brooding poetry meant contrived emotions and a self-absorbed outlook on life. If we thought about their most swoon-worthy attributes and pared them down to a few sentences, these matchstick men would have no doubt seemed ideal. But people are complicated and difficult and being obsessed with French philosophers, obscure indie music and Russian literature doesn’t equate to being kind and caring, thoughtful and respectful.

And so it sometimes is with an ideal job. For some of us, it’s something we have dreamt about from a very young age. For me it was journalism–magazines specifically. When, at age 13, I outgrew Seventeen and YM, I vowed to start a teen magazine that honestly and intelligently reflected on the teenage experience. I spent many years, both in high school and college, working to become an editor; it’s the only job that ever really excited me. And then I came to NYC and a few things started falling into place. I got a high-profile internship and then interviews and though I didn’t end up getting full-time positions, a few freelance opportunities came my way. For a few years, I had blinders on. Magazines were the only thing I wanted. I dared not think about straying lest I be giving up. And, when you’re considered exceptional as a child, and you get to your 20s and see you’re actually not all that special, giving up is not an option. Giving up means solidifying those angry, skeptical internal voices that said you couldn’t do it in the first place. We all have them; some of us are better at silencing them than others are.

The Wonderful World of Magazines

But then, something extraordinary happened. I stopped and I took a deep breath and I thought about what I was working for. Like that perfect guy when I was 15, the dream job I had pursued without rest was a contrived, idealized version of reality. When I thought about the day-to-day, at least at most of the places I worked, I liked saying that I worked there, as opposed to actually coming in and doing the tasks assigned. I liked the idea of these jobs more than I liked the jobs themselves. And then there were my superiors; I didn’t envy any of them. I didn’t want to be them. All I kept thinking about was how I didn’t want to be writing a “how to get rid of that cellulite” headline for the gazillionth time 20 years from now.

The thought of switching gears is insanely terrifying. It casts me in a place of doubt and insecurity I haven’t experienced since I was in high school. “I never succeeded at this, why would I succeed at something else?” me at my lowest wants to ask. But it’s also insanely liberating. My future is undecided, which means I can do ANYTHING. The blinders are no longer holding me back from real possibility.

I still dream of my perfect teen magazine: a Sassy for the new generation, much like the peerless ElleGirl, which folded a few years back. I still haven’t totally given up on it–perhaps I might revisit the idea a few years down the line, but I think I owe it to myself to figure out and pursue what 25 year-old me wants, as opposed to what 13 year-old me glamorized in her head and thought she wanted. I think 13 year-old me would understand and be proud.

The Evolution of an Empath

There’s more to this city than 100-foot-tall billboards, than the lithe long-limbed models teetering on 5 inch heels, than the excitement, the bright lights and the magnificent sounds. There are other sights, too, ones that burn themselves onto the inside of your eyelids, haunting you when you’re alone.

I knew it would happen when I first moved here. I knew I’d have to deal with homelessness and drug addiction–that I wouldn’t be able to avoid it the way you can in cities where your eyes just see them for a millisecond, driving past in your car, and then they’re gone as though a hallucination. In New York, they’re everywhere, and their suffering is almost ironically juxtaposed against some of the grandest wealth on this planet.

There’s the crying, strung-out woman on 5th Ave. in the 40s, who wraps herself in nothing but a blanket on even the coldest winter day. There’s the man with no legs, not even a lower torso, who carries his body on balled-up fists, quickly weaving between commuters’ legs. There’s the homeless women whose stench is so unbearable that her presence sends every single passenger scrambling for an exit or an adjoining car. I caught a glimpse of her face as I stepped off the car and the train pulled out of the station–there was still a light in her distant eyes, one that seemed to ache for the loss of her dignity and wonder if this is how it always will be.

And then there’s the homeless man who hangs outside the apartment I lived in for 3 years. He is one of the wittiest people in the city–bar none. His jokes and quips bely a lifetime of historical and pop culture knowledge. He’s taken care of, too, by the surrounding community. Someone will pay for his haircuts, someone else gives him socks, still others give him money to spend the night somewhere. Some days he is completely lucid and coherent and others, well, not. He mutters and swaggers and seems completely immersed in surroundings no one but him can see. We’ve guessed that he’s probably schizophrenic.

But I can’t help him and no matter how much money I give him, he won’t get better. Plus, this is New York and I have to keep my guard. I can’t be too friendly or allow him to cross boundaries. It’s hard but this is what becomes of empathetic people in New York City. In the beginning your heart aches, but then, then it hardens, bit by bit. Instead of not being able to breath when you see a half-naked woman crying in the middle of winter, you resign yourself to the fact that there is not much you can do at that precise moment, especially when it comes to those with addiction. Money will only buy more drugs and that fact is just so hard to come to terms with, so so hard. I commend the homeless outreachers who are out there every night, making these people’s lives just a tiny bit better and waiting and praying for the moment when they decide to help themselves.

I must note that it’s not like I’m some Mother Teresa. These reactions haven’t necessarily lead to action; it’s not like I’m at a soup kitchen every night. But, when I first moved here, the reactions used to be physically, not just emotionally, painful. And now, well, now–I just stare straight ahead, just like everyone else.