“I know I can’t understand that, but if I may, all the more reason to be with people who share your identity. I find it really comforting to be with people who understand … certain things that we may share.”

“Yeah, I get that …” I sipped my beer. John made it sound so easy, but it wasn’t for me.

When our glasses were empty, John invited me to attend a talk about the Arctic the following day put on by the Political Science Department. Through the semester, John and I held hands on dates between political science and Ukrainian Students’ Society events. I eventually switched majors, and by the time the first Perogy Night was held that year, we were officially dating. I sought refuge with John and his culture. He was so knowledgeable about it, so at ease and proud of it. It was a novel feeling, the feeling of embracing something that was not the mainstream. I was relieved by how my foreignness wasn’t the topic of discussion. I could hide behind John’s enthusiasm for his own background.

In our kitchen, I walked up to John and hugged him from behind as he added mushrooms to his borscht. He turned around and asked, “What was that for?”

“Remember when I had my first perogy?”

“Of course,” he said, and kissed me.

女Woman

JOHN RETURNED TO WORK AFTER A WEEK AT HOME with the baby and me. The house was quiet, and the sun was high in the sky, the light penetrating the front bay window. I wrapped a blanket around the baby and me, cocooning with my daughter, tipping my head down to sniff the top of her head. Intoxicating. I was so happy to be home and wrapped up with my little girl. I sat for a few minutes, letting the sun bathe us through the window. I looked at her face and felt like I was peering into an old mirror. Her dark hair, wide nose, and full lips reflected memories of faded pictures I had seen in childhood. Cradling the baby in one arm, I got up to get my old baby photos.

The photo album creaked loudly as I opened it. I saw myself as a wrinkled newborn with large tufts of black hair and smiled looking at the wafts of hair on my daughter’s tiny head. In one photograph, my father cradled me in one arm and, in his other hand, held my birth certificate, something he was never given when he was born as a stateless child.

In another photo, Mother held me high with both arms raised straight above her head. She was looking up at me, laughing, as drool seeped from my smiling mouth and I reached for her with my star-shaped hands. I could not stop staring at this photo of Mother and me. As I embraced my week-old daughter, I could not imagine ever leaving her.

I flipped through the snapshots of my early life, and so many questions started popping into my head, questions I wished I could ask my mother. I didn’t know if I was breastfed or if my mother relied on formula. I didn’t know what my mother thought of pacifiers. I didn’t know if she slept with her babies or set us in our cribs. I didn’t know if she felt as afraid, unprepared, and naive as I did.