Culture Shocked in Seattle.

I entered the doors of a church I once called home. Nearly killed with kindness, hugs and kisses, I thought I was going to be okay. I thought that I could somehow swallow the tears, or make believe that I didn't hurt inside. I plastered a smile on my face when people said, "Welcome back to America. Aren't you glad to be home?" My stomach dropped and my head was dizzy.

The lights dimmed and the service started. The tunes of the worship songs are now unfamiliar to me as I look around the group population. I tried to find my family amidst the new faces. My eyes darted around the sanctuary as my eyes welled up with tears. Not here, not now. Please don't do this to me. I felt lost in a sea of worshippers. I felt suffocated by the worship music. My heart ached for the Vineyard Church of Nizhnii Novgorod. Tears silently spilled down my face, taking my so-called waterproof mascara with it. 

As the unfamiliar music heightened and the worshippers' claps only grew louder, I sunk down into my seat. The silent tears turned into an uncontrollable bawling sensation. I lost control of my emotions. I missed my church family. I missed the flags waving in the air during worship. I missed Eva. I missed Olya. I missed long walks. I missed cooking at Eva's apartment after church on Sundays. I missed the multi-cultural bilingual service. I missed singing worship songs in Russia. I missed making silly faces at the little kids running around during service. I missed tea and cookies before church. I missed every little thing about my home church in Russia. To me, this church was and still is home.

Home is where the heart it, and it is evident that I left my heart in a little rundown theater on Prospekt Prokovskya, Russia. 

Overwhelmed with emotions and culture shock, I grabbed my coat and my boyfriend as I ran out into the foyer. I couldn't even make it outside before he wrapped me up in his arms and I bawled like a little baby. I lost complete control as my tears dropped onto his clean linen shirt. No words could comfort me as I expressed the sadness of my heart. 

After my tears ceased to flow, we jumped in the car and I didn't want to go anywhere. I just wanted to go home to Russia. Neal insisted as he turned the ignition. As we approached our destination, I realized that I couldn't read any signs because they weren't in English. We arrived in at the International District close to Little Saigon. 

As I opened my door, I heard passerby's speak in a language unfamiliar to me. I was a minority among the crowd. My heart swelled as we entered the Hao Hao market. My hands ran through the grains, and my mind wandered as I touched the unfamiliar fruits. I smiled as I laid down my American dollar bills to pay for such an imported item. It felt like I was using Monopoly money in a 7-11. I felt like a foreigner as I asked questions in English. I stood out as the token white girl, and somehow I felt comforted by such a feeling. 

Although my friends said I looked Russian, I still felt like an outsider when I couldn't understand what the babooskha was asking me on the bus.  I felt like an outsider when I had to hold out a wad of rubles in the grocery store because I couldn't understand how much to pay. I still felt like an outsider when I picked up my cell phone and spoke in fluent English. 

Somehow I learned to be comforted by feeling like a foreigner. And in Little Saigon, I felt at ease when I felt like a foreigner. Sometimes I still feel like a foreigner in my own country. I feel a dual responsibility to love, defend, and support both countries. I feel torn between my two countries of citizenship. I love Seattle. I love the United States of America. But I love Nizhnii Novgorod, and I love Russia. I don't know if this feeling will ever go away, but for the moment I am embracing both cultures as I readjust to the American way of life.

Love from Seattle, Seh Veh