Today is a day I’ve been anticipating for a while: the 30th anniversary of our arrival in the United States as refugees from the Soviet Union. I remember that day—April 28, 1990—as discrete packets of memory of a day too long for a 7 year old to fully understand, one that began in our Moscow apartment (where the first picture was taken shortly before our departure); continued on to Moscow’s Sheremtyevo airport, where my parents’ friends and my grandparents sobbed as if at a funeral; through passport control with what little we were allowed to bring; the long flight during which none of us slept, thanks to my bouncy sister; waiting on the tarmac in the snow in Shannon, Ireland as the plane refueled; our arrival at Dulles International Airport, where we were processed and given our refugee cards and expelled into the Virginia suburbs that seemed to me, in the brightness of its sun and the lushness of its greenery, to be the tropics. A lot has happened in the 30 years since. The country we left soon ceased to exist. The country we came to has flashed us its teeth in recent years in a way that triggers deep, historical fears. We’ve all been back to Moscow countless times and I even made that vastly changed city my home for a few years. My mother recertified as a physician and has become a successful and prominent clinician and professor. My father bought a used car and got a job within two weeks of our arrival and quickly became the bedrock of the family, bringing over his parents and his sister and her family as well as a dozen other relatives. I went to college and horrified my parents by studying Soviet history and then horrified them again by becoming a journalist. My sister, that little blonde spark plug, is now a beautiful woman and a doctor, finishing up her residency and caring for patients with the coronavirus. It was a hard road, but we’re here, American as fuck and proud of it, though I don’t think any of us could have foreseen that, in 30 years, we’d be back to a toilet paper shortage—this time, an American one.
Today is a day I’ve been anticipating for a while: the 30th anniversary of our arrival in the United States as refugees from the Soviet Union. I remember that day—April 28, 1990—as discrete packets of memory of a day too long for a 7 year old to fully understand, one that began in our Moscow apartment (where the first picture was taken shortly before our departure); continued on to Moscow’s Sheremtyevo airport, where my parents’ friends and my grandparents sobbed as if at a funeral; through passport control with what little we were allowed to bring; the long flight during which none of us slept, thanks to my bouncy sister; waiting on the tarmac in the snow in Shannon, Ireland as the plane refueled; our arrival at Dulles International Airport, where we were processed and given our refugee cards and expelled into the Virginia suburbs that seemed to me, in the brightness of its sun and the lushness of its greenery, to be the tropics. A lot has happened in the 30 years since. The country we left soon ceased to exist. The country we came to has flashed us its teeth in recent years in a way that triggers deep, historical fears. We’ve all been back to Moscow countless times and I even made that vastly changed city my home for a few years. My mother recertified as a physician and has become a successful and prominent clinician and professor. My father bought a used car and got a job within two weeks of our arrival and quickly became the bedrock of the family, bringing over his parents and his sister and her family as well as a dozen other relatives. I went to college and horrified my parents by studying Soviet history and then horrified them again by becoming a journalist. My sister, that little blonde spark plug, is now a beautiful woman and a doctor, finishing up her residency and caring for patients with the coronavirus. It was a hard road, but we’re here, American as fuck and proud of it, though I don’t think any of us could have foreseen that, in 30 years, we’d be back to a toilet paper shortage—this time, an American one.
I am very proud of this paella. 🥘
In the Soviet Union, my mother was an otolaryngologist (an ear-nose-throat doctor). She did easy procedures, like taking out children’s tonsils (which was, like many Soviet medical procedures, done without anesthesia). She also could do the intricate surgery that could fix the bones of the middle ear and restore someone’s hearing, a surgery that would’ve helped Beethoven. In 1990, she left the Soviet Union for the United States and had no idea what kind of work she was going to do there. Just in case, she read some books and took some classes on how to do nails and also brought her medical instruments with her. Today, 30 years later, my mother is a pathologist and a professor of medicine and has no need of the old instruments that my father just dug up in the basement but we’re all feeling nostalgic.
I was so scared to make these two things—fried chicken and mac n cheese—and I’m so proud I didn’t ruin them so I have to put them up on Instagram. Going to look back at this warmly when our food supply chains are truly fucked.
Anatomy of a protest.
Anatomy of a protest.
Anatomy of a protest.
Anatomy of a protest.
Anatomy of a protest.
Anatomy of a protest.
Anatomy of a protest.
A private evening with author and journalist extraordinaire Robert Draper,* author of “To Start a War.” *Robert is all those things, but he is also one of my dearest, bestest friends and I am so so proud. Buy the book! 🤓📚❤️
A private evening with author and journalist extraordinaire Robert Draper,* author of “To Start a War.” *Robert is all those things, but he is also one of my dearest, bestest friends and I am so so proud. Buy the book! 🤓📚❤️
A socially-distant visit to my parents.
I’m only friends with fellow wild gesticulators/adamant wine drinkers.
I’m only friends with fellow wild gesticulators/adamant wine drinkers.
I’m only friends with fellow wild gesticulators/adamant wine drinkers.
I’m just sitting around, reading about Nikita Khrushchev when I get a care package from his great-granddaughter, my lovely friend @nina.khrushcheva. It’s a bag of dictator chocolates! (Plus Gagarin and Vysotsky.) She also tucked in a bar of Belorussian chocolate from her friend, my literary idol, Svetlana Alexievich, so I’m now deceased, thanks, Nina.
I’m only friends with fellow wild gesticulators/adamant wine drinkers.
I’m only friends with fellow wild gesticulators/adamant wine drinkers.
I’m only friends with fellow wild gesticulators/adamant wine drinkers.
I’m only friends with fellow wild gesticulators/adamant wine drinkers.
My little sister @dinodina and her friend @mhh917 have organized a #WhiteCoatsForBlackLives protest tomorrow in Baltimore and got their hospital, the University of Maryland Medical Center, to sponsor it. They’re coordinating with other city hospitals. If you’re a Maryland healthcare worker, heads up! (On a personal note, my sister is graduating her residency program tomorrow. I’m so proud that this is how she’s chosen to go out, capping off nearly a decade at UMMC, caring for the people in her city, most of whom are black. She has truly lived the meaning of #blacklivesmatter✊🏽✊🏾✊🏿 )
