Language Barriers in Families
One Russian-American’s experiences growing up in a linguistically divided family
By: Nina Afremov
Growing up with a mom from North Dakota and a dad who emigrated from the Soviet Union, my reality is a blend of Midwestern and Russian culture. My childhood was a swirl of fifty-year-old Soviet cartoons, translated folk tales, Russian schoolgirl braids running down my back, and adult parties where the table was covered with vodka-filled crystal shot glasses and zakuski plates of pickled herring. There were also many American things in my life, like tater tot casserole, Polly Pockets, and Disney Channel. There’s just one important thing that didn’t stick: the Russian language.
My dad didn’t speak Russian with my siblings and me at home. Though my mom had studied Russian, she never felt like she had reached fluency and defaulted to English. I had a Russian babysitter who only spoke Russian, and though I understood when she’d beckon me to the kitchen for a warm bowl of kasha, when it was time to pick up my toys, or when I was being reprimanded, I couldn’t understand anything more complex, let alone respond.
Even with grandparents who only spoke Russian, I knew little of the language. It is painful living in a world where some of the people you are closest to and who love you most don’t share the same language. We found other ways to communicate, though. I learned how valuable gestures and glances can be. When I’d play with my grandma, she would make faces to make me laugh and call me a hooligan (a word I understood well). With Grandpa, I’d play the Soviet version of patty cake, which always ended with the tops of my hands burning from the slaps of his iron palms, but we were always left smiling.
The loving moments were the little moments together. Without any words at all, I’d help my grandma in the kitchen, washing cucumbers for her and watching her fry up piroshki on the stove. Then Grandpa would show me his cologne collection. With the flair of a magician, he would unscrew the bottles and let me have a whiff before dousing his wrists.
The way I spoke with my grandparents was tender and sparing. Yet I can’t shake the feeling that I missed out on who they were as people. I missed out on their storytelling; I missed out on the nuances of their character that language shapes. After my grandpa died, I grew terrified that I would forget the sound of his raspy voice. I haven’t heard his voice in thirteen years, not even in my head; there was no semiotic meaning to attach it to.
This loss paved my path as I grew older. I became dead-set on learning Russian. After high school, I moved to the former Soviet Republic of Moldova, where much of the population still speaks Russian. I became the girl who spoke funny words. My host mom told me I was almost Russian; I had the mannerisms and knew the references, but something was inexplicably foreign. But as my year abroad came to an end, I could understand and speak Russian fluently, which was what I wanted. The shame and pain of linguistic disconnect in my family didn’t hurt so much. During my time away, I was able to carry a conversation with my dad for the first time in Russian over a WhatsApp video call. I asked him if it made him happy. He told me he was happy to speak to me no matter the language.
When I came back, I could finally speak to my grandma. She had been suffering from dementia for several years. Despite her ailment, when we reunited, we had a conversation in which she told me she knew I had been gone, she missed me, she was glad I was back, and she loved me. That was the most in depth conversation I ever had with my grandma before her dementia worsened. At ninety-seven, she’s still with us, but someday soon I will know a world without her. Yet I will always remember the sound of her voice.