Through the Prisms of a Crystal Chandelier
My grandmother, God bless her soul, was something similar to what they call a chief financial officer in our little town in Russia. She worked for an enormous chemical plant of national significance. She wasn’t in it for the money, which, I suppose, partially explained her tremendous success. She truly loved numbers and spoke to them as if they were alive and could talk back. I inherited this fascination with math from her. It was easy to understand the world that way; it was black and white. There was one right answer and a million ways to get there, no second-guessing or gray areas. The idea of something being so certain is so different from how life actually is. I wonder if she found that thought to be comforting for the same reasons as I do now.
I wasn’t allowed to call her “grandma” at work, where I’d come to spin on her black, leather executive chair. Only her first name followed by her middle name. It’s the official, respectful way of addressing someone, the middle name being their father’s, meaning “the daughter of,” a patriarchal tradition of Russian culture.
My grandmother was an odd woman in many ways. It was nearly impossible for her to express emotion; I could never tell what she actually felt. Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen her cry, but I’ve heard her talk to herself, her only confidant. As she grew older, she became even less trusting, barricading herself in her mind from the rest of the world where, for the rest of us, she was out of reach. She’d appear perfectly fine, but I could notice her mind wandering to the place my mind goes sometimes.
It’s as if she’d discovered a switch for her feelings. Whenever anything that required being anxious, vulnerable, or sad happened, she would completely shut off and pretend to be a cut-out accidentally placed on the wrong collage. Perhaps, that was another reason for her success in the world of finance—her ability to render distractions invisible. Nothing could cloud her judgment, not even her fate, which was setting traps and plotting challenges along every step of the way.
I often think about what created this mechanism of self-preservation. She didn’t like to talk about her life much, protecting herself from judgment. Even when I managed to pull a few words out of her mouth, her stories seemed adjusted, made to fit a narrative she’d created. She pushed herself to believe them as a woman of strong will.
From what I know, my grandmother, the youngest of her nine siblings, had never seen her father. He was killed in the early years of the Great Patriotic War, which was how Russians referred to World War II. In Russia, every family has at least one lost mother, father, brother, sister, or grandparent. Oftentimes, more than one. There’s a whole week of holidays in May, finalized by the pompous celebration of what’s called Victory Day—the day Soviet troops took control over Berlin after the surrender of Nazi Germany. It was initially intended to be patriotic, but as with many serious things in Russia, it turned into a complete farce. Most people celebrate pretty much being born Russian, regardless of what it has to do with the fact that their ancestors lost their lives fighting against one totalitarian regime, while being made cannon fodder by their own. Everyone praises Stalin though, and there’s a lot of general confusion about what actually happened. The Russian government exudes arrogance during the yearly military parade on the Red Square, scraping together what’s left of people’s support for the current administration.
The few survivors who remember things like they were usually don’t celebrate, my grandmother among them. For her, it’s the day her father didn’t come back home. Some of her friends’ fathers did, but not hers. She and her eight brothers and sisters were left for her mother to raise alone. All of them got a chance to go to college and become someone important.
My grandmother traveled the world. She’d even been to Washington D.C. for work once and found it the most dreadful place, the sole reason being that it was so far away from her home where she grew sunflowers and spoke her language with her people. She could declare love to her land in such a humble and unpretentious way, it amazes me. She dreamt of getting a baby goat so she could take it on walks to the river like she did when she was a kid. “Who would dream about something like that?” I used to think.
Ironically, at 19–years–old, Washington D.C. was the place where I decided to show my family I could make it in a place as far away from them. That’s how I manifested being unlike them. Unexpectedly, my rejection of my Russian identity led me to realize that just like my grandmother; I was Russian from head to toe. It was a great relief to stop forcing myself to fit into something I wasn’t. What I thought was a flaw gave me roots and grounded me.
I couldn’t go back home to Russia for six years, for that was how long it took me to get my green card. I know I should be grateful. Some undocumented immigrants don’t even hope to see their families again. But I couldn’t help feeling angry and stripped of my basic rights. Instead of being at her deathbed, I was saying goodbye to my mother over the phone from a Western Union, just after I’d sent her money for her medicine. It was midnight. She couldn’t talk back, and my father held the phone to her ear. You could’ve let me go home sooner, America.
By the time I went back, my mother had passed away. My grandfather followed. It was all one month before my scheduled arrival. Six years felt like an abyss. It swallowed everything I loved and all that was left was a gaping hole with a mist of eerie nothingness. It all wasn’t the same, except for my grandma, who had been waiting for me, just like she promised.
She seemed absolutely fine. I dyed her hair, which had more gray than I remembered. I tweezed her eyebrows, dark and thick, just like mine. The lines on her face deepened and her eyes were wandering. Otherwise, she hadn’t changed that much. It seemed like the grief of having to bury her daughter and her husband of more than fifty years had only laid a shy shadow below her cheekbones. Earlier, her grandson had moved away unnoticed.
It was only a few days later when I found out that she’d almost completely lost her sight. She still pretended to watch the evening news and made comments on my appearance, but all she could see were blurry shadows and changes in lighting. The lighting was enough for her to remember the rest.
I tried to imagine what losing her sight was like for her. Surprisingly, I discovered that most of my own memories were connected to lighting. It wasn’t the only thing that the two of us had in common. My grandfather used to say I was a copy of my grandmother. My father would add that it was my donkey-like stubbornness that I had inherited from her. We were so creepily alike. The same inability to express emotions. The same fear of being misunderstood and judged. The same lies we come to believe while ignoring reality.
My grandmother taught me how to use my imagination when I was just a little girl. She would tell me fairy tales. She knew so many! She would get comfortable on the sofa with her feet perched on a stool, placing a gigantic pillow on top of her shins. She would lay me down on that improvised cradle and tell me all kinds of stories while rocking me to sleep. I’d look above at her crystal chandelier, the Soviet sign of wealth and prosperity, and watch the light dance in its prisms. I’d fall asleep as a princess, a brave warrior, a wizard, an exotic animal. My grandpa would carry me to bed, whispering for the rest of the night as to not wake me, allowing me to continue my adventures in Wonderland. For the longest time, I didn’t even need books. I could invent my own stories and watch them unravel in my head. Every night, I’d come up with a different one, just like my grandmother would.
I always thought imagination had been what defined me. It would create that extra layer of mystery and magic in life, like how whipped cream and maraschino cherries can make a sundae out of an ordinary scoop of ice cream. Adding more toppings to reality gradually made it easier to stomach. It gave me hope that, one day, I’d become someone I would truly like, someone good and beautiful, someone my father said was the right kind of woman.
I never had any trouble telling right from wrong until I realized that not knowing the truth gave me that confidence. There was no truth to base my opinions on; the world, it turns out, is too complex and difficult to comprehend. But my confidence in deciding what’s right is really my father’s voice in my head. I obediently absorbed everything he’d ever said and made it my foundation. He taught me to associate him with the absolute good, in contrast with my mother. She’d often joke about it, sarcastically mentioning to me that, “Everything that’s wonderful about you comes from your dad, Daria. Anything faulty comes from my side of the family.” I’d kept that in mind and, as it turned out, I had interpreted it completely wrong all along.
My father taught me to adopt his opinion on everything. I trusted him unconditionally. I may not have always agreed, but I obeyed, and gradually, learned to mute my own voice so that it didn’t interfere with his. I created a whole new persona, his daughter who was just the way he wanted me to be. It made me distant. I started feeling like I was watching myself live my life from afar.
I was a very curious baby; I was very particular with my preferences, but here I was in my early teens, refusing to read. I kept reading the same children’s book because it didn’t matter what I read, I didn’t need to have an opinion on anything; it was already there. All I had to do was ask my father. I don’t think he realized he had made me so helpless. I lost the ability to make decisions and procrastinated. I dreamt before bed every night and, only then could I be myself. But by the time I’d remember what that’s like, I’d fallen asleep.
My father had a say in that, too. Eventually, he got tired of seeing me read that same children’s book and do what he loved to do: go to the bookstore. He brought home the first two Harry Potter books. In The Sorcerer’s Stone, Harry was eleven, just like me at the time. My mother hoped it would encourage me to start reading more. But, once again, I got something to keep rereading religiously. I would hold on to the things that once brought me joy tightly for the rest of my life, even if they no longer serve their purpose.
Of course, I wanted to go to Hogwarts. I’d always known I was special. I checked the mailbox in our high-rise building on my way from school every day. I hadn’t thought about certain things, like how the owl would make it past the metal hallway door to the left, right before the elevators. After all, it was magic. It didn’t occur to me either that it was someone else's fantasy put on paper. I just kept hoping something really special would happen to me. It gave me a chance to hope that, once again, someone would make a decision for me, someone would take me away and teach me magic, someone would tell me how to live a life.
It was in my mid-teens when I got into The Lord of the Rings. Another magnificent story that inspired me to dream of being someone else, somewhere else, in Middle Earth. It was my sweetest escape.
I’d go for walks in my little, rural town, always at sunset. I appreciated that last beam of warm, ginger ale light, the one that makes everything glow and aligns with the east-west street grid of the city twice a year. It would help me imagine I was riding a horse and getting ready for an epic battle between good and evil. I’d save everyone and I’d be the bravest warrior. In real life, I’d come home and do my homework.
My escapism went on for the majority of my life. I was so good at imagining I was someone else, I could only be someone else. However, the dullness of my actual life switched over to grief and loss. These emotions were too strong to shy away from. There was nowhere to run. I got my introduction to death. First my mother, then my grandfather.
My grandmother passed away one year after I visited. I spoke to her on the phone when she was in the hospital and it seemed as if she didn’t believe she was going to go. She sang to me, it was one of those songs from a Soviet movie my grandpa used to sing. It was about loving life. I couldn't let myself sob. It would mean I had surrendered to the idea she was saying goodbye. I had to conceal my pain and pretend it didn’t exist. The intensity of what I was feeling was ripping me apart. I wanted to wail. I tried as hard as I could to push it down my throat and lock it in, my rib cage cracking under that pressure. I covered the microphone with my sweaty palm, collected myself and wished her well.
I told her I loved her and promised to call back. I found a million reasons not to go through this again. Maybe we secretly knew what each of us felt. I didn’t call back and, of all people, I’m sure she didn’t judge me. I couldn’t cry when she was gone, as if she carefully let me experience just as much grief as I could handle. She’d want that for herself. I couldn’t love her enough when she was alive because one day, I knew she would be gone.
From an early age, I looked my father in the mouth and caught his every word as if they were butterflies. I’d forget what I felt; it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I fit into his standards so he could be proud of me. Once my grandmother became a memory, just like it happened with my mother, my father’s words stopped ringing in my ears. I started wanting to know and understand the women who raised me.
Through coming to respect the women who raised me, I’d hoped to one day be able to reset myself and wipe out all the clutter. I’d hoped to find out who I was. Despite all the previous attempts to mask it, it was clear I was a lot like them. Sadly, they were gone.
I started searching elsewhere for that feeling of belonging. My memories, the fairy tales about my land, the things that don’t change if I leave for a few years. I was so hungry for my native tongue, I’d get chills every time I saw Cyrillic letters. I read and read and couldn’t get enough. It was something that connected us. It was tangible, right there on the paper.
The last unexpected gift my lost loved ones left for me at their departure was my will to live, to be present, to experience the whole spectrum of emotions, to find out what I think about things. They took their little secrets, their little habits, and their imperfections with them. All the parts of the fabric they were made of, I was made of. They loved life so much. I felt I owed it to them to live mine to the fullest.
I’m not ashamed to say I never liked to because it was true. I didn’t make the calls;
these choices were imposed on me. Until suddenly, I was yearning to study every singing thing there was to know about this planet. I wanted to read every single book and let every word go right through my heart. My mother, as she was dying from pancreatic cancer, felt constant excruciating pain, and yet, all she ever said was how much she wanted to live, even just a day longer. It was something I remembered about her. It left me face-to-face with the fact that if I go on ignoring life, there will be nothing to remember about me when I turn to sand. That would really be the end.
That’s when I made my peace with death, at last. Death filled my life so rapidly. It so ruthlessly took everyone I loved, it almost seemed like a cruel irony it forgot to take me. I was left in ruins, unable to make sense of it. I hoped some things would be there my whole life. I relied on that notion. I was abandoned and guilty. I was angry, but I obeyed. It stopped bothering me, it became natural. I could beg my mother for forgiveness when I wasn’t there for her. I could bring her back. Through the words, black and white, even if it takes thousands of pages, maybe I could remember one more detail: the corners of her smile, her soft, white palms, the buttons on her blouse. Maybe I’ll buy my grandfather the bicycle he’d always wanted once his legs started giving out before he passed. Maybe I’ll tweeze my grandmother’s eyebrows and listen to her stories. Then, they’ll never leave me again. This story has no ending because it’s not over, but it was a beginning. The women of my family are all quite successful and powerful. They’re also wonderfully imperfect. And I am me as I am one of them.
By Daria Dmitrochenko
Illustrations were done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Anika Rios for creating artwork for this piece.
Check the New Media Artspace out at http://www.newmediartspace.info/