A Plane Between

by Aarron Sholar

My mom and I sit before a slightly-brighter-than-maroon-colored scrap book. The gold lining shines, begging to be opened. Inside is a time far away, but the place is still there today. My mom points to the pictures. One is of our first meeting, my small self wearing orange striped pajamas and my soon-to-be adopted father’s sneakers. In one picture I carry an empty water jug through a hotel room. My parents party with locals in others. And there’s one where a man, Volodya, who resembles Danny Tanner, is holding me with a smile.

We go up to her bedroom and crack open the family fire-proof safe. Inside sits both new and yellowing documents. Most of mine are in Russian, but translations are included. The two of us sit amongst the spread-out papers, my curious mind reading them word for word. A VHS tape plays on the TV. Caretakers mumble in the background, and it skips to me standing in a play pen. I’m handed a small rattle-type toy as a woman holds another, a plastic, flat bunny, in front of me. Naturally, I hit it out of her hands. The same is done to another toy given to me— onto the floor they go. At the age of eighteen months, this was the best first impression I could muster for my future parents.

~

I was born in Novosibirsk, Russia. If you put your finger on Moscow and move it sort of southeast, and end up in the lowest dip, that’s about where I’m from. I was left in the hospital by my birth mother, though we’ve never been told why this is, and put up for adoption. Years later, when looking through pictures and documents with my mom, I’d come to find that the orphanage also housed some cats. When my parents adopted me, they got some documents and information regarding the orphanage, my situation, and birth parents. We knew my father was unemployed, we had my mother’s first and last name, and even their address at the time of adoption. However, the paperwork neglected simple information like my blood type and why I was abandoned. After eighteen months spent in an orphanage, I was adopted and brought to my new home in the States to live with my new parents and a new brother. A few years later, another Russian would come to live with us—my new sister. We adopted her from St. Petersburg, when she was three years old. Embracing our Russian-ness, my parents would, and still do, but to less of an extent, fill the house with foreign mementos like Russian nesting dolls, wooden Russian children’s toys, which consisted of a type of animal figure on a base piece of wood, and a plush doll crafted by Russian orphans. I remember the doll having a giant head and a triangular, striped hat with a fluff ball on top of it. The hat never stayed up, it would always flop over like dog ears.

~

The music becomes louder, and the smell of food is strong. My mom, sister, and me hop out of the van and walk towards slanted pavement under a white tent. The smell of borscht, a beet soup, blinis, a pierogi-like food, and beef stroganoff run through the oxygen around everyone— each guest breathes in the culture. The mobile stage rests at the bottom of the asphalt hill, its laminate floor shining. Large, black speakers on either side, and a section of round, folding tables and chairs lean towards it. The awkward angles are a defining factor of the evening, and it’s our turn. My mom, sister, and I attend what we call simply “The Russian Festival” every year in Baltimore, MD—The Holy Trinity Russian Orthodox Festival.

Our attention is turned back to the stage, where a group of teenagers who are part of a Russian dance group take their places. The women have on long, white dresses with many colors, predominantly red and gold, on places like the collar, wrists, and ankles. Different provinces and districts would have their specific colors, and the girls took years to hand-craft the outfits. Dresses for those not married were mostly made of sarafan, and Russian ladies from all over wore them. Married women, though, wore slightly different headdresses. These outfits were even handed down and inherited by daughters. The men have similar flowy clothing, looking similar to linen— they were called Kosovorotka, fastened to the side and including patterned or plain-colored flowy pants. With each spin and twirl, the ladies’ dresses form perfect circles around the body, and the young men accompany each one. As the music goes on, now with the crowd clapping along to the beat, the men get low to the floor, kicking their feet out in front of them while bobbing up and down. 

~

I remember my babysitter coming over one day, and my mom had to warn her that this day, for some reason, I had decided to only speak the few Russian words I knew, and nothing else: Yes (da), No (nyet), and Airplane (semayort). Being adopted from a foreign country is an odd feeling. Your blood resides at your birthplace, but you’re conditioned to be where you live now. Because of this, I’ve always viewed Russia as this mystical, far away land that I’m destined to return to. Since I was little, I refused to be labeled as American. I knew for a fact I wasn’t born here like my parents and brother were, and they didn’t try to hide it from me, obviously— my parents were proud of who I was. I don’t hold such strong opinions on this idea today; I acknowledge that since I’ve lived 20 years of my life in the US, but I’ll still crack jokes about “silly Americans” from time to time. Why am I so adamant about a country I don’t remember anything about? 

~

My favorite story I’ve been told throughout my life is how my parents made their way to Russia the first time. After viewing that VHS tape of me in the orphanage, they were set to travel overseas to visit me in person. When they went to give their boarding passes to a Russian employee, all they were met with was nyet, nyet, nyet; they wouldn’t accept the boarding passes. My parents weren’t sure what to do. Another Russian worker came up to them, probably hunched over and whispering secretly: twenty US? Mom and dad tell me they were very confused at this point. Twenty US? He continued, until my mom understood. She started to lightly smack my dad on the shoulder: give him twenty dollars! The man happily took their money, and all of a sudden, they have first-class boarding passes for their final stretch across Russia. 

~

“You should learn how to do that,” my mom tells my sister and me. 

The music the team dances to is traditional Russian. The beat is very pronounced, with the rest of the instruments following it. The tunes are wispy. I recognize the main instrument that is making its voice heard— the balalaika, a guitar like instrument that instead has three strings and a triangular body. Each pluck causes my lips to curl into a genuine smile. I inhale, taking in the smell of the food. I save the images, sounds, and smells of home deep in my brain, where I can conjure them at any moment. 

After watching a few sets of dances, we make our way into the basement of the church, where there are Russian-made souvenirs available, as well as desserts. We each get a simple treat, like a brownie or pastry. No, these ones were not made in Russia— they’re individually packaged. There is also often a table of sweet, old Russian women painting eggs. It is a common practice in Russia to hand paint eggs with all kinds of colors and designs, just like nesting dolls. This tradition supposedly goes back to Biblical times, where allegedly, Mary Magdalene gave a Roman emperor an egg, which turned pure red to proclaim the Resurrection. Since then, Russians paint and exchange ornate eggs, primarily for Easter. As time went on, they started to paint and trade their eggs year-round. The eggs often had Bible scenes on them, and once more materials became available, Russian artists began painting egg-shaped wood, porcelain, and even paper-mache. These eggs were once of very high value, but I buy a wooden egg for less than ten dollars. It still sits on my shelf at home.

Could it be the different culture that intrigues me? No, if it were just that, I’d be interested in most countries. Is it the unique language? No, other surrounding countries have very similar ones. Maybe it’s simply the fact that I was born there? No, my sister was born in the same country, but she doesn’t have such a keen interest in returning to Russia at all. I often, especially today, listen to popular Russian music, and I’m even teaching myself Russian in preparation for my return home. My sister, however, is as American as any other young adult in this country; she’s never expressed any want to return to Russia, and she claims that listening to Russian music is dumb because I can’t understand it. The music comforts me, helps me learn the language, and reminds me of my homeland. The news anchors on local channels talk about possible Russian interference with US elections and the gay people restricted and killed there, and my parents remind me that Russians don’t even adopt their own kind. Yet, this magical place called Russia persists still— even with the violence, discrimination, and rampant hate. Why is there this intense connection between this fairytale-like land I call Russia and me? 

~

My mom shows me pictures of my fellow orphans and I potty training together in a room with a concrete floor, one where a kind woman stands me on a counter as another combs my hair, and one where my small, eighteen-month-old body lays in an airplane seat, Big Bird toy in one hand and my mouth wrapped around two other fingers. In the very back of the book sits the only picture we have of me as a baby; I lay, enclosed by a white onesie, on a sheet of medical paper. My little head of brown hair contrasts with the white around it— the women at the orphanage told my parents that I’ve always had a full head of hair, allegedly even at birth. 

~

We exit the festival and make our way up a small, steep, slanted, flight of stone steps. We open a pair of tall, red, wooden doors that lead into the building. Inside is a medium-sized sanctuary. There are wooden pews on either side of the room and a wooden podium to the front right. The golden candle holders are here too, already holding candles in their sand. Next to the platters, a dark-skinned man in a black robe talks quietly in Russian to another visitor. The man asks us all if any of us know any Russian; my mom speaks for us all: no. But: I speak a little Russian. 

On the front wall of the sanctuary are paintings of the figures of Jesus and Mary, Jesus being at various stages in life, and again, they have their halos. Above the back half of the room is a terrace made of the same wood. The ceiling contains a painting of angels, again surrounding Jesus. From the ceiling hangs a mesmerizing, golden chandelier. It looks like cathedrals in my scrapbook, but it’s only an imitation.  

The church reminds me of those in my parents’ pictures of Russia. I’m in most of the pictures: at a little Russian zoo, inside the orphanage, even some in these ornate buildings. I see myself in each picture, being held by my parents, their lips long with excitement. My faces were not so graceful. The only country I’d ever known in my two years of life is about to be stripped from me so I can be loved by a welcoming family. I’d easily assimilate into American culture and society— a kid who loved McDonald’s chicken nuggets. Perfect assimilation, yet I keep dreaming of Russia. I don’t want to just look at unremembered times, I want to return so I can remember again. 

~

We get up from the carpeted floor and load into the minivan. My mom agrees to play a custom CD I made, filled with all types of modern Russian music, on the way into Baltimore. Instead of trying to remember my past, my adopted family brings me as close as they can to it. 

~

A box of naked candles sits on a table by the entrance, along with a small donation box. 

“Do you want to light a candle?” 

Mom places two dollars in the box, and my sister and I take two sticks. We quietly go up to a platter, turning our candles to light them. We steady them in the sand. The beauty of the cathedral, the flicker of the flame, the music in the air, the smell of the grills, the feel of my wooden egg, the Russian voices, and the painting on the ceiling— all bring me home.