Who are you? And the far reaches of globalization

I recently gave a talk at the Chekhov Cultural Center here in Moscow, as part of English Language Evenings (thanks so much to the organizer, Stephen Lapeyrose, and all of the wonderful people who attended), and before the talk, I had to clarify something on my resume. I had to explain that a certain job meant work experience in two cities simultaneously – “the magazine was produced in Amman,” I said, “but it was meant for the market in Dubai. I’d just moved from Dubai and was working on it in Amman.”

During the question-and-answer portion of my talk, someone asked me which language I speak better, English or Russian. I said that I speak English better – though I’ve been catching up on my Russian since moving to Moscow, and eventually hope for my knowledge in both languages to be pretty much even.

The dreaded “who are you?” question was, thankfully, not asked. I identify as lots of things, after all. Sometimes, it confuses people. It even irritates them. They think my Whitman-esque desire to “contain multitudes” is a sign of “disloyalty,” or, worse yet, some sort of indifference to my roots. But my roots, both genetic and cultural, spiritual and intellectual, grow from all sorts of places. This isn’t rare. This isn’t weird.

“How do you figure fromness?” Chally recently asked on Feministe. The important thing is not letting anyone else decide the answer for you. It’s the same as trying to determine your work experience in a globalized job market, really – just on a more personal scale.

Senior discount

A local shop on the embankment here in my neighbourhood in Moscow sells food at discounted prices to people receiving benefits – including pensioners, WWII veterans, etc. I recently noticed that they have a sign tacked on by the cash register, explaining that although they’ll give you a discount if you provide your benefits card, they won’t discount alcohol or tobacco. The list on alcohol is actually quite specific – you can’t even buy a discounted beer.

So let’s say I’m 90 years old, I was a lady sniper, I fought bravely in the 25th Rifle Division or another such division, and I just want to knock back some beers tonight – because whatever. Do I really need to provide a reason? I’m goddamn 90. I’m a sniper. Give me my freaking discount.

March 8 dates

Happy International Women’s Day!

Also, in more mundane news, I’ve seen so many people out on dates today in Moscow. International Women’s Day is a holiday, most people have the day off, and men and women are going on dates. The metro is awash in flowers – or, rather, people carrying flowers. Women are receiving gifts. And for some reason, this year, I’ve been struck by the people who do acknowledge the socialist roots of this holiday, however tangentially. We were at a restaurant tonight, and eavesdropped on other people’s celebratory toasts during lulls in conversation. “Let’s drink to my wife,” the guy sitting behind me said. “The beautiful mother of my children – and my best business partner. If it wasn’t for her hard work, we wouldn’t have anything.” It was nice to overhear that.

The original women’s day was dedicated to working women. Of course, few people still acknowledge just how much work children also are.

London at the beginning of spring

The bump and I made it over for a media conference – a very good media conference – but its contents sadly don’t fit the format of this blog, though they do fit the format of my work.

It was good to wind up back in London precisely at that moment, reminding yourself that London exists, that your friends are still your friends, that men in suits are capable of saying interesting things, that Europe is a small place, that Oxford Street is as exasperating at rush hour as Fulham Road is joyful at exactly the same time. There are annoying bankers with their girlfriends at PJ’s on Fulham Road, and proper people down at the Hour Glass pub – a place of power, Helen and I agreed. Every time I wind up in Britain, I seem to discover a new place of power. I collect them. I also made it in time to buy Kate Atkinson’s new book in paperback, with full report coming, and have Lola’s cupcakes with an old friend at Selfridges. The tube made me appreciate the Moscow metro all over again. I talked to the bump about the things I could see and realized, suddenly, how much I want his father to see London the way that I see it. I peered up at glowing windows at night and made plans for the future.

Arriving back at pretty Domodedovo, I walked through the place where Anna had died. I told her I was sorry. She’d loved London too, I remembered. But I didn’t feel sadness, I didn’t feel as though I was passing through ghosts, gossamer or otherwise. I just felt the time, moving on.