11/20/2006 - Thanksgiving Dinner

Before coming to America, I thought I knew everything about this country from a few American movies I saw: mostly Westerns. We Soviet children admired Aztecs, Comanche, Apaches and Cherokees and played "Indians" in our neighborhoods, wearing ponchos, moccasins and braiding our hair. Well, it was the style of the 70s anyway - the hippie era.

In America I became more aware of the feelings of the minority. Here I became the minority myself. Every time we went to Applebee’s, I trustfully took the strong dark skinned handsome guy always standing at the door for a real man. That man at the door wore his heavy, beautiful head piece made out of blue, red and white feathers, mustard color fringed suede pants and nothing to cover his tattooed muscular chest. That man-statue was able to catch me off-guard every time I entered the restaurant making me believe he was real until one day I finally asked a waitress, "Why do you have that Indian man standing at the door while everybody else sits at the table, enjoying food? Every time I feel uncomfortable like there was an American Indian at the door, who is not allowed in. It doesn’t create a good impression.

The waitress didn’t know what to say - she was obviously working part time, "Let me talk to my manager." The manager came and apologized, "We’re not trying to make any statements. This is just a statue. It doesn’t mean anything." The more I talked to the manager the more I felt like he didn’t understand. It was not just the statue - it was a statement: "We keep those "Natives" at the door. I wouldn’t want a Russian girl in her folk outfit to stay at the door where it is cold or hot and crowded all the time even if she was just a statue. In a few weeks my son and I came back to the Applebee’s and I didn’t even notice until we were leaving that the American Indian was gone. "Mom, good job!"  My son was sincerely proud of me, and it made me think about how many things we pass every day, not noticing.

 

 

12/7/2006 - G"DAY