Soul Rebels

Maya Rose Bater

My parents are full of adventure. Born rebels, black sheep, their lives are two separate adventures that converged into one. Their lives were zippered up, each life incomplete without the other. Now they are joined as one, a unit – including me, a family. 

As far as genealogy goes, I am half Argentinian and half Georgian. My mother is from Buenos Aires, a completely different world from my father’s birthplace of Tbilisi. My dad remembers getting lost in the Soviet snow, losing feeling in his toes and crying until another family found him, bringing him to a strange house until his parents came to scold him. My mom remembers getting lost on the beaches of Mar del Plata, south of home in Adrogué. Here, it was a custom that someone would pick up a lost child and place him or her on their shoulders, marching around the beachgoers. A line of people would follow, clapping their hands and bringing attention to the lost child. My mom remembers loving being lost. My parents are from two different cultures, and I managed to be raised in another. Being born and raised in the United States by two immigrant parents is the definition of being perpetually lost. 

***

Although my mother is Argentinian, she was born in Mount Holly, New Jersey. My grandfather was an air force pilot, a diplomat, invited to learn how to fly new planes and use new equipment. Because my grandfather (my abuelo) was in the U.S. only for business, my mom was declared born on Argentinian soil and granted dual citizenship. She is what is called a dual national. Shortly after she was born, she was brought back to Buenos Aires and raised there. Being the daughter of a pilot is where the lust for adventure began. She told me about riding on the bottom of a plane while her father flew government officials across the country, underneath the cockpit and the passenger seats, looking through the spaces in the floor and seeing the world melt beneath her. That was her idea of “Bring Your Kid To Work Day.” My mother was a quirky kid. Once she got kicked out of her own birthday party because she kept revealing all of the magician’s tricks. When all of her friends got bangs, she insisted on getting them too even though my mom had wavy, curly hair. Photos from this time are filled with my mother’s lips, the tip of her nose, and a mop of hair covering the rest of her face. She thought she looked amazing. 

In her twenties, she left home on a rebellious voyage through Europe by train because, as she said to me matter-of-factly, she “loves adventure – and trains.” This wasn’t the first time she left home via spontaneous train travel. During Argentina’s Dirty War she was sick and tired of politics and government so she hopped on a train to Brazil. It is because of this that my aunts call her the rebel. The train ride was dangerous and long; several times the ticket collectors would rush into the cars telling everyone to shut their windows. People would throw rocks at the trains. 

However, this time it was Europe. New food, new culture, new friends. She went to France, Spain, Switzerland, Germany, Portugal. She was staying in a hostel in Hungary when someone stole the money she was hiding under her mattress. All she had left was what was in her pocket. She bought a plane ticket to the United States because she had an American passport, and, well, why not? Finding friends of friends, she got an apartment and a roommate. She went back to college, studying anthropology and psychology and everything that the rigorous law curriculum of the University of Buenos Aires didn’t allow. She fell in love with her spontaneous choice of starting a new adventure on a new continent. And one day her roommate got engaged. As mutual friends came into the apartment to congratulate her, the fiancé brought some friends of his own. Before they even knew each other, my mom and dad were in the same room, congratulating the same people. It was my dad who became instantly enamored. To my dad, she was perfect. She was different in the best way possible.

My father considers himself American. Back in the U.S.S.R., the family business was running textile factories. This allowed my uncle to accrue some wealth, angering the communists. The KGB gave my family an ultimatum: face jail or flee the country immediately. Grabbing what they could, the entire family left, bouncing from Austria to Italy to their final destination, the United States. No one spoke English, no one had any ties to the country. They had left their culture behind. My dad was four or five, suddenly unable to communicate with anyone. He learned English by watching Bugs Bunny and Star Trek. His first English words were, “What’s up, Doc? I am Spock!” He fell in love with the American culture of Sunday morning cartoons and the American obsession with futuristic, sci-fi cult films. He was a Jedi; he was Batman; he was a hero. As he got older, he became more fascinated with music and philosophy. He learned how to play guitar, practicing for hours a day. Blues, Bach, Zeppelin. He played anything and everything under the sun and when the sun set, he read. He read Camus, Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky. He was an existentialist, a musician, a long-haired atheist living life his way. He ignored his parents and Georgia and everything they left behind. 

My father was born and raised Jewish. He loves telling me about his dramatic (yet true) tales of injustice. He speaks as if he quotes from a book, which he aptly titled Ever Heard of Oliver Twist? Well, My Story’s Worse. Or, Stories from the Yeshiva. He faced discrimination in the yeshiva as the only Georgian Jew. He questioned. He wondered. He didn’t understand why. God was a mystery to him. They called him a communist. They called him a zangi. A ni**er. Because he was different. He played basketball with the Muslim kids and the black kids because that’s where he felt he fit in. They were also different. Around the block from his apartment in Flushing, Queens, my dad would shoot hoops with his friends every day. And they decided that they weren’t going to let anyone deny that they, too, were American. 

***

My parents don’t see the world like I do. In that same vein, no one sees the world like I do; we all experience life differently. I grew up hearing three different languages at home but somehow one of those languages was more important. I grew up missing my aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins because they were all back home, not home in America but home in Argentina. I grew up thinking that all Jews were Georgian. Perhaps it is because my situation is unique, perhaps it is because no one knew how to explain it to me. No matter what it was, I was always confused (and still am) about my placement in the world. I don’t feel American. As a kid, this confusion wasn’t a negative emotion. I didn’t understand why I was different, but I didn’t hate it. I got to celebrate Chanukah and Christmas. Because I had two homes, Santa gave me presents in New York and Buenos Aires! Yet, my mom wasn’t part of the PTA meetings. My dad didn’t watch football or tote around a six-pack of canned beer. My parents sat down at the dinner table sharing glasses of wine and hours of conversation. We went to art galleries and museums. We turned the volume up on the speakers and jammed out to Bob Marley while we cooked together. I’m a rebel... Bobby would cry out as we closed the oven door to let the chicken “blobbies” cook. Soul rebel... my parents high-fived. I’m a capturer... my dad scoops me up and grabs at my mom’s waist. Soul adventurer... I am the middle of the great big family sandwich. 

***

My mom, Alejandra, and her beautiful green eyes. Her expressive face that always lets me know what she’s thinking. My dad, Tom. Thomas. He was born Teimuraz but don’t let anyone know I’ve told you that; he prefers his American name. I secretly love the Georgian one. She was baptized; he wore yamakas. Her mom called her mi querida; his called him sheshemogeble. They call me darling. They are a bar of 73% dark chocolate with ancho chili flakes. Sweet, but sometimes bitter, and there’s always a hint of spice. I never understood why little kids found it gross when their parents kissed. I thought it was the most magical thing as a child. Seeing my mom welcome home my dad with a kiss at the door made me want to fall in love more than anything. It made me see past any fights they had or tears they shed. When they hold hands I still get excited. My parents have a very passionate, very difficult love. They are ruled by their emotions, something that has been passed on to me. If either of them is upset, arguments ensue. But when they’re happy, I’ve never seen eyes that show more love. 

My parents have fought some of the most ridiculous, inane arguments known to man. Argentinians like to think they’re always right. And for Georgians, their way is the only way. Those two mindsets mixed together are a terrible combination. They have gotten into yelling matches over what spice tastes best with chicken. Once my dad stormed off because they couldn’t decide on what color to paint their room. I never understood why they fought so vehemently over things that seemed like easy compromises, but then I realized I am the same way. We are a pigheaded, stubborn, square-peg-in-a-round-hole family. Sometimes we can catch our stupid arguments and laugh, and sometimes they end in disaster. I always hope for the former, of course. But I suppose conflict makes resolution so much sweeter. When my shy mom kisses my dad on the cheek, he grins stupidly and says, “I think she likes me.” 

And then there are the chili flakes. Oh, how I love those chili flakes. They transform that chocolatey love into something lively, something three-dimensional. My mom’s laughter is bubbly and sparkly and warm. When my dad succeeds at bringing it out of her, his crooked smile is so infectious everyone in a ten-mile radius becomes instantly lovesick. And when my mom makes my dad laugh, it’s pride that is written all over her face. My dad is “the funny one,” the jokester, the class clown, the one that has the loudest laugh in the room. My mom is quiet, calm, an introvert. When she “makes a funny,” it is a triumphant smile that emerges, a victorious look in her eyes. Once they were watching the GOP debate and my mom looks at Ben Carson and declares, “This man is a crazy-pants. He is Crazy-Pants Carson.” 

My dad couldn’t stop laughing. I heard them from all the way upstairs so I peeked between the rails of the staircase to find both of my parents in stitches, tears of hilarity pouring from their eyes. I went back to my room. I think being an only child has taught me how to let my parents have their moments. 

***

It is around 9:30 pm. It is dark, and the crisp air hints at autumn. Only mid-September, the leaves have yet to change and the air conditioner still remains firmly in place on the window next to the TV in the living room. My mom runs in from the sunroom, panicked. “Guys, I can’t find the moon.” My father and I get up suddenly and rush to the couch where my mother stands along with my two wiggling dogs, confused and excited. Ignoring their barks and whines, we scour the cobalt sky and come to the same conclusion: the moon was gone. Five minutes later we load into the Subaru. I have two eager dachshunds in tow, while my dad is equipped with the car keys and my mom with a face ready for business. I frantically text everyone I know, announcing that I have gone on a mission to find the moon and I do not know when I will be able to return. As we journey across the village of Port Chester, my mom and I search the horizons, our eyes glued to the blue and our ears hearing the constant whines of my father. Do you see it? Give me an update! Come on, I have to keep my eyes on the road! We shush him because the moon is scared, and constant questioning will only make it hide more. Somewhere in Byram we catch a glimpse of a creamy yellow-white and yell at my dad to pull into a parking lot. It is a pier that opens into the Long Island Sound, and as we walk out onto the wood planks we are dancing, watching our shadows move with us. Cocoa and Lucy are sniffing around excitedly, their tails wagging in sync as we high-five one another. The moon’s reflection falls onto the water and we are successful. “We found the moon!”