This damned scrunchie

I walked to Barnes and Noble today to pick up a decent dictionary to improve my English skills (one of my “New Week’s resolutions”). As soon as I walked into the language section I saw a thirty- something man pretending to be interested in practical Latin while glancing my direction. I wasn’t in the mood for… you know- typical, tedious conversation. I could feel his nervous energy in the air as he was preparing to speak up any minute. I expected something like: Uuu…you have really beautiful eyes. Did anybody tell you that before? or… it’s hot in here, right? In that case I would make an effort to show a fakish smile and would walk away rolling my eyes. Unfortunately, just when I thought that his moment was gone and I had the perfect opportunity to disappear behind the left aisle he grabbed the thickest of the Latin books as if it was a shield and finally attacked: Actually I am looking for a Russian dictionary. Do you think you can help me with that? (giving me the curio/suspi- cious eye). Different thoughts crowded my mind, fighting for priority: Do I look like I work here man? and mainly: Why do you assume that I am from “behind the curtain”? (Wrrrr). Surprisingly, I smiled without any effort, allowed myself for an impulsive sound of the laughter and repeated out loud: I am looking for a Russian dictionary! That’s a good one!

I get that a lot. People often believe that I am Russian, thanks to my accent and undeniable “Soviet” look. I can’t really say why but this assumption kind of bothers me. As if it made a difference for a regular American. I thought about my dislike the other day and couldn’t decide whether it is more the fact that Poland for decades long struggled with the ridiculous communist occupation or it has more to do with my latest dating agenda that included him and his Russian ex (read the bold once again) or that my Russian neighbor in Bay Ridge overcharged me for a watch repair as he blew cigarette smoke into my face. It doesn’t really matter what lies behind my indefinable aversion. I apologize to everyone who may feel offended. I personally have nothing against you Russians. I believe that it’s the patriotic side of me that comes to life. No, that’s not it. I reminded myself just now that I am not really comfortable when people assume right away I am Polish ether. Why is it so? I guess there’s a longing inside of me to be recognized as a New Yorker.

I got this e-mail the other day saying that “you have to be a New Yorker if”:

· you are 35 and still don’t have a driver license ( v check, I am 26 and still don’t have one)

· there is no south and north, only uptown and downtown (I failed on this one! I am a real women with extremely active right hemisphere and I have a hard time with both of the mentioned).

When it comes to decide upon “the place you’re coming from” I always have a scene in front of my eyes from the popular series “Sex and the City” when Carrie makes a statement that a New Yorker wouldn’t wear a scrunchie. You remember that episode ladies, right? There is nothing I can do about it. The more I would try to look New Yorkish the Bigger and Brighter is my white and red (colors of the Polish flag) hair band. A good friend of mine once summarized my persona: You may speak with the accent but you don’t think with the accent and let’s stick with that.