sun is shining so brightly that by the time I survey my chosen place on
the sand, I find myself amidst a posse of 70-something Russian men
enjoying their summer dacha here in Little Russia: Brighton Beach.
and Misha are directly in front of me. They are both sporting George
Hamiltonian tans. Only one of the two has a folding chair; the other
one stands nearby as if on guard. Volodya occupies this chair, which
makes sense since he’s wearing a thong. Misha is more discreet in his
see-through white shorts. Misha stands besides Volodya’s chair, as if
half a century ago in a distant land. He surveys his surround like the
old Russians like to do.
They stand, heels anchored in the silky
golden Brooklyn sand and look around. They nod to a bald crony; Semyon
they call him. Also without a chair or a towel, Semyon stands besides
the pile of clothes he discarded sloppily on the bare sand. He sports a
pair of swanky black bikini underwear that will function as a bathing
suit. He diligently applies lotion from an oversized bottle of CVS
SPF-50. It takes him close to half an hour of application before he
buries the depleted bottle in the pile of clothes on the sand.
abandons his things and carelessly walks off into the greenish ocean.
Somehow there is sadness about him. He seems nostalgic for the days
when the oceans were bluer than the veins that show through his white
skin. Longing for the days when home felt like home and when putting on
the television meant you understood the 3 channels that you actually
There is ease on this beach.
Although the typical
Russian 70-something Brighton Beach resident scrutinizes, it’s a
familial type of analysis; like an aunt or grandmother you role your
eyes at when they ask you the same question over and over.
I remove my iPod to take in the familiar sounds.
I feel surrounded by grandparents, aunts and uncles…
Semyon awkwardly proceeds into the oil-shimmering, khaki-colored water,
it reminds me of a group of people with a collective history, a
collective culture, a shared language.
The Atlantic Ocean, a
lousy substitute to the Black Sea of their childhood. This group
individually abandoned their homes – and collectively built a new one
that would remind them as much as possible of the old world.
up as a child immigrant, I never understood why immigrant families try
so hard to hold onto what was – the culture, the language, the
traditions. But the smells, sights and sounds of Brighton Beach
transport me to a home country I no longer remember; it’s a permanent
déjà-vu. Interestingly enough, Brighton is probably more reminiscent of
the Russia that was – rather than the Russia that is.
generation often claims they did it for the generations that follow.
The new generations are thankful, in theory, but rarely understand the
struggle. The struggle with the original decision and with living with
it everyday afterwards.
The old babushkas wear very big or very
small bathing suits. Most of the women who choose to shed their bathing
suit tops are mostly young Russian 20-somethings showing off their fake
tits. Babushkas come with plastic bags full of food and chase their
young grandchildren around with sandwiches and cut up fruit.
waves to his wife who joins him on the beach. Dripping wet, his
underwear is droopy in all the wrong places. He begins reapplying the
sunscreen. First between the palms, then on the face, torso, thighs,
feet, ears, his bald spot.
A young teenage Russian girl finds
her beach spot near me; she is insecure, finagling with her suit until
she lies down with her bare, oiled belly to the sand.
beach at little Russia, black men walk around selling ice cold beer,
Smirnoff ice, vodka --- all available in the small plastic mini bar
bottles. They a carry portable mini bar in plastic grocery food bags.
The black men are saying “voda, voda,” trying to sell water in our
native tongue. A Mexican man sells Italian ices with a bell. Another
man is selling ice cream directly from a red and white cooler.
At 4pm the seagulls come and the lifeguards do their ceremonial changing of the guards.
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