Sunday, May 23rd at 12:15 pm, my Baba (grandmother) passed away at the Salem Hospital after 93 years of life on this earth. She had come a long way until that point – from Ukraine to Germany, and finally the U.S. When I met her, she was already in her “old age” at 70 years old. Her English was relatively limited, so though we never had profound conversations, we always had a deep connection. More than a personality of charisma, quiet strength, and self-sacrifice, she optimized for me my perceived heritage. From knowing her, I learned these traits, and unconditional love. I inherited from her the invaluable knowledge that the most important place is intangible: family.

I’m a first generation American, and I am very American. Both my brother and I were raised by the TV, and he, in particular, is inseparable from his video games and computers. However, I always thought of myself as Ukrainian. Both sides of my family originally are from the Ukraine. As the world was becoming modernized and Europe was becoming increasingly unstable, both families decided to leave Europe to seek a better life with more economic opportunities and without the post-war strife. My dad’s parents moved to the U.S. from Germany when he was only 5. My mom’s parents took a different route -- they first moved to Paraguay due to the attractive factor of free land. My mom was born in Paraguay, and when she was 12, the family moved to the United States of America. The remarkable thing about both of these families was that my grandparents managed to live in Paraguay and the U.S. while still speaking only Ukrainian. This was largely possible because they maintained relationships and formed communities with other Russians/Ukrainians, most of which revolved around the Pentecostal Church. Rather than be assimilated by the American culture, my grandparents continued the practice of their “old world” traditions. It is no wonder then that, when I’m around my grandparents (of whom only one is left), I feel a sense of being in a different country and a nostalgia, ironically, for some place I don’t know. I commend them for creating a sense of place and community, which they could identify with, and where they could keep their traditions and their values alive, rather then feel completely alienated in a foreign culture. If it hadn’t been for them, I wouldn’t have had the experience of cultural diversity. Also, I wouldn’t have had as much difficulty in the continual discovery of my own personal identity.

The funeral was an interesting mixture of German and Ukrainian songs and commemorative and religious speeches in Russian. They created an environment in this funeral home that truly evoked the identity of my grandmother. It wasn’t a staunch and depressing space where corpses and mourners pass through day by day, but rather, we all together converted it into a place that optimized the life and interests of my Baba. I was the only one who spoke English, for which many were appreciative. I felt like I was back in the Russian fundamentalist Pentecostal church with my Baba when I was a little girl eating lemon drops that she snuck to me from her purse. They always preached first in Russian and then sometimes, for visitors, they would translate in English. Anyways, my Dad and I read an autobiography that my grandmother had written about her childhood in Ukraine. It was a sad and powerful story that elicited dramatic responses from the crowd. Needless to say, my cousins and I have lived privileged lives, and imagining a 13-year-old losing her father and being orphaned is nothing we could ever fathom. It truly showed us the difference between our lives and that of our Baba. We silently questioned our own strength of character and love of family; would we ourselves, if put in the same situation, be able to evolve into healthy, caring people, that put family above the rest. My Baba lived her life for her family. She lived a nomadic life, and although she changed her physical home, her true home resided in her family and her relationship with God. A plethora of thoughts flooded my mind – from the time she was in the hospital until the funeral – about the preservation of family history and cultural values.

I always wanted to say out of a sense of pride that I was pure Ukrainian, amongst a nation of mutts. I always knew that my grandmother was German, but because she was born in the Ukraine and spoke Ukrainian, I always thought of her as Ukrainian. It was only on the day of the funeral that I realized how hard it must have been for her to identify with Ukrainians mostly, because that was her community and her husband’s heritage. However, she always identified herself as a German, because when she lived in Ukraine, she grew up in a Germany colony. I feel guilty for identifying myself as a Ukrainian and being disrespectful of my Baba by not acknowledging her true cultural roots. I still have a lot of pride in my family because they are immigrants. Not only my grandparents worked hard, but my parents also strived and sacrificed for their children. I still chastise them jokingly for not teaching my brother and me the Russian language, but they say it was our fault for wanting to speak only English. The question remains then for us Americans, who call ourselves something else, but don’t even speak the language: how can we live our lives in a way that vilifies the sacrifices of our ancestors for our improved livelihood?

My parents tell me to do whatever makes me happy. I feel the nomadic spirit inside of me. My parents too have changed and moved on from their parents’ heritage, though not quite so far. They moved from California to Oregon, and they left their parents’ church. I, myself, am as different and similar to my parents as they were from their own. We all have the importance of family in common. No matter where I go or what I do, I like to be independent, but a sense of community is and will always remain most important to me. This I have learned not just from my biological family, but also from my two other families, which I inherited since I was 6 years old from two of my best friends. There is no tangible place that holds us all together as much as the center of the kitchen table, for my Baba loved to cook for her family and put food on the table for them.

-- written by Olga Wigowsky’s granddaughter, Susie Wigowsky