My grandma often fondly recounts that when my mom was born, she arrived exclaiming, “here I am!” to all of Moscow. If there is one characteristic I inherited from her—for it is certainly not my curly red hair—it is this. I am not a wallflower.

Many associate my Russian upbringing with purple soups, and I cannot deny that I am served borsch instead of mac ‘n cheese for lunch. Yet, a much deeper set of principles underlies my ethnicity.

Ever since I could listen, I was told never to compromise my better judgment. “That’s just not true,” my parents would assert whenever I approached them, excitedly relaying a ridiculous story I had heard from another child. By the time I reached second grade, I knew not to blindly swallow the words I heard on a regular basis. My naïveté vanished, making room for opinions, much like copper hair, that often defy the status quo.

So, when my seventh grade history teacher incorrectly pronounced Tsar Godunov, I was not afraid to correct her after class. My strong sense of self becomes more useful than ever in light of the aggressive partisanship characterizing today’s media. Biased "spin doctors" remain powerless against my permanent search for objective facts. I never did get into the mac n’ cheese scene; but, in the end, I would not have it any other way.

As I have found, it is often the oddly-colored dish that ends up tasting the best.