Do you know that gut feeling that you get when something either totally inevitable or completely erotic is about to happen. Well arriving at the new english elementary school was a mixture of the two. I walked in with a turtleneck, puffy jacket, and pink glasses that complimented my pigtails. My soon to be peers began entering the classroom and of course my teacher so kindly urged me to stand in front of the whole class for every ones delight and entertainment. When the arcane children started flowing into the hollow classroom, all I could manage to do was stare at the ground. Pondering over the unmistakable beauty of the floor, and how friendly it seemed at the moment. I definitely knew that I couldn't possibly focus on  and count all of the curious eyes gazing my way. I really disliked counting. I had since I was little. So there I was. I don't know what I expected. Actually I do. I expected all of the golden kids to eagerly start getting to know to the Belarusian new girl. I expected them to welcome the girl with the blond hair, green eyes, and inability to speak English. I expected. I expected too much. I saw one boy whose eyes resembled a warm brown, his hair also. His eyes met mine but not for long. I stood there my face slowly accomplishing a rogue red resembling a tomato just out of the garden. Well, that moment was over. My teacher granted me the favor of sitting. Then there was attendance. Isn't it so interesting that when a teacher takes attendance, for a moment all you are identified is my your name. You choose to be there or not. Kat-- katsy- katsya--kaaat-- katsyana--. I raised my hand. As I would do so many times more. Katsyaryna is one of the most common names in Belarus. I always admired my name. I liked the ring it had to it. It was also my great grandmother's name. I started going by Katya. Even that was hard, but I was okay with it. At least I pretended to be. People would begin to put their own spin on it. Add a ch sound, or maybe settle with Katy. Anyway after that first class, it was recess time. An enthusiastic and strange girl ran up to me. For some reason I noticed that she resembled me. Jennifer. The girl has blond hair, green eyes, and she was from Ukraine. The only difference was that she was a lot taller than me. You guessed it, we became best friends. Doing everything together, embarking on. Every adventure together. We tackled all of the challenges. Somedays it would be gymnastics, other days cooking. We grew up. School became tolerable. Fun even. I would walk home everyday and my mom would meet me at the crosswalk. Most of the time I would run and embrace her. I admired her so much. Although I slowly grew more friendly with English, she was the reason I still loved to speak Russian. Over meals of borscht, pelmeni, and plov we would dive into the past adventures of the day. My mother worked so hard. Always. She didn't learn to speak English, so it was difficult. Not understanding. Being misunderstood. As I grew, I changed. My hair was darker, clothes trendier, accent hidden. I began to realize if the eight year old me could see me now she would not recognize me. I told myself it's okay to change. It's not okay to forget who I was. As school continued, as it always would there was more attendance, more friends, and advancement in my height. I gained a habit. Every time a new teacher or substitute would take attendance, I would memorize where and when my name would be called. As a reflex I would announce myself present before my name was even pronounced. I could tell when they were calling my name mostly by the squint of their eyes as they glanced at the next name and the attempt of a “k”. People would laugh and I would laugh with them. It was apparently amusing to see how each teacher would attempt my name. Time danced along and so did I. However somewhere in the middle of my hazy journey through school and “finding who I am” as many people called it something woke me up. It captivated me. Something triumphed inside of me. It's not like I was someone special. It's not like I had some kind of audacious experience. However I was reminded that I was Katsyaryna. Don't worry I'm not crazy. I did know my name before I was reminded.  I had recollected what had fallen out of me. Recollected who, when, where, and what Katsyaryna meant. What Katsyaryna means. Where I am From.

I am from apricot trees
Wobbly swings, cold nights, lit up with hazy bonfires and apple pies
Grandma's piroshki, illustrating comics, and devouring homemade jam
I am from dancing dresses, the indestructible feeling of my mother's hand
Countless cousins, outstanding hiding places,
I am from walking barefoot, hearing broken bikes, from hidden, timid tree houses
That felt like home
I am from old, hand me down clothes

I am from dancing in the rain, litters of kittens, and screaming butterflies
Old attics drowned in ancient toys and afternoons, sunflower seeds on the porch
I am from dreams of ballet, aroma of bacon, watching timeless wolf and rabbit cartoons,
Hopscotch, monopoly, furry hats, oversized gloves embracing eager snowballs
I am from spontaneous board game shenanigans waking us at midnight
Hot chocolaty snow, whimful snow people friends that left us too soon
I am from old, hand me down clothes

I am from “How's it like having a twin?”
Identical outfits separated by girly and tomboy personalities
I am from bunk beds, glass dolls, pigtails sustained by scrunchies
Beckoning bells on our walks walls to church
I am from two brothers, six sisters, summers exploding with picnics
Mamas borscht, the unofficial Sunday night tradition
I am from heated stone benches, black currant tea, learning to flip blinchiki
I am from old, hand me down clothes

I am from retiring bedtime stories, reality dreams,
Vegetable gardens, bread, milk, and jam
I am from annual train rides, the overwhelming state of  genuine peace
Curious quilts, rooms that shared us, a heavenly Christmas
I am from falling in love with excused ideas,
Barbecued shish kebabs, preschool nap time, learning to cook,
I am from rusty sewing machines, cracked teacups, and backyard celebrations
Scraped knees, surreal tears, worn out grins
I am from Bible stories of Moses and Noah
Vanilla ice cream with a personality like no other
I am from old, hand me down clothes

I am from tardy smiles and pointless laughter
Christmas trees abiding until February, uno, sled rides, and thriftway paper bags
I am from “you are my sunshine”, kinder eggs and Belarus
Stuffed animal friends, hide and seek, and the sound of sleepovers
I am from toasted marshmallows, exclaIming from the top of the swing
rainy mornings,  thanksgiving and sunny nights,
I am from old, hand me down clothes that start to fit, but differently

I am reminded that I am who I am by grace.