Not One of Us, Not One of Them

You know, we always called each other goodfellas. Like, you'd say to somebody: "You're gonna like this guy; he's all right. He's a goodfella. He's one of us." You understand?
~Henry Hill (Ray Liotta)  in Goodfellas

I stepped out of the office at lunch time today. It was, as usual, minus-something Fahrenheit. A beautiful, brilliant sun lured me onto the street, where a stinging wind reminded me that winter is still in full force.

At a stop light, I noticed a man looking at me. He brought his hands halfway toward his face, raised his eyebrows, and quickly nodded his head – international sign language for “May I take your picture?” I shrugged my acceptance, and he took the shot.

It should be a good photo. A highly bundled, fur-hatted Muscovite standing in front of a McDonald’s in the freezing cold. Perfect. Except I’m not Russian.

Of course, neither was he. The embroidered badge on his jacket was the Boston University crest. The rest of him, frankly, was a giveaway, too: No hat, the Harry Potter-ish glasses, the shoes. Everything just screamed foreigner. I stepped toward him, pulled my scarf down, and said, “Great shot. Too bad I’m not Russian.”

The light changed and I left him standing in the crosswalk, speechless and befuddled. I know exactly what was going through his head – it’s happened to me countless times. “How did I get ID’d like that?” “Do I stand out that much?” and all the other questions. It’s not so much the questions, really, but the little conclusions that squeak through the spaces between the questions that cause the angst. “My God, I’m a walking target,” is the most pernicious of all.

But it gets better over time. Last weekend I visited a friend’s place. His (Russian) wife squealed with delight when she opened the door. “Oh,” she shouted, “You look so Russian.”

A big coat and a fur hat sure help when it comes to fooling people. But language is an important, and lagging, component. The old lady at the kiosk where I buy my lunch everyday has stopped screaming “WhatWhatWhat?” after everything I say. The woman at the blini stand I go to every weekend has stopped speaking to me in English as I try to order.

But there is a natural limit to fitting in. At an outdoor sculpture park last week, I walked up and asked the ticket lady for a foreigner’s ticket (they’re extra).
“You’re foreign?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “And an honest foreigner.”
“I thought you were one of ours.”

That’s the phrase here - “Nahsh” - the word for “ours”. But it’s so much more loaded with meaning. It means to be one of us, an insider, one who knows what we’re all about. It can be used globally referring to nationality or citizenship. It can also be applied locally to your own office or group of friends. “Nahshi” is even the name of a particularly ominous political party.

But no matter how big a fur hat I might wear, no matter how well I can order delicious treats from street vendors, I can never become one of “ours” in the truest sense of the word.

I’m ok with that. I’ll take whatever proximity to assimilation that I can get. Then, retreat to my own exclusionary definitions of who’s “inside” and “outside”.