My new parents expect me to forget everything about myself

The Rules of Assimilation

My new parents expect me to forget everything about myself. I’d grown up in an orphanage in Moscow. I was 15 years old and three days into living in America when my new mother threw all my belongings in the trash. She said, “You’re American now, and Americans don’t need garbage from Russia”.

My birth parents died when I was 12, and I had no other family. When I was 15, this American couple came through on an adoption tour. They met me and decided I was perfect.

They told me through a translator that they’d give me a beautiful life in America with my own room and good schools. I didn’t really want to leave, but nobody gave me a choice. Everyone thought I was crazy for wanting to stay in Russia, but I just had such a bad feeling.

The first day at their house in Ohio, they explained the rules. First, I was only allowed to speak English, not a single word of Russian. They said immersion was the fastest way to learn and that holding on to my old language would prevent me from becoming American.

I tried to explain through gestures that I barely knew any English, maybe 20 words total. The mom, who told me to call her Patricia, said, “Then I guess you better learn fast”.

From that moment on, if I spoke Russian, I got punished, even if I was talking to myself. Patricia would appear out of nowhere and take away meals or lock me in my room.

The second rule was that I had to change my name. My name was Katya, which I loved because it was my grandmother’s name. Patricia said it sounded too foreign and people wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.

She gave me a list of American names to choose from. I picked Olivia because it was the shortest. Patricia started calling me Olivia immediately and corrected me every time I said Katcha.

She told everyone at church that my name was Olivia and I’d been so excited to come to America. When I tried to protest, she’d smile and say, “She’s still learning to express herself”.

Patricia enrolled me in the local high school with no ESL support because she said special programs would make me dependent and lazy. She told the school I was fluent in English and just shy.

I sat in classes understanding maybe one word out of every 20. Teachers would call on me and I’d just stare at them. Kids started calling me the Russian robot because I never talked.

I’d go home and try to tell Patricia I needed help, and she’d say, “You’re not trying hard enough”. Patricia went through my suitcase the first week and threw away everything I’d brought from Russia. My books, my photos, a stuffed bear I’d had since I was little, letters from my friends.

She said, “You’re starting fresh, and you can’t do that while clinging to the past”. I watched her dump everything in the trash, and I couldn’t even tell her what those things meant to me because I didn’t have the words.

Patricia would make these huge dinners with meatloaf and casserles and things I’d never seen before. American food tasted wrong to me. She’d get so offended if I didn’t eat everything. Her husband, Doug, just stood there and nodded along.

She said, “American families eat dinner together, and you’re going to learn to like American food”. If I didn’t finish, she wouldn’t let me leave the table. I’d sit there for hours staring at cold food while she ignored me.

I tried keeping a journal in Russian just so I could think in my own language. Patricia found it under my mattress and took it to someone at her church to translate.

When she found out I’d written about hating living there and missing home, she completely lost it. She said I was ungrateful and that she’d rescued me from a terrible life. She burned the journal in the fireplace while I watched and told me if I ever wrote in Russian again, she’d send me back.

I actually wanted her to send me back, but I was too scared to say it. After 6 months, I still barely spoke English. I could understand more, but I was terrified to talk because I’d mess up, and Patricia would correct me like I was stupid.

She started punishing me for not speaking enough. She’d ask me questions and if I didn’t answer in full English sentences, she’d take things away. Doug worked all the time. When he was home, he’d say, “Your mother is trying to help you, and you need to appreciate that”.

Then one day at school, another Russian kid transferred in. His name was Dimmitri, and his English was way better than mine. We started talking in Russian during lunch, and it felt like I could breathe again.

I told him everything about Patricia and Doug. He said his parents were Russian immigrants, and they’d help me. I called them from school, and they were so kind. They said what was happening to me wasn’t normal.

Patricia found out because a teacher mentioned seeing me with Dimmitri. She called the school and demanded they separate us and told them I wasn’t allowed to speak Russian anywhere on school property. Then she said, “From now on, if I hear even one word of Russian, I’m pulling you out of school and homeschooling you where I can supervise you properly”.

Dimmitri’s parents tried calling the house and Patricia told them to never contact us again. She disconnected the phone so I had no way to reach anyone. She looked at me with this cold smile and said, “You’re going to learn to be American even if it kills you”.

I had no idea she meant it literally. That night, I lie in bed replaying her words over and over, “even if it kills you”. The way she said it, cold and certain, makes me understand she actually means it.

This isn’t just about learning English or becoming American anymore. I can’t sleep because my brain keeps trying to figure out if she’ll really hurt me or if it’s just a threat to scare me into obedience. Either way, I know I can’t keep living like this.

My stomach hurts from the dinner I forced down hours ago. That heavy meatloaf sitting like a rock inside me. I start planning in my head what I need to do to survive.

I need to call Dimmitri’s parents. I need to get help. I need to do something before Patricia decides to make good on her threat. The next morning, Patricia acts completely normal. She’s making breakfast and talking about church activities like she didn’t threaten my life yesterday.

I eat the oatmeal she puts in front of me without complaint. My face stays blank while my mind races through possibilities. Doug sits at the table reading the newspaper.

He doesn’t look at me once, not even a glance. It feels like its own kind of abandonment. Him sitting there pretending everything is fine while his wife threatens to kill me.

I finish the oatmeal and say thank you in English like she taught me. Patricia smiles and pats my head like I’m a dog who learned a trick. At the school, I move through my classes in a fog.

I understand maybe one word in 10 from the teachers, but I’m not really trying to understand anymore. I’m thinking about Dimmitri’s parents and their phone number. I’m thinking about how to get to a phone without Patricia finding out. During lunch, I see Dmitri across the cafeteria. He makes eye contact and mouths something in Russian.

“You okay?”.

I shake my head slightly, just a tiny movement. He nods back, understanding something is wrong, even from a distance. His face gets serious and worried. I look away quickly before a teacher notices us communicating.

Between classes, I go to the bathroom. I lock myself in a stall and pull off my left shoe. The scrap of paper is still there, folded tiny and tucked into the inner sole where Patricia wouldn’t think to look.

I unfold it carefully and stare at the numbers written in Dimmitri’s handwriting. I memorize them again just in case. Seven numbers that might save my life. I repeat them silently like a prayer. Then I fold the paper back up and hide it in my shoe again.

That night, Patricia makes me sit at the table for 3 hours. I didn’t finish her meatloaf fast enough. That’s the reason she gives. The meatloaf gets cold and congeals into this greasy mess that makes me want to throw up. I force down tiny bites, chewing forever, trying not to gag.

My legs go numb after the first hour. I need to use the bathroom desperately, but she won’t let me leave until the plate is empty. Doug comes home around 9. He sees me sitting there with Patricia standing guard in the kitchen. He looks at the situation for maybe 5 seconds. Then he just goes upstairs without a word.

I hear his footsteps on the stairs and then his bedroom door closing. I’m alone with Patricia again. I finally choke down the last cold bite at almost midnight. My jaw hurts from chewing. My bladder feels like it’s going to burst.

Patricia looks at the empty plate and nods. She actually says it out loud. “See, you can do it when you try”. Like this is some kind of lesson about perseverance instead of torture. She sends me to bed without letting me brush my teeth. That feels like a petty cruelty on top of everything else.

I lie in the dark counting hours until morning. My body aches from sitting so long. My mind keeps planning how to get to a phone. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I can find a way tomorrow.

The next day at the school, I notice Clarissa watching me. She’s the school counselor who tried to help before back when I first started. She has this concerned look on her face that makes me both hopeful and scared. I quickly look away because I don’t want Patricia finding out I talked to anyone.

I can feel Clarissa’s eyes following me down the hallway. In English class, I start feeling dizzy. The room tilts sideways like the floor is moving. I haven’t eaten anything since that forced meatloaf dinner last night.

Patricia didn’t make breakfast this morning. My body just gives up. The last thing I remember is my desk coming up to meet my face. Someone is screaming. Then everything goes black. I wake up in the nurse’s office.

Someone is pressing a juice box into my hands. The school nurse is speaking slowly and pointing at the juice. She makes drinking motions with her hands. I understand what she wants.

I take small sips of the juice. It’s apple juice, sweet and cold. My hands shake, holding the box. The nurse writes things on a form at her desk.

I can see one word, even though I don’t know exactly what it means. Malnutrition. It’s written in big letters at the top of the form. The nurse picks up the phone and I hear Patricia’s name. I can hear Patricia’s voice through the phone from across the room. She’s loud and offended.

Patricia arrives within 20 minutes. She’s all fake concern and worried mother act. She touches my face and makes sympathetic noises. Then she starts explaining to the nurse.

“Olivia is adjusting to American food”. “She’s being dramatic”. “She’s always been a picky eater”. I sit there listening to her lie. The nurse looks skeptical.

Her eyes keep moving between Patricia’s face and mine, but she doesn’t push back. She doesn’t ask me questions. She doesn’t call anyone else. She just nods and makes notes and tells Patricia to make sure I eat regularly.

I feel another door closing on potential help. Patricia signs some papers and takes me by the arm. Her grip is tight enough to hurt. We walk out to the car and I know I’m going to pay for this later.

Patricia’s car pulls into the driveway and she cuts the engine but doesn’t move. I sit frozen in the passenger seat, waiting for whatever comes next. She stares straight ahead through the windshield for what feels like forever.

Her jaw is tight and her hands grip the steering wheel hard. Then she gets out and slams her door so hard the whole car shakes. I scramble to follow her inside because staying in the car feels worse somehow.

The moment we’re through the front door and it closes behind us. Her hand shoots out and grabs my upper arm. Her fingers dig in deep enough that I know there will be marks. She shakes me back and forth like I weigh nothing. My head snaps forward and back and I try to pull away, but her grip is too strong.

She leans down close to my face and I can smell her perfume mixed with something sharp like anger. Her voice comes out low and controlled, which is scarier than yelling. She tells me I embarrassed her in front of those people at the school. She says the nurse probably thinks she’s a bad mother now.

She shakes me again harder and my teeth click together. I try to say sorry in English, but the word comes out wrong and she shakes me again. Doug’s car isn’t in the driveway and I realize we’re completely alone.

There’s nobody to see this, nobody to make her stop, nobody who would believe me later if I tried to tell them. She finally lets go and I stumble backward into the wall.

She points toward the stairs and tells me to go to my room. No dinner tonight as punishment for fainting. I don’t understand the logic, but I’ve stopped trying to understand anything she does. I climb the stairs on shaky legs and go into my room. I hear her footsteps going down to the kitchen. I sit on my bed and my arm throbs where she grabbed me.

I pull up my sleeve and see the red marks from her fingers already starting to turn purple. Something shifts in my head right then. I can’t keep living like this.

I make a decision sitting there on my bed. Tomorrow I have to call Dimmitri’s parents no matter what happens. I remember finding some coins in the school parking lot last week.

Three quarters and two dimes. I hid them in my pencil case. There’s a pay phone somewhere near school. I’ll find it after classes end. I’ll call and tell them everything. The decision makes my chest feel less tight.

I lie down on my bed without changing clothes. My stomach growls because I haven’t eaten since that forced meatloaf last night. I close my eyes and practice what I’ll say in Russian when someone answers the phone.

The next morning, I wake up to Patricia knocking on my door. She tells me through the wood that breakfast is ready. Her voice sounds normal, like nothing happened yesterday. I get up and look at my arm. The bruises are darker now, purple and yellow. I pull on a long sleeve shirt that covers them completely.

I go downstairs and Doug is sitting at the table reading the newspaper. Patricia has made eggs and toast. I sit down and take small bites, even though I’m starving. I chew slowly and swallow carefully. After a few bites, I look up at Patricia and say, “Thank you” in English, the way she taught me.

She smiles and nods like I’m a dog who learned a new trick. She turns to Doug and says something about how I just needed to learn there are consequences. Doug grunts and turns a page of his newspaper without looking up. I keep my face blank and neutral.

I don’t let them see the plan forming in my head. I finish the eggs and toast. Patricia seems pleased. She tells me the bus comes in 15 minutes and I better not miss it.

I go upstairs and grab my backpack. I check my pencil case and the coins are still there. I zip it closed and head out to wait for the bus. At the school, I move through my morning classes in a fog. I understand maybe one word in 10, but I’m not really trying to follow along. I’m thinking about the pay phone and Dmitri and what I’ll say.

Between second and third period, I see Dmitri at his locker. I walk past him slowly, and when nobody is looking, I lean close and whisper in Russian. I say, “Pay phone. After school. Your parents”.

I say just those words as fast as I can. He freezes for a second, then nods once. He whispers back an address. A gas station three blocks from the school on the corner of Maine and Fifth. There’s a phone outside.

I repeat the address in my head over and over. Maine and fifth, gas station, pay phone. He closes his locker and walks away quickly. My heart is beating fast, but I feel something like hope for the first time in weeks. I have a plan. I have help coming.

I just need to make it through the day. The school day drags on forever. In third period math, I stare at numbers on the board that might as well be Russian for all the sense they make.

In fourth period history, the teacher shows a video and I use the dark room to close my eyes and rest. Lunch is the hardest because I see Dmitri across the cafeteria, but we can’t talk. Patricia told the school we aren’t allowed to sit together anymore. He looks at me once and nods slightly. I nod back.

During last period English, I asked to use the bathroom in my broken English. I point at the door and say, “Bathroom, please”. The teacher waves me away without looking up from her desk. I walk out into the empty hallway. I should go to the bathroom and come right back, but instead, I take the long route past the main office.

I walk slowly and look through the window of Clarissa’s office. She’s sitting at her desk talking on the phone. Her face looks serious and concerned. I wish I could just walk in and tell her everything.

I wish I had the English words to explain, but I don’t. So, I keep walking to the bathroom. I wash my hands with cold water and look at my face in the mirror. I look tired and scared. I take a deep breath and go back to class.

When the final bell rings, I grab my backpack and head for the exit. My hands are shaking as I push through the doors. I walk quickly across the parking lot and turn left onto the sidewalk. I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure Patricia’s car isn’t following me.

Three blocks feels like three miles. My heart pounds in my chest. I pass a drugstore and a laundromat. I see the gas station up ahead on the corner. There’s a pay phone mounted on the outside wall near the air pump.

I walk up to it and pick up the receiver. It’s cold and heavy in my hand. I dig the coins out of my pencil case. My hands shake so hard I almost drop them. I feed the quarters into the slot one by one. I dial the number I memorized. The phone rings once, twice, three times.

“Please answer. Please, please answer”.

A woman’s voice comes through the line speaking Russian. Just hearing my language makes my eyes sting with tears. I pour everything out in rapid Russian.

The words tumble over each other as I tell her about Patricia’s threats and the food punishments and being locked in my room and the garage and how I’m scared she’s actually going to hurt me.

I tell her about the bruises on my arm and how Doug just stands there and does nothing. I tell her I don’t know what to do and I’m afraid Patricia will pull me out of school. The woman listens without interrupting.

When I finally stop talking, she says firmly that they’re calling my school tomorrow. She says they’re going to help me. She tells me to hold on just a little longer. Her voice is kind and strong, and I believe her. I say thank you over and over in Russian. She tells me to be careful and to call again if anything gets worse.

I hang up the phone and lean against the wall. I feel lighter than I have in months, like maybe there’s actually a way out of this. I turn around to head back towards school and my heart stops.

Patricia is standing 10 ft away next to her car. I don’t know how long she’s been there. I don’t know how much she heard. My whole body goes cold.