Out of the Shadows

“Filly.”  I heard the boys call again, “Filly!” Barely thirteen years old, my plain, straight, brown hair fell to my waist accentuating my lanky form of 5 foot 4 inches. My love for life and people bubbled over in my own, quiet way. With an easy and quick smile, I made friends instantly with young and old alike. Except, of course, I wasn’t supposed to be friends with the boys. At thirteen, the line had a tinge of gray. Co-ed contact was strictly verboten in the cult. Even eye contact and basic greetings between the sexes were frowned upon, and even punished. This concept was difficult for me and felt unnatural; I wanted to be friends with everyone! “Filly!” The boys were calling to me. Me! I didn’t turn and hoped no one else heard. I was not sure what to do with a nickname from boys. This was a first. “That’s not my name,” I reminded myself, “and I’ve fought from the time I could speak to have my southern, hyphenated name pronounced properly. And in its entirety. I’m not

My neon pink coat stood out amid the sea of black and brown coats, making it impossible for anyone to do anything except stop and stare, and the typically reserved-in-public Muscovites couldn’t help themselves. I was 11 years old when I wore that neon pink coat and fell in love with Russia and her people. I knew my life would never be the same. Moscow became “home” for me as a young teenager. My time in Moscow remains among the happiest moments in my life. This past week I looked those moments straight in the face and asked “why?” “Why was my time in Russia so special to me?” I knew the main reasons, the reasons I told anyone who would listen as I gushed about living in Russia. I loved the country, the culture, the language, the food, the Russian people, and my lifelong friends. My perspective as a young teenager from a town of 20,000 in Arkansas expanded exponentially upon moving to Russia’s capitol, boasting a population of 16 million, a city teeming with beautiful, precious