Finally THAT Girl

How a movie about a sex worker healed my inner child

I don’t want to spoil the ending of Anora for anyone, but let’s just say there wasn’t a single throat in that theatre that didn’t have a lump in it. I personally took it a step further and was quietly crying in that old Hollywood way, super beautiful yet mysterious. You really had to be there. Sure, the ending was powerful but what really had me in my feels was the fact that for the first time in my life, I saw myself represented in an American movie.

Actual picture of me at an Anora screening

Before you get excited, no, I’ve never been a stripper. I am also not the child of an oligarch (HUGE bummer). What I am is a Slavic girl who has never understood why Hollywood couldn’t hire a single native speaker for their Russian roles. Remember Red in Orange is the New Black? Though the actress that played her could do a pretty good accent, the flashback scenes where she attempted to speak Russian were so bad I considered calling up Amnesty International and filing a complaint. I always found it super weird that when we talked about representation on screen, my Slavic brothers and sisters never got a fair shot. Anora changed the game and potentially my relationship with my own image.

Growing up, anytime someone heard my accent they would ask me where I was from, with hopeful spark in their eye thinking I would say France or Sweden. Like clockwork, I would watch the hopeful glimmer and smile fade when I responded with “Ukraine.” Yes, I was technically European but not THAT kind. Ex-Soviets were only good for sneaking vodka. No one was putting girls like me on their vision boards. No one was asking any follow-up questions.

The types of views you get in my hometown.

Right after graduating middle school I went to visit my family in Ukraine for a few months. I set my MySpace status to “Spending the summer in Europe” hoping to kick-off a European girl re-brand that would follow me to high school. What I didn’t account for was not having any traditional euro summer pictures to share on my social media when I came back. Instead of selfies in Paris and London I was posing in front of Lenin statues and Stalin-era architecture. There was no hiding it, I was never going to give off EU vibes.

In high school my post-Soviet ties did attract more interest from niche groups. The early-stage communists and USSR fanatics loved my Lenin pictures. The degenerates asked me how much vodka I could drink. The girls experimenting with their sexuality talked to me about the pop group t.A.T.u. (if you were really cool you would listen to their songs in Russian). Perhaps the tides were turning. Perhaps I could be proud of where I came from after all.

While I was in college, in an effort to own my background, I only allowed myself to look at the Russian version of Vogue magazine, literally taking notes on what the hot girls in Russia were wearing. I told myself that if I took inspiration from glamorous Russian and Ukrainian women then perhaps I could be one too. Who needed a Pinterest board full of Parisian girls in their striped shirts and ballet flats when I could be like Natasha wearing a fur coat? Of course that plan failed miserably when I was a) stuck in Louisiana and b) quickly reminded that these oligarch adjacent Natashas of the world had nothing in common with a middle class girl from a mid-size city like me. Yes we both spoke Russian, but these ladies were not part of the culture I was trying to learn to embrace. I was so ready to be seen for who I was but unsure of how to own my truth. To make matters worse, I bumped into a guy I was once in love with at a bar and he asked me how my family in Sweden was. It was time to buy a gun.

Luckily before I had a chance to shoot myself, Alex came back into my life. When you are on a journey to self-acceptance there is nothing quite like someone accepting you unconditionally. After so many years of trying to be the cool type of immigrant, the right type of European, I was able to let go of the idiotic shame. I let Alex in on my family traditions. I showed him pictures of Ukraine. I was amazed at how genuinely excited and accepting he was. He tried the weird Soviet foods the internet told me were disgusting (he didn’t love all of them). He loved all of me… for me? Perhaps it was time for me to love all of me too.

By the time 2022 came around, it felt as though all those years of feeling so uncomfortable about who I was and where I was from were behind me. Then Russia invaded Ukraine. I cannot tell you what a mind fuck it is too see all the people that once told you how Ukraine “wasn’t really Europe” making their Facebook profile pictures Ukrainian flags and sharing change.org petitions to have Ukraine join the EU. So many years of insecurity, gone overnight. For the first time in my life it was cool to be Ukrainian. People were coming out of the woodwork to tell me how badass my people were. I quickly changed my profile picture to include a Ukrainian flag just in case the random people I befriended on Facebook thought I was from Bulgaria or some bullshit. I am Ukrainian woman, hear me roar. Unfortunately for me though, that roar was in Russian (the language of the oppressor!). Yeah, I was a full-blooded Ukrainian who has only ever spoken Russian, but that’s not a conversation people were ready to have. I may have been a Ukrainian but I was the wrong type.

In the early days of the war, the anti-Russian sentiment was wild. I am personally of the opinion that the Russian people have nothing to do with the actions of their leader. Most sane people do not want what is happening. I want to build bridges and build compassion. As the war has dragged on I have seen perceptions shift. Russians aren’t as hated.

Anora could have never come out in 2022, but I’m glad that it was embraced with open arms. Hearing good Russian in a mainstream movie made my heart so happy. Beyond language, the movie really stayed true to the Russian-American experience. The dialogue, the family dynamics. They weren’t anything like my life yet they were so familiar. Watching this movie and then watching people rave about it healed something in me. Watching people embrace these ACCURATE Slavic characters was the missing piece in the self-acceptance journey that I thought would never end. Just as I cried in the theatre, I cried when Yura Borisov got nominated for Oscar. Watching the positive online reaction to the videos of his extremely Russian family celebrating his nomination told the insecure little girl in me that acceptance was out there. I’m not sure how likely Yura is to win the award, but I know when the night comes I’ll be cheering for him. Loudly. Proudly.

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