Tetiana Brooks: Beets

Did you know that sometimes it takes courage just to go grocery shopping in Anchorage? In my 45th year, I never knew that I was brave enough to do so. That year I was brave not once, but three times.

The first time I was brave was when I accepted the marriage proposal of my American friend. After we got married, I left my country—Ukraine—in June 2005, where I’d spent my entire life. I came to Anchorage with almost no language and no cultural experience, but with an open heart and wide-open eyes.

The second time I was brave might be considered stupid, but I still prefer to name it courage. I decided that I could go shopping for groceries all by myself. In Ukraine we ladies can't leave the house without make-up, hair-do, and two- to five-inch-high heels. Otherwise, everybody would think I am not well. We all dress up every day for going outside.

Anchorage? A totally different deal. Casual city, casual clothes: jeans, sweatshirt, tennis shoes are normal. I had all these; my husband got them for me right away.

But I'm brave. Or stubborn. Or stupid. I dressed up as I used to in my own country. Sure, I got a lot of attention from people.

When I arrived at the Carrs grocery store on Abbott Road that day, I committed my third courageous act. I looked around and saw three men standing by the bread shelves staring at me, smiling. One of them winked.

In Ukraine I would never encounter a problem like this. It is not common to stare at each other, and especially to smile at a stranger. But here it was the first thing that I admired. Everyone looks in each other's eyes, smiles, and says, "How are you?" or "Welcome to Alaska." So I looked straight at them and smiled, too.

By this time I was in the vegetable section of the store, where I was getting the ingredients for borscht, my husband's favorite Ukrainian dish with the name that sounds like music to me. In my basket were cabbage, carrots, potatoes, and onions. The bunch of beets I was holding in my hand by the stems.

Suddenly, those three men started arguing about something. One of the men wasn't smiling anymore. His white hair and beard were shaking from side to side as if he was disagreeing with something. When his two companions started walking toward me, he tried to hold one of them back, the guy with the light-colored jacket and bedroom eyes. The third—tall and skinny with a thin ponytail and bandana hiding sparse, disheveled hair—headed over to me.

"Hi, there!" he exclaimed.

"Hello."

I stood proudly on my three-inch heels, my perfectly fitting forest-green wool dress revealing just a little cleavage, holding my beets.

"Nice beets," said the light-colored-jacket-guy, approaching, too.

"These?" I asked, showing them the beets I was holding. "I got them over there." My hand pointed to the bin.

"Nope, the other ones." Both men were standing very close to me now. One of them looked down at my cleavage.

My face turned beet red. I was confused. I was ashamed.

What should I do? Was it normal to receive such a dubious compliment here? Or was it just a difference in cultural humor?

My hand holding the bunch of beets, by itself, was rising. The beets were almost ready to fall on the two unlucky heads when suddenly I heard, "Right! Go ahead and smack their stupid heads with those vegetables. I will even help!"

I turned and faced the beautiful blue eyes shining with sympathy and kindness. The third, white-bearded man owned them. I dropped my hand down.

"We just wanted to say how beautiful you are," he said. “We wish all women would dress like you in Alaska.”

He extended his hand for a handshake.

"You are a pretty woman, and we were admiring you."

I probably should have kept my mouth shut, but I shook his hand and said, with only a little sarcasm, "Enjoy."

I turned around briskly and walked away, complimenting myself for being myself—whether brave or stubborn or stupid—for not letting the incident ruin my day but making it memorable instead.

 

 

 

Tetiana Brooks moved to Anchorage from the Ukraine in 2005 after getting married. From the beginning, she spent a lot of time learning the language and going to beauty school. She works in an assisted living facility, Horizon House, as a hairstylist. Brooks has written four books in Russian and has published three of them. She has translated one of them into English (published July 2014) and plans to translate the others into English and publish them. The story she wrote for this anthology happened during her first year in Anchorage, when everything was new and amazing to her.