My parents came here for the same reason any other immigrant did: they longed for the rewards promised by the American dream. Most importantly, though, they came here for us: my brother and me. They wanted to give us a shot at a better life, and that meant leaving behind everything in Russia, the place they once called home, and practically starting from scratch here in New York City. One thing that didn’t get lost in Customs, however, was, well, their customs. Don’t get me wrong, I love my folks and respect the hard work and obstacles that they had to overcome to put a silver spoon in our mouths. However, ask any first generation immigrant, and they’ll tell you the same thing: the pressure to “remember where you came from” and conform to the cultural principles that your family can’t seem to let go of is huge. Add being a girl to that equation and the burden gets a tad bit heavier.

When you’re the only daughter of two immigrant parents, and you reach a certain age, they- along with the rest of your relatives- begin to remind you of your “role as a woman-” at least that’s what it was (and still is) like for me. “Act like a lady,” my mom tells me. “Remain modest and poise,” she says. “It’s about time you learn how to cook; the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, you know,” my grandma chimes in. It’s this kind of rhetoric that I can never get used to hearing without impulsively cringing. While I understand that this is what they grew up to believe the “norm” should be, what I can’t wrap my head around is why they’re so opposed to occasional exceptions to “tradition.”

Now I want to make one thing clear: I don’t completely disagree with their cultural values. I have no problem with helping my mom out in the kitchen or “acting prim and proper” in front of my elders. It’s the fact that I’m expected to behave a certain way simply because I am a female that just doesn’t sit right with me.

It’s the fact that my thirteen-year-old brother is held to entirely different standards than I am. His prepubescent self is encouraged to pursue girls, and keep his eyes open during a vulgar movie scene. “Hey, what’re you closing your eyes for? Watch and learn, pal,” my dad teases him. On the other hand, if I mention a boy, even if he’s just a platonic friend, I’m bombarded with a gratuitous line of questioning. “Who is he?” “How’d you meet him?” “You like him or something?” “Where’s this guy from, what does he look like?” “What do his parents do for a living?” “Is he Jewish?”

And if that’s not enough, then come the ominous warnings. “If I ever find out that you’re not telling me about something…” “What if someone in the family sees you out in public with this guy? It’ll ruin your reputation.”

Cue guilt trip: “It’s like you don’t want to get married or something.” “We just want what’s best for you, that’s why we came here, and you repay us by disobeying us?”

Now that’s what I have to go through for telling them I had lunch with a guy FRIEND, and people ask me why I’m eighteen and still haven’t been in a relationship!

“So what, they don’t allow you to date? Who says you have to tell them?” It’s not easy for my friends to understand, and I don’t expect them to. Honestly, I don’t see a point in lying to my parents- been there, done that- because the truth always comes out, sooner or later. Although I will always crave the kind of independence my parents would less than likely allow, their trust means a whole lot more to me. 

At the end of the day, no matter how overprotective my parents are, I know deep down that they shelter me, because they care about me, my safety and my well being. But when my cousins from Moscow- the city my parents emigrated from- visited me this past summer, the root of my family’s biased perceptions of gender roles became evident. Bear with me as I elaborate. If you lived in or visited New York this past summer, you know how intense the heat was this year. And what’s the appropriate attire for 90-degree weather? Shorts and a tank top, am I right? Well, let’s just say seeing me “show that much skin” in public came as a bit of a culture shock to my teenage cousins. “Are your dresses always that short?” one of them asked. “Your shorts are the same length as my boxers,” another one teased, but the intention behind his joking tone was obvious. He, along with the others, was clearly uncomfortable by my seemingly vulgar way of dressing (believe me, their ignorant and unnecessary commentary caught me off guard, as well.) Me, being the strong-willed, hardheaded individual that I am, though, I paid no attention to their judgments. Of course, I tried to help them understand that what I was wearing was completely appropriate for the season, and while it seemed like they did at first, their subtle disapproving stares when I wore a crop top the next day said otherwise.

Bottom line: my family’s cultural roots will always influence their values and standards, no matter how much I try to make them look at the world from a different lens, and honestly, regardless of how much I try to reject them, those principles will probably inevitably end up influencing my own.