Brighton Beach memoirs

I spent Saturday with my people. My Russian people. I ate sausage, looked in horror as young, attractive men ran around in Speedos and turned a fetching shade of lobster after four hours in the sun.

To my knowledge, I am not Russian. I am most definitely Italian on my mother's side. My father's side is a little fuzzy. We're allegedly German, but the family name is actually English and we don't look German. I, apparently, look very Russian.

Exhibit A. My college and right-after-college boyfriend lived in the South Bronx. When I would visit, the neighborhood guys would later ask, "Hey, who's the Russian chick?"

Exhibit B. Two boys in a dance club in London asked me if I was Russian.

Exhibit C. Last summer, the ex and I went to Brighton Beach. He was ignored all day. People only spoke to me, and they only spoke Russian.

Exhibit D. Nicola and I grabbed lunch on the boardwalk Saturday. The cute old man that came over to take our order looked at her, then at me, then back at her dismissively. He then leaned over and spoke to me in Russian. I said, "I'm sorry. I don't speak Russian." This upset him. The look on his face said, "These young people don't care enough about their culture to learn the language." He was clearly very disappointed that I was not interested enough in my Russian heritage. I didn't want to tell him I wasn't Russian, because that might have upset him even more.

I'm thinking about paying to try out one of those ancestry sites and find out what we really are on my father's side. If we're Russian, I promise to learn how to speak the language so I'm no longer a disappointment to my people at Brighton Beach.