Lightening up to all those odd American ways

I was 6 years old when we came to the United States and knew nothing about Americans or American life. The first family I knew were the Russells, who lived in the apartment next to us when we all lived above Kresge's dimestore. The Russells seemed like a handsome family to me, and very different from us.

Mrs. Russell, for instance, had plump white arms, a creamy complexion, and the reddest, most luscious-looking lips I had ever seen. In comparison, my mother -- who had always seemed beautiful to me Ð suddenly looked a bit dull with her pale dry lips and her dishwater blonde hair. One of Mrs. Russell's daughters was named Dawn Ð a name so exotic I no longer remember her sister's more common name.

Their mother seemed always to be baking cakes. Unlike my mother, who used either a spoon or fork to whip batter or egg whites until her arm gave out and I had to help, Mrs. Russell used a machine with two twirly beaters that whipped up frothy icings in a matter of seconds. Then she would take a little bottle of dark liquid and squeeze a drop or two in the frosting, turning the fluffy white into either pink, green, or yellow. I could hardly believe my eyes! What kind of magic was this? When I asked my mother about it, she said she didn't want to diminish Mrs. Russell's talents but did not think colored frosting was healthy. Well, maybe it wasn't, but whenever Mrs. Russell offered the beaters to me to lick, I did not turn her down.

It seemed to me that Americans had all kinds of magic. Something was always being transformed into something else. One day, as I held a pair of little bronze baby shoes in my hand, Mrs. Russell told me they were Dawn's. "How can she wear them?" I asked, for they not only looked too small but were welded together. Mrs. Russell laughed, "She doesn't anymore. They were her first shoes and we had them bronzed to preserve them." It seemed a strange thing to do, especially since Dawn had a younger sister who could have worn them, but I didn't say anything.

From then on I noticed that many American families had little bronzed shoes sitting on tables, dressers, and bookshelves. I remember when my brother was born I asked Mother is we were going to bronze his shoes too. But Mother said no, it was a waste of money. If she were to keep anything, she said, it would be his "milk teeth" which she would place in a little silver box that she would keep safe in her dresser drawer.

The Russells did not live in the apartment for long, and when they moved out, I fixed my attention on the Johnsons who lived at the front of the apartment building which was separated from our long dark corridor by swinging double doors. This front section of the building had a grand foyer painted a pale blue, and I knew without being told that both Dr. Steele's dental office and Mr. Johnson's combination photo studio and apartment were somehow more desirable than anything in our corridor.

Their large picture windows looked out over all the bustle of Lafayette Street below. Our one room apartment did not have windows - only a skylight - which did let in a little light, and on rare occasions a bit of fresh air if Father managed to prop it open.

Mrs. Johnson, like Mrs. Russell, had access to what seemed to me American magic. She colored her hair a dazzling rich brown. Not that I ever guessed her secret, for no one spoke openly about such things, but Ronnie, her son, told me one day as we were playing cowboys and Indians in the alley. I had no idea hair could be colored, and wasted no time in telling my mother.

To my surprise, Mother took my news in stride. In fact, she was way ahead of me. From the cupboard in the washroom, Mother pulled out a box of hair dye she had bought some time earlier but had been hesitant to use. I was aghast. How could my mother, who believed in everything natural and untainted, be thinking about doing something that involved chemicals? How could she allow herself to be American?

"Mother, you can't," I scolded her in alarm. "I don't want you to do it! I don't want you to change!"

Mother winced. Her voice was full of longing as she disclosed how much she missed her former blonde hair, and how Father had always called her Zeltenite - golden girl . But I was not moved. "You won't be the same," I wailed. "I want you as you are!"

I am ashamed to say that Mother listened to me. Years later, when I was grown up and lightening my own dishwater blonde hair back to its earlier sheen, I offered to lighten her hair as well - if she still wanted it done.

"Of course I do!" Mother responded. "Do I even have to tell you?"

n Ursula Carlson, Ph.D., teaches writing and literature at Western Nevada Community College.