I NEED ONE PAGE ESSAY NO PLAGIARISM
thoughts and feeling about this essay. Provide concrete examples to help share your response.
that the essay one page only thoughts and feelings
Sixty-Nine Cents By Gary Shteyngart
When I was fourteen years old I lost my Russian accent. I could in theory walk up to a girl and the words Oh hi there would not sound like Okht Hyzer possibly the name of a Turkish politician. There were three things I wanted to do in my new incarnation: go to Florida where I understood that our nations best and brightest had built themselves a sandy vice-filled paradise; have a girl preferably native-born tell me that she liked me in some way; and eat all my meals at McDonalds. I did not have the pleasure of eating at McDonalds often. My parents believed that going to restaurants and buying clothes not sold by weight on Orchard Street were things done only by the very wealthy or the very profligate maybe those extravagant welfare queens we kept hearing about on television. Even my parents however as uncritically in love with America as only immigrants can be could not resist the iconic pull of Florida the call of the beach and the Mouse. And so in the midst of my Hebrew-school winter vacation two Russian families crammed into a large used sedan and took I-95 down to the Sunshine State. The other familythree members in all mirrored our own except that their single offspring was a girl and they were on the whole more ample; by contrast my entire family weighed three hundred pounds. Theres a picture of us beneath the monorail at EPCOT Center each of us trying out a different smile to express the dj-vu feeling of standing squarely in our new countrys greatest attraction my own megawatt grin that of a turn-ofthe-century Jewish peddler scampering after a potential sidewalk sale. The Disney tickets were a freebie for which we had had to sit through a sales pitch for an Orlando time-share. Youre from Moscow? the time-share salesman asked appraising the polyester cut of my fathers jib.
Leningrad. Let me guess: mechanical engineer? Yes mechanical engineer. . . . Eh please Disney tickets now. The ride over the MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach was my real naturalization ceremony. I wanted all of itthe palm trees the yachts bobbing beside the hard-currency mansions the concrete-and-glass condominiums preening at their own reflections in the azure pool water below the implicit availability of relations with amoral women. I could see myself on a balcony eating a Big Mac casually throwing fries over my shoulder into the sea-salted air. But I would have to wait. The hotel reserved by my parents friends featured army cots instead of beds and a half-foot-long cockroach evolved enough to wave what looked like a fist at us. Scared out of Miami Beach we decamped for Fort Lauderdale where a Yugoslav woman sheltered us in a faded motel beachadjacent and featuring free UHF reception. We always seemed to be at the margins of places: the driveway of the Fontainebleau Hilton or the glassed-in elevator leading to a rooftop restaurant where we could momentarily peek over the Please Wait to Be Seated sign at the endless ocean below the Old World we had left behind so far and yet deceptively near.
To my parents and their friends the Yugoslav motel was an unquestioned paradise a lucky coda to a set of difficult lives. My father lay magnificently beneath the sun in his red-and-black striped imitation Speedo while I stalked down the beach past baking Midwestern girls. Oh hi there. The words perfectly American not a birthright but an acquisition perched between my lips but to walk up to one of those girls and say something so casual required a deep rootedness to the hot sand beneath me a historical presence thicker than the green card embossed with my thumbprint and freckled face. Back at the motel the Star Trek reruns looped endlessly on Channel 73 or 31 or some other prime number the washed-out Technicolor planets more familiar to me than our own. On the drive back to New York I plugged myself firmly into my Walkman hoping to forget our vacation. Sometime after the palm trees ran out somewhere in southern Georgia we stopped at a McDonalds. I could already taste it: The sixty-nine-cent hamburger. The ketchup red and decadent embedded with little flecks of grated onion. The uplift of the pickle slices; the obliterating rush of fresh Coca-Cola; the soda tingle at the back of the throat signifying that the act was complete. I ran into the meat-fumigated coldness of the magical place the larger Russians following behind me lugging something big and red. It was a cooler packed before we left the motel by the other mother the kindly round-faced equivalent of my own mother. She had prepared a full Russian lunch for us. Soft-boiled eggs wrapped in tinfoil; vinigret the Russian beet salad overflowing a reused container of sour cream; cold chicken served between crisp white furrows of a bulka. But its not allowed I pleaded. We have to buy the food here.
I felt coldness not the air-conditioned chill of southern Georgia but the coldness of a body understanding the ramifications of its own demise the pointlessness of it all. I sat down at a table as far away from my parents and their friends as possible. I watched the spectacle of the newly tanned resident aliens eating their ethnic mealjowls working jowls workingthe soft-boiled eggs that quivered lightly as they were brought to the mouth; the girl my coeval sullen like me but with a hint of pliant equanimity; her parents dishing out the chunks of beet with plastic spoons; my parents getting up to use free McDonalds napkins and straws while American motorists with their noisy towheaded children bought themselves the happiest of meals. My parents laughed at my haughtiness. Sitting there hungry and all alonewhat a strange man I was becoming! So unlike them. My pockets were filled with several quarters and dimes enough for a hamburger and a small Coke. I considered the possibility of redeeming my own dignity of leaving behind our beet-salad heritage. My parents didnt spend money because they lived with the idea that disaster was close at hand that a liver-function test would come back marked with a doctors urgent scrawl that they would be fired from their jobs because their English did not suffice. We were all representatives of a shadow society cowering under a cloud of bad tidings that would never come. The silver coins stayed in my pocket the anger burrowed and expanded into some future ulcer. I was my parents son.