I am not a "Babushka"

     I got spoiled right from the get-go. The attention thrust on me was frustrating: “the very first woman pastor in Russia after seventy years of atheism and persecution!” “She grew her church up to a thousand members!” “Oh, she knows the wife of the First President of Russia, Mrs. Boris Yeltsin!” The newspaper articles with my interviews became an embarrassment: almost all of them told the story of a young woman who cut off her communist roots. I was never a communist!

     In those articles I either looked like a hero or like a naïve Russian peasant girl.

I wait behind the stage to be taken up onto a conference platform. My heart falls down into my heels when I hear my name announced. I lightly touch my tight leopard-print French dress under the purple jacket to be sure that all is fine and follow a man who, at the edge of the platform, took my hand and pushed me toward the crowd. Piercing ovations sound too real to be pre-recorded. The panorama of the convention center reveals thousands of standing people. I saw audiences like this only on TV.

     Something is odd. The whole auditorium is looking behind me with feverish anticipation. The ovation obviously went to somebody else. My knees, locked by fear, relax a little. I take a short breath, thinking, “What do they all stare at?” Carefully, I glance behind my back. Someone important, per- haps a celebrity, follows me, I think to myself. I manage to join my shaking hands in sincere applause. My mouth is dry. What if I still have to speak? I lost every word I prepared.

     Next, a gentleman in a nice suite shows up, silencing the multitudes.

     “I know, you can’t wait to see Lydia, but this is her! There is no confusion! This is Lydia!”   Thousands pairs of eyes switch back to me. 

     “I know, I know – this young blond doesn’t look like a "Babushka"–what we all expect a Russian woman to be. Lydia – the founding pastor from Russia, who fought the Russian Mafia and the KGB, who went through persecution and harassment, yet didn’t quit.” The presenter laughs out loud, pointing at me, and then comes and hugs me, wiping tears in his eyes. For some reason this seemed painful to me.  

     The audience got numb for a short moment and then broke out in uproarious laughter.

     I miss half of what the man said and all I hear is the roaring laughter. The crowd remains standing, staring. The dress! Is everything OK with my dress? Do I even have it on? Sometimes we women forget to put on the most essential pieces of clothing when we are stressed out. The view of the leopard pattern on my dress calms down my horror of a fiasco. The crowd was getting hysterical. I felt like I was standing right in the middle of a circus arena. 
     "Is my dress ridiculously sexy? But I have nothing else to wear - that is my best dress!"

     Fainting or running away seems like my only option, if not for the Bishop from Texas, who almost yelled into my year, 

     “Dress? What about your dress? The dress is fine. Turn around, please. People thought you were an interpreter for the first woman pastor from Russia. They expected to see a big Russian woman – a 'Babushka.'” 

     Oh, no! I do not want to be stereotyped. Another stereotype was the Mafia and the KGB. Do they have to be mentioned every time I am on stage? Like ancient Rome, people are still in need of bread and entertainment. The last thing I want to see is people being entertained by my life. But I am on stage, and I smile and re-tell my story again about KGB and Mafia and the First Lady of Russia Naina Yeltzin, who gave me a military airplane, “Ruslan.” 

      That is the only story I know. At least I am not a “babushka.”