Took my Mother’s Tongue and My Father’s Religion

A personal story written by Malka Krijestorac

I was born in New York City to Yugoslavian parents, more specifically a Serbian mother  and Kosovan father. That sentence alone is a bit uncomfortable for me to say. Anyone who  knows about the Serbian government's conflict with Kosovo knows that having parents from those countries has been a difficult concept for me to accept growing up, hiding one side of my  identity from the other.

I have been going to my mother's Homeland of Serbia every summer since I was six months old, and even to my close friends who I have known my whole life, I  could never tell them where my father was from without the risk of being shot, beaten or not  accepted.

The two countries that felt most like home to me growing up and to this day are, Serbia and the  United States, and even their people would always question my last name as it has Balkan  Muslim roots…

To Serbs, although I was also a Serb by blood, my identity was questioned, and I  was told I wasn’t Serbian enough although I spoke the language and understood the culture. 

My  last name is also foreign to Americans and constantly questioned about where it comes from and  how it is pronounced. Growing up I had to hide different aspects of my identity from people. To my peers back home in New York, a very pro-Israel city I had to hide the fact that on my father's side I am Muslim.

Writing that sentence stating “I am Muslim” is the first time I had ever done that, and it brought me out of my comfort zone, however that statement is true, whether it is  accepted by my peers or not. I had to hide the fact that my father is from Kosovo to my Serbian peers and if I met any Albanians or people from Kosovo, I would hide the fact that my mother is a Serb. 

Growing up I never felt like I belonged to any one country in which I calculated my identity. I wasn’t American enough, Serbian enough, or Kosovan enough to be accepted anywhere. My  main issue was not feeling American enough, as I spent most of my years in the United States. I would shy away from anything American because of how ashamed I was to be considered an  American, due to how my peers in the Balkans never accepted me because of it, and I felt a  general culture disconnect to the United States as my parents are culturally very Balkan.

During  school events, I would not participate in pledging allegiance to the flag or singing the American  National Anthem.

I never dared to own any articles of clothing that would associate me with America such as vintage sweatshirt stating the team names of American Football teams or really anything that had to do with American sports such as baseball in addition to American football.

I also would not be caught dead in cowboy boots, cowboy belts, or ponchos historically worn by  cowboys. However, I wear all these things today and in fact, make an effort to do so to show my  American side. Since moving to Britain, I have gained a deeper connection to the country in  which I grew up. 

Now when I go to vintage or thrift shops my eyes are instantly drawn to anything that can be  classified as “American”. Today there are three cowboy boots, five American football  sweatshirts, a poncho, and two cowboy belts in my closet that I have purchased at vintage shops  in the past year.

Yesterday I walked out of my house wearing red cowboy boots and felt like  Ariel from Footloose.

I didn’t understand the beauty of that film until I moved away from the  United States and understood the beauty of American dance culture, something I am unable to experience in the United Kingdom.

I have learned to appreciate all aspects of my identity and embrace different parts of where I come from.