Journey Of Faith American Dream Beneath Their Guarded Exteriors, Russian Refugees Struggle To Reconcile Rigid Beliefs With A Freer Way Of Life

(Second of two parts)

In a living room in northwest Spokane, a family watches a homemade videotape of another living room in Ukraine, 8,800 miles away.

The tape’s title could be “Refugees Return Home Bearing Gifts.”

Victor Napelenok, the leading man, gives each of his nieces and nephews an American $1 bill. Lydia Napelenok, the leading lady, hands out candy. A nephew recites Bible verses, his mouth full of American sweets.

The Napelenoks bring out more presents: deodorant, Pepsi, BandAids. The Ukrainians exclaim. The Napelenoks play the part of wealthy Americans well; their clothes look bright and new compared to their relatives’.

Wealthy and worldly by Ukrainian standards, the Napelenoks are poor and provincial by American standards.

They borrowed money from friends to make the trip to Ukraine for a family funeral. Victor Napelenok runs a one-man construction business but his family remains on welfare and his mother-in-law lines up at the food bank each month.

Two years after arriving in America, Napelenok drove across 25 states in a $175 car before deciding Spokane was what he calls his “American motherland.”

He and Lydia are citizens now, but they’re still on the journey to becoming American. They grow frustrated at times, particularly with their limited English vocabularies.

“Sometimes I feel like dog,” says Lydia Napelenok. “I understand, but I can’t say.”

For the Napelenoks - and other evangelical Christians from the former Soviet Union who found their way to Spokane - becoming American means facing a new language, a new culture and the generational conflicts that all immigrants share.

They also have unique obstacles.

As former Soviets, it’s hard to shake the suspicions they developed under a repressive political system. As evangelical Christians, they struggle to reconcile their rigid religious beliefs with the make-abuck, sex-sells culture of the United States, the country that gave them religious freedom.

Under the Soviet system, Russians learned to trust only their closest friends, and to bribe officials to help their families. The system denied higher education and good jobs to Christians who refused to take the atheistic oath required for Soviet Party membership.

Most evangelical Christian refugees come to America with working-class employment histories, but little understanding of how to compete for jobs. Their churches discourage birth control, so they also come with many mouths to feed.

Welfare is the first welcome mat they encounter, and some get stuck there, afraid they won’t be able to feed their families or afford health care without it.

A RUSSIAN STEREOTYPE GROWS

Russians can seem demanding, judgmental, even lazy to Spokane teachers, social workers and charity workers who deal with them - especially when compared to the generally cooperative, industrious Southeast Asians who preceded them as newcomers.

Teachers are surprised when Russian students refuse to dance in physical education classes because their Russian pastors tell them it is wrong. Food bank volunteers complain the Russians take too much food, hold places in line for other families and are picky rather than grateful. Americans sharing their church buildings with Russians are offended when their Christianity is questioned because they smoke or wear casual clothes to church.

Such anecdotes feed the stereotype of Russian refugees as aggressive, ungrateful, too willing to take handouts and strict Christians who don’t permit women to wear pants.

Contradicting the stereotype are people like Vladimir and Alla Kuzmenko, who borrowed money to open a Russian store and restaurant on Wellesley Avenue.

“When you are sitting on welfare there is not any hope for future,” Vladimir Kuzmenko says. His wife wears pants as do many Russian refugee women and girls after a few months in this country.

Business cards on the store’s bulletin board show Russian industriousness: a mechanic, a massage therapist, three translators, even a Mary Kay beauty consultant.

While the system they escaped hardened their public exteriors, Russians fill their homes with warmth and generosity. Americans who befriend Russians find themselves drawn into long conversations over plates of rich food.

“The Russian nature is not aggressive. But the kind of life we came from is terrible,” says refugee Lidiya Yanusheva as she serves tea, stuffed boiled eggs, salted cabbagecarrot salad and sliced tomatoes.

Boris Rubinstein blames Russia’s history of oppression for what he calls the Russians’ “short-term way of thinking about things.” Rubinstein is a Bellevue attorney who came to the United States from Ukraine when he was 13. He does pro bono work for Russian emigres.

“Russians are not really long-term planners. If they see an opportunity they grab it,” Rubinstein says. “If you’re not sure what will happen tomorrow, sometimes you will instinctively reach across the line.”

Rubinstein asks Spokane to give the Russians time.

“They may appear hostile, but it’s only because they are not sure how to act toward residents here,” he says. “Be open and friendly to them and you’ll get the same in return.”

Russians come with propaganda-fed images of Americans.

“We were presented with a gloomy dark picture of America,” says Alexander Nazarenko, who arrived in Spokane a year ago. “It was a terrible country. Americans were (portrayed by the government as) a very aggressive people. Big fat cats. Capitalists with striped suits and little nuclear bombs hanging out of their back pockets.

“I now arrive here and see Americans don’t wish to have a war with anybody. People are hardworking and peaceful. All this mess, the politicians do this. They are to blame for all the troubles.”

MIXED MESSAGES ON WELFARE

From the moment they arrive, the Russians hear conflicting messages about work and welfare.

Linda Unseth, director of a church-based agency that resettles refugees, quotes the Bible as she tells them to get jobs quickly and avoid welfare.

Michaela Dolina, a refugee job specialist for the state Employment Security Office, cautions that if they make too much money they could lose refugee cash grants and medical coverage.

Most apply for a special eightmonth public assistance program for refugees. When they do, their case worker encourages them to sign up for Aid to Families with Dependent Children, the regular welfare program for poor Americans with children, which has no time limit.

Once on AFDC, Russians discover they will be cut from the program if they work more than 100 hours in a month, no matter how little money they make. The 100-hour rule is hated by refugees and by those who work with them.

“The Russians say, `I’m going to work 99.9 hours,”’ says Alexandr Kaprian, a Russian-speaking community worker for the Department of Social and Health Services. “Especially the large families. They’re concerned about their children.”

The Napelenoks, who have seven children, have been on welfare more than five years. Napelenok’s growing construction business will allow them to get off soon, fulfilling his dream to be independent.

There are 160 Russian families on welfare in Spokane, DSHS workers say. With four to five people per case, there are 640 to 800 Russian adults and children on welfare (out of an estimated 3,000 to 5,000 in Spokane).

The larger the family, the more like quicksand welfare becomes.

A couple with five children and no income is eligible for $971 a month in cash and $472 a month in food stamps - a total of $1,443, plus medical coverage. A full-time worker would have to make $11 an hour to take home that amount after taxes.

“Some Russians with large families say, `Just show me where I can work for $15 or $20 an hour and I will go to work,”’ says Dolina, the state job specialist. “In Spokane, how can I show them this?”

Until this month, work vs. welfare was the overriding question in Lidiya Yanusheva’s life, although she has only two children. Yanusheva, a former science teacher, has been in this country one year. Her husband remains in Moscow.

For the first eight months, Yanusheva received about $800 a month in public assistance and food stamps. Then she got part-time work. As her income increased, her welfare check decreased, which was fine.

But last month her employer wanted to increase her hours to 25 a week, which would mean she would make too much to qualify for assistance, but less after taxes than she made on welfare when she wasn’t working.

Describing her problem last month she arched her eyebrows and said maybe she should quit and return to welfare.

“I can sleep long, go to the shopping malls,” she said sarcastically.

Instead, Yanusheva took action. She went to her employer, told her story and was given full-time work. Like many Americans, Yanusheva believes the welfare system should be reformed.

CAPITALISM THE HARD WAY

Russians who go to work encounter ideas foreign to them: layoffs and competition for jobs.

“We have families coming in every day crying because they want to work. But they want someone to find them a job and put them in it,” says DSHS social worker Henry Valenzuela.

“To compete for jobs goes against everything they have ever believed and been taught,” says Susan Wiley Hardwick, a professor at California State University in Chico and author of a book on Russian refugees.

“In Russia, if he fills out the paper, he is hired,” says Yeuginya Dydik, a Russian refugee. “They do not know about resumes and applications. In Russia, you are given a job.”

Victor Napelenok didn’t understand the first time he was laid off. He asked his boss if he was a bad worker. “The boss said, `No, you are good. I don’t have more work for you,”’ Napelenok says.

When Aleksander Solodyankin was laid off from a job at Kaiser’s Mead plant, his wife, Yelena, went to work cleaning hotel rooms so they could feed their three children.

“I cried,” says Yelena, a former teacher. She studied English, babysat, opened a day-care business in their home and, last fall, got a job as a bilingual assistant at Audubon Elementary School. Working her way into a better job was “like stairsteps, like tiptoeing,” she says. Her husband now works construction jobs.

Catholic Family Service and the state Employment Security Office offer a class for Russians on job-hunting.

During one class, teacher Yelena Chernikov demonstrated how not to sit at a job interview. She folded her arms across her chest and slumped in her chair.

Five Russian men and one woman watched silently. Chernikov laughed frequently, but her students did not.

The class covered what employers look for in an employee, Spokane’s job market, want ads, applications, resumes, car insurance, understanding paychecks and changing jobs.

“To help them, I have to push them to do it for themselves,” says Chernikov, a Russian refugee who arrived five years ago. “It’s not a nursery here.”

American churchgoers help some Russians find jobs. An American Christian businessman loaned the Kuzmenkos $10,000 to start their store. Dick Sayman, matched by his church with Slav Badrak, helped the Siberian miner get a job with a construction company.

Many employers have had good experiences with Russian workers. Some have not.

Babe Veale, production supervisor for Multifab-SBI Inc., a Spokane Valley company, likes hiring Southeast Asian refugees, but not Russians.

She estimates that 75 of the 85 employees operating industrial sewing machines at Multifab are refugees. They start at $4.95 an hour doing the noisy, repetitive work of sewing great piles of dog toys and backpacks. Many of her employees don’t speak English.

“Honestly, I haven’t had too good luck with the Russians,” Veale says. They tell her they can make more on welfare. “I’ve had Russian women spit at me when they quit.”

Dolina, the state employment worker, tells refugees their work performance will affect others of their nationality who follow them.

“I always remind everyone they are not standing just for themselves. They stand for the whole community.”

The thought that education could help break welfare dependency inspired the Community Colleges of Spokane to offer free vocational classes specifically for refugees on welfare.

Interest is growing, says Joanna Tackitt, the colleges’ coordinator of English programs for immigrants.

“They are hearing about `Clinton’s welfare reform’ and that their time on welfare may be limited,” Tackitt says.

About 300 Russians attend the colleges’ regular, free English as a Second Language classes.

ADOLESCENCE AND CULTURE SHOCK

The Russian migration swelled Spokane School District’s ESL program, requiring additional teachers and translators. Four years ago, Russians weren’t even counted separately.

Now they are the majority, 54 percent of the 566 non-English-speaking students in the school district.

Four years ago, Asians made up 72 percent of the program, which had 298 students then. Teachers find it difficult not to compare the two groups, and Russians come up short.

“The Asians seem to come to America with the attitude that `this is the first day of the rest of my life,”’ says Susan Stannard, who teaches immigrant teenagers at Shadle Park High School. “They just hustle and bustle. The parents make me feel like I’m the most wonderful person in the world.”

In contrast, Russian teenagers and their parents distrust her, challenge her authority and talk about her behind her back, Stannard says.

“The Russians think, `Why do I have to do this? I’m in America. I’m free.’ They want to change the rules when it doesn’t meet their convenience. When you’re dealing with people who are assertive, aggressive and want everything yesterday, it is much more difficult,” she says. “It’s hard not to become negative.”

Teenage immigrants face the double whammy of adolescence and culture shock.

“They’ve lost their language. They’ve lost everything that’s familiar,” says Victoria Rouse, a teacher at Ferris High School where 24 of 49 ESL students are Russians. “It’s very difficult to go through adolescence and grief at the same time.”

Asians hold their feelings inside, Rouse observes, but Russians show their frustrations, sometimes inappropriately. Three Russian boys slashed Rouse’s tires when they got mad over school policies.

“As a group, they are more like Americans,” Rouse says.

In the Soviet Union, teachers were often the enemy of Christian students, marking them down in grades unjustly or deriding their beliefs as superstitious. In America, Russian parents are unsure whom to believe when their teenagers say a teacher treats them unfairly.

“When we ask our children how they are doing in school, they say, `It’s not interesting to study there,”’ says Yuri Solodyankin, a Russian father who invited several Russian teenagers and parents to his home to talk to a reporter about school.

“They want to know why they need to take physical education or drawing class. They go to the principal with the problem, but the principal refers them back to the teacher. The children say, `In this case, we won’t study.”’

The Russians at Solodyankin’s home told about the time a Russian girl was caught cheating on a test. They claim the teacher, Victoria Rouse, hit the girl’s hand with a book.

They are outraged by the teacher’s alleged behavior, but show no regret about the girl’s cheating. (Rouse later told a reporter she lightly tapped the girl with a notebook to let her know she had seen her cheat.)

The girl’s mother, Olga Sipko, described a subsequent meeting she had with the teacher:

“I told her, `We gave you our children. We expected you to be a second mother to them.’ I asked her directly, `Do you love my daughter? Did you ever talk to her one on one and find out what was bothering her?’ She just said, `I never hit her.’ I said, `Do you believe in God?’ She said, `Yes.’ I said, `God can see you are lying. If you believe in God how can you lie so straightforwardly?”’

Aspects of American schools seem frivolous to Russians. Rewards for good performance strike them as gimmickry. Teachers’ insistence on good attendance seems too rigid.

Americans should take all that with a grain of salt, says Kent Hill, author of a book on Christianity in the Soviet Union.

Hill found the Soviet schools he visited mediocre. “I was floored by the chaos in the schools,” Hill says. “Students didn’t pay attention to teachers and teachers didn’t pay attention to students.” Teachers weren’t paid well and schools lacked equipment.

Inna Rud, 15, a refugee from Estonia, says boys get in trouble more here “because there is more freedom.”

“Teachers don’t hit them here.”

It’s difficult for evangelical Russians to watch their teenagers violate their religion and culture as they become Americans.

But what’s routine physical discipline in Russia can be considered child abuse here. Child Protective Services workers have been dispatched to several Russian homes.

Ken Breiter, a CPS social worker, says he was impressed with the Russian families he met as he checked into abuse reports. The children had a healthy glow; the homes were orderly. The parents he met were unlikely to abuse their children, he concluded.

He observed families trying to make sense of new standards of behavior. One Russian father admitted he slapped his teenaged son hard enough to leave a mark because the boy had taught a younger brother English four-letter words.

The father told Breiter he was worried about the son’s grades slipping. “He was idealistic and adamant about not giving up his expectations for the children.”

Trying to preserve their culture for their children, Russians organized Russian language classes at a Baptist church. Several pastors want to start a Russian newspaper. The Kuzmenkos’ store near Monroe and Wellesley shows signs of evolving into a cultural center.

The store’s aroma of cabbage rolls and steaming borscht evokes memories for the immigrants and refugees, not just from Ukraine and Russia, but also from Poland, Romania, Bulgaria and Germany.

“Some come just for talking,” says Kuzmenko. “Some come for music, for books.”

Russian adults can teach their youngest children the language, songs and food of their native culture. But the children have few memories of their former lives.

“I remember a lot of snow. I used to ride on pigs,” says Valentine Badrak, 11, the oldest son of a Siberian family who came to the United States in 1990.

His sister Genya, 13, adds: “There was no water, no gas. We had to go to a well to get water.”

The youngest children have the least trouble merging with America.

Alex Napelenok, age 9, is the fifth-born of the Napelenoks’ seven children.

He sat one day in his fourth-grade classroom at Browne Elementary wearing a Seattle Seahawks T-shirt, eyes riveted to the brain-teasing math problem his teacher had given the class at the end of the day.

Other students twisted their hair and scooted their chairs, but Alex kept working.

“Yes, I got it!” he finally exclaimed, pounding his desk once in excitement. Alex is very bright in math, his teacher Leeann Reeves said after the bell rang. Other than that, “he’s just like any kid. He doesn’t seem to have any longing for his past.”

While their parents straddle two worlds uncomfortably, Alex and children like him stride blithely and securely in America.

The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Written by Carla K. Johnson. Reported by Carla K. Johnson, Jess Walter and Margaret Taus