33: from undocumented construction worker in Russia to an Actor/Dancer in Hollywood.
This Summer, I turned 33. It's time I share with you 33 lessons I learned that took me from freezing undocumented work in Russia to a sunny gig life in Los Angeles.
16 years ago, I was laying down bricks and mixing mortar during freezing Russian winter days for $200 a month. Today, I am writing, producing, acting, dancing, and teaching in Hollywood for the same amount of money a day.
Russia, 16 years ago, was basically the only place where people from post soviet republics could go and get a job to make at least some stable money. And when poverty is real, one has two choices: live it or feel it. I decided I'd rather live it so I can feel other more beautful aspects that life still has to offer even to those who forced by political corruption and economic disfunction to work only to eat.
And I made a choice to drop of the high school and go do what I though was the right thing to do: make my own money to eventually support myself and help my family a little bit. My mother and I packed out bags, bought two train tickets from Kyrgyzstan where we lived at the time to Russia, and informed my father that we would be joining him in his community of undocumented labor force.
two weeks later, I was proudly freezing my bones and joints with my father building new Russia. Little did I know that arthritis does not come only with age but with one's life style as well. But that was not my concern at the time.
I never made more than $200 a month working 8-9 hours a day but I did learn the value of a dollar. But most of all, I learned the value of time. And above all, I learned the value of my voice and ability to use it. Since most of us were undocumented workers or as they are called in Russia "gostorbaitors", we were victims of all the aspects that come with it. It's important to note that during those days the whole post soviet union was going through serious ideological shift which caused deep racial and cultural chaos. And with chaos usually comes fear. And with fear usually comes hatred. And with all the above the law means nothing to anyone. Fortunately, I always believed that law means nothing on the streets but human interaction means everything. At least that's what I discovered and had to use in my illegal days in Russia. Here is a little story how it worked for me.
Whenever the cops showed up at our construction site to use our free labor to clean their station's toilets or to get another dead frozen homeless person from some godforsaken sewer, I always made sure they knew that I spoke fluent Russian language. If they ordered "all nine or ten illegal workers to get into a small van for six people" I would politely mention in fine Russian language that there was simply not enough space for me to fit in but I would love to help them next time. It did not work all the time. Sometimes it would actually backfire. One time when we were forced to clean the toilets at the local police station, I said I had an allergy on cleaning detergent. An officer was quick enough to offer me another volunteering opportunity. "Hey goofy Gipsy, we have another fun opportunity for you. Here, get this rope and join these two fellas. We need at least three of you to get that frozen dead "bomzh" (homeless) from his joint", he said. "I'm not Gipsy. I'm half Armenian and half Greek. My name is Artur. Sure I can do that. But I gotta warn you, I may faint when I see the dead man. And I am also extremely sensitive to the smell of anything or anyone not fresh", I politely replied to his request. " No worries little Armenian smart ass, if you faint, we will make sure you and the homeless dude keep each other a good company", he laughed satisfied with his comeback. We got to the place. It was a cold winter day. My two comrades from Tajikistan went down into the sewer. I threw them a thick construction rope. They tied the rope around the dead man's now turgid body. We all almost threw up. We did not though. We had nothing to throw up with since we all missed our lunch that day. Hunger can be pf service too. All three of us kept it cool and professional. The policemen were shouting the directions on ow to do our job. It took us forty minutes but we got the body out. We loaded it into the van that brought us there. The van took off. All three of us walked back to our construction site where we also lived. I did not faint. But now I knew that the cops knew my true identity and my name. Unlike the dead man from the sewer. They knew me as a person and not a socio-political status given to me by the political circumstances at the time.
Next thing you know, they were giving me a ride once in awhile to my construction site during freezing mornings when our whole brigade had to walk thirty minutes. That's when I truly started understanding the power of communication and humor. I have been using this wisdom since then and I truly believe that under strict supervision of God, this simple trick helped me to get to my beautiful place in LA today.
Photo by my talented friend Gregory R.R. Crosby
