What It Means To Be Cuban-American, Colored, & Mixed

                                                                    

*There will be discussion on the following topics: The Soviet Union, racism, colorism, immigration struggles, employment discrimination, threats, and racial bias. The names used are fictional in order to protect the identities of the individuals mentioned. 

 By: Drusilla Ugolini

I'm Scared of Marriage.

 

Scene I. 

Fiona Apple - Limp

The ringing in her ears grew louder, tighter, as if a string was wrapped around her neck and threatening to behead her as the sound filled the room. 

Clammy hands, voltage speed, heart rate; skipping beats and pacing around in the tiny compact room that is her ribs. 

She couldn’t breathe anymore.

She fell to her knees, cornered in the bedroom, her back against the wall. She pressed her hands over her ears, clutching them and begging them to close up, to protect her from the vulturous sound. Picking at her brain, making her come undone, dreading for the remainder of her mind to be torn up by the screaming. 

Yes, that was the ringing.

Screaming.

“You pathetic, useless whore.”

Her beloved spat practically acid at her. The words burned through her wounds, the wounds on her arms and legs and in her swollen heart. She was so accustomed to his filthy mouth, it hadn’t always been filthy. Not initially, no. But now, with each condescending word that fell out of his big mouth she saw it as dirty, she didn’t kiss him anymore. She hasn't in two years now. 

He stood above her with a lit cigarette in his hand, there was a pause to the screaming.

The cigarette, the caretaker, the soother. It quelled his rage momentarily, she knew this as she watched his eyebrows unfurrow and his eyes become absent from the moment. Empty. She watched as the smoke rose into the air and escaped the lit tobacco, uncurling and whispering ashy docile words, mouthing none, yet providing the perfect comfort any man could find. That her husband could find.

His gaze fixated on her after a second of calm.

“You deceitful manipulative woman. If I had known you would be like this, turn out to be so fucking disappointing like this I would have never sang you that song. Would have never…” She prepared for the impact of another blistering word, she believed them all to be true - not mendacious. Not repetitive, each word was another lash. Another wound. Another…

He crouched down to meet her gaze and gently stroked her cheek, two of his fingers catching loose strands of her hair and playing with it, adjusting it behind her ear with the same tenderness she was now unfamiliar with. It scared her. She hated when he was sweet. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t true like the wounds. 

“I would have never chosen to love you.” 

He plunges the lit cigarette into her collarbone, digging it deeper and deeper, till it becomes dim and dead. 

Breathe.

Breathe, come on, breathe you idiot.

It isn’t the first time.

It feels good…

It feels good..

It feels good.

My Experience In Russia

The Paradox of Russian Youth

I set foot in Russia as an American on the cold winter morning of December 19th, 2026; It was my first international trip, taken alone, into a landscape that to most people exists only as a caricature. 

By: Drusilla Ugolini

i. First Impressions

What pops into your brain when you think about Russia exactly? As Americans, we often carry an exaggerated image – one shaped more by distance than truth. Cold, depressing, severe. Did one of those come to mind? You probably think of tall, gloomy, and retro buildings taking up the majority of the sky. Apartment complexes resembling prisons, staircase after staircase climbing up decades of past memories. The air smells thick with rot. While those indeed do exist, there's some other than leaving a feeling of mystery. Disconnected, peaceful. 

What pops into your brain when you think about Russia? As Americans, we often carry an exaggerated image shaped more by distance than truth. Cold, depressing, severe. You probably imagine tall, gloomy, retro buildings taking up the majority of the sky – apartment complexes resembling prisons, staircase after staircase climbing up decades of past memories. The air smells thick with rot.

While those places indeed exist, there is a secondary layer: a feeling of mystery. Disconnected, yet peaceful.

I found a quiet magic permeating the streets instead: the warm golden flicker of lampposts against untouched snow, a softness that contradicts the "severe" reputation. The fog in the air is thick from pollution, yet when you breathe, you feel a cleanliness inside you that you’ve forgotten exists. It cleans you out, almost harshly, like a rough handcloth – leaving you alert, awake, and undeniably present. 

Russia does not greet you loudly. It settles into you. I felt at home. 

Drusilla Ugolini  +   Soviet Buildings &. Modern Russian Atmosphere. iPhone 14 Plus. Series of photos. Winter landscape study, background bulb of “lights” among the winter ambience. The coming of New Years. – Mytischi, Moscow Oblast. 

December 19, 2025.

ii. Paradoxical Youth, Coded Identity

Beneath that stillness, there is something longing, restless, and far less prominent than the surface majority. The youth in Russia exist in a space of contradiction. On the surface, there is conformity: neutral tones, composed expressions, an understanding of what should and should not be said.

But look closer, and you notice the fractures. Alternative culture runs wild and deep in the Russian core. You see it in the packs of cigarettes shared in concrete staircases, the nighttime walks where you pour your soul out to friends, and the Western music bleeding faintly through headphones.

Young people here are not unaware – they are hyper-aware. 

They are careful, not always from fear, but from habit. Constant calculation governs what is safe to express, where, and with whom. Identity is situational, not fixed. For queer youth, existence is coded – never on the surface, as it is punishable by law. Visibility is redirected: subtle touches under tables, private hotel rooms, or the safety of being public “best friends.”

 

Drusilla Ugolini  + Partner and I.  — Mytischi, Moscow Oblast. January 1st, 2026.

The black box over my partner's face is a reminder that while our emotions are real, our public identities must remain situational. We are "best friends" in the street; we are ourselves in a romantic aspect only behind locked doors.

iii. The Currency of Sincerity

Coming from the United States, where self-expression is often immediate and conspicuous, the difference is striking. Here, identity is something you protect with all your heart. But that does not make it weaker; it makes it more deliberate, more resilient, and more meaningful.

And yet, there is no absence of individuality.

In a culture where a compliment to a stranger is unthinkable and "mindless chatter" is rare, communication begins with intent. There is more value to a smile than just a simple greeting; it is a sign of kindness and friendship. This depth fuels a quiet, symbolic creativity. Slavic-born individuals are some of the most creative people I know—handcrafting letters to their closest friends or making trinkets from bottle caps and keychains. Art and music become outlets where direct confrontation is replaced with symbolism.

One infamous example is the phrase Цой жив (“Tsoi is alive”), honoring Viktor Tsoi, the legendary Soviet rock musician and frontman of Kino.

 There has even recently been a sighting of this phrase in Little Hall by one of the Russian Club members, marked on the ground. Even thousands of miles away.

Aleksandra Shchetnikova  +  Marking on the ground. — Around Little Hall. Reported being seen in “Russian Club” Group Me on March 28th, 2026.

Tsoi is a monumental figure in Russian culture. He became an icon in the 1980s for his honest lyrics and defiant voice during a time of political rigidity and social stagnation. His songs spoke to youth who felt constrained by rules, giving them a language for hope, rebellion, and emotional authenticity. In quiet bedrooms, stairwells, or smuggled tapes, his music circulated nation wide, throughout generations. His music became a part of the culture.

“Rooftops are trembling under the burden of the days / A heavenly shepherd herds the clouds / The city shoots pellets of light out into the night / But the night is stronger, her power is great” — KINO, "Спокойная ночь" (Calm Night) 

-Link to the song: Спокойная ночь. YouTube · Kino - Topic  May 16, 2018

…

 Creativity in Russia often thrives this way—symbolic, layered, and deeply introspective—where art, music, and fashion convey truths that cannot be stated openly.

Coming from the United States, where self-expression is often immediate and conspicuous, the difference is striking. Here, identity is something you protect with all your heart. But that does not make it weaker. If anything, it makes it more deliberate, more resilient, and more meaningful.

iv. The Weight of Achievement: The Five-Point Soul

Creativity thrives here, but the pressure is a heavy burden. Students are molded by a relentless, near-militaristic approach to study; 10th-grade math is what we’d consider university-level in the States. In Russia, academic success isn’t just about a career – it’s about survival and the proximity to freedom.

Exams are merciless, and the grading system is a stark, binary world of highs and lows. A "0" or a "2" isn't just a bad grade; it’s a closing door, a mark of failure that echoes through your social and family standing. But a "5" – that was everything. A "5" meant you were one step closer to stability, to comfort, and to the rare luxury of choosing your own path. It’s a culture where "good enough" doesn't exist; you are either ascending or you are falling. College isn’t for finding yourself, it’s for validation, pride, and survival.

The reality of being a teenager here is jarringly different from the Western experience of "finding yourself." Here, you find yourself through discipline. My lover once when she was in Grade 10 and had a shocking day in class where they brought in guns just to teach students how to operate them for self-defense. This left me utterly stunned – a sharp reminder that the youth here are being prepared for a world that is as dangerous as it is demanding especially in times of War. Education is a gateway, but the chains of expectation press heavy nonetheless. You don't just study to learn; you study to fortify yourself against a reality that doesn't care about your "potential" unless it’s proven in ink.

v. Voices from the Soul

After hearing this in order to understand the youth here more fully as well as their perspective on living in Russia, I decided to interview two Russian teenagers.

1. Albina X., 18, Moscow Region

Albina grew up in a closed military town of 40,000. She emphasizes empathy, community, and attentiveness to others’ emotions. Yet she also notes the conservative constraints on young women: expected to behave as “proper girls,” perform academically, and suppress confrontation. For Albina, freedom is most real in private and digital spaces. She observes, “Identity is carried carefully. Shared in private spaces, coded in language, expressed through glances, art, music, and digital worlds that feel safer than the physical one.”

Statements from Albina, Directly Translated:

“The most important value Russian culture teaches young people is a sense of community… even if you do not know someone, there should still be a willingness to help a stranger.”

“Our country is quite conservative… girls are expected to behave like ‘proper girls,’ wear only skirts and dresses, not show strong personality...”

“I have enough freedom for self-expression in my close circle and in the digital space… but social and legal boundaries affect the level of this freedom.”

“Life here sometimes feels like reading a classical novel… the quiet joy of simple moments, like drinking tea while listening to the rain.”

“Learn to say ‘no.’ You do not owe everything to everyone… Do not be afraid to be different. Your uniqueness will make you interesting.”

2. Maiya X., 14, Russia

Maiya attends online school, spending free time in music, literature, and cultural exploration. Russian society places heavy expectations on achievement and conformity, yet She dreams of sun, warmth, and freedom in countries like Italy or Spain.

Maiya reflects on Russian youth culture: “Our coldness and closed-off nature surprises outsiders. Life often feels competitive and unfair, but literature, music, and art teach us patience, flexibility, and the value of beauty.”

Statements from Maiya, Directly Translated:

“Life here resembles reading a classical novel… behind everyday life lies a philosophical search for truth and the quiet joy of simple moments.”

“I want to be able to just be myself… like the quote from Catch the Wave: ‘Cody — the slacker, Cody this, Cody that… Cody is me, bro. Let me be myself!’”

“Our directness and emotionality… some people think we do not smile for no reason, but we build very genuine friendships.”

---

 Strange names lead to strange expectations — and she intends to exceed them all. As a child, she dreamed of being a poet, a villain on the side, and an infamous, impressionable pirate. She conquers the world with her heart. Instagram: @yulinni_ 

A Date With Death.

 A DATE WITH DEATH ; The Original Draft

What begins as rebellion becomes routine — a slow romance with decay, a momentary escape from the weight of being.

By: Drusilla U.

    The delicate, weightless gasp of our souls’ exhale — fleeting, beautiful, already fading.
The rising smoke hugs your chapped lips, ripped and torn at the seams, dried blood clinging to the cracks — a stark, anxious reminder that you’re wounded.
Yet you no longer feel the wounds. They simply exist: concrete, undeniable, but distant from lived reality. So far removed from consciousness.

Perhaps we’ve all quietly agreed to condone the constant harm we put our bodies through — the small violences disguised as pleasure.
Once pure. Untouched. A perfect vessel.
We taint it slowly, quickening the pace of death because it feels good. It feels real. Something that feels this good couldn’t possibly cause that much harm, could it?

You only live once.
It’s just a rite of passage — a ritual of youth, they say.
Are you really a college student if you aren’t drinking? Smoking? Partying?

You sit alone, cradling a book, clinging to your homework like a lifeline — because it is. The only way not to let yourself or your family down.
But on nights when others laugh, post, and glow under neon lights, you feel that ache.
The quiet jealousy.
You insist you don’t want it, but you do — the illusion of freedom.

What you don’t see are the hollow eyes behind those smiles.
The way those “friends” cling to one another like leeches — enabling, numbing, erasing.
Not always, of course, but often enough.
Sometimes a drinking buddy is but a drinking buddy.

Smoking.

My throat tightens at the thought of my younger self watching me fiddle with this small, dual-colored stick that reeks of tobacco.
It fits perfectly between my fingers.
I play with it like a toy.
I tell myself I control it. It doesn’t control me.

But then I see her — that younger me — covering her dolls’ eyes at the sight of who I’ve become.

She doesn’t know yet what it took to get here.
The smoke isn’t the true horror; it’s only the symptom, the visible scar.
Look closer: the hollow eyes, the faded expression, the tangled hair, the smile that tries too hard.
My soul screams while my mind consumes my body like an incurable disease.

Smoking begins as rebellion, becomes ritual, then routine.
What starts as curiosity transforms into dependency — a lover that holds you, chokes you, promises comfort, and delivers decay.
At first, it’s just a kiss. Then a fling. Then something more intimate, intoxicating, binding.
You wake up one day and realize: you’ve entered a pact with death.
A slow, hedonistic, deceptively peaceful suicide.

You make this cycle of self-destruction feel familiar — so routine that it becomes a place you call home, even though it’s not a refuge.
That dizzy, fleeting high. The burn in your throat. The ache in your chest.
It’s not even exciting anymore — it’s familiar.
Forever chasing that first high — the one that lied, said you were invincible.
Now, it’s the only thing that feels real.
You’re caught in smoking’s grasp, a trap you can’t escape.

When I smoke, I feel the world dissolve — its edges blur, its weight forgotten. 

I’m sinking, yet floating. High on this cloud. 

There’s a hum behind my eyes; my brain loosens, as if a knot has quietly come undone. 

The streetlights flicker. The air thickens. Nothing matters anymore. 

Hum…

 Just this breath. Just this moment. 

Me and the night — unreal, but almost perfect. 

I’m on a date with Death.

You can never go back to Earth once you’ve had a taste of Mars.

He’ll ease your strain.

You’ll be waiting in vain.

I got nothing for you to gain.

I once promised myself I’d never smoke.
I remember my first kiss with a cigarette — my first taste of rebellion, my first betrayal of self.

It was night.
Mom was driving, and her friend’s purse sat on the seat beside me.
The city lights were sharp, cold, metallic.
I was fifteen — invincible, restless, ready to devour the world.

My hand slipped into the purse. Marlboro Gold.
Three would be enough.
She wouldn’t notice.

I didn’t know then that the smallest acts of rebellion can become the biggest chains.
Because smoking isn’t just an addiction to nicotine.
It’s an addiction to illusion — the illusion of control, of calm, of maturity.

It’s wanting to forget that you exist, if only for a moment.

To blur the borders between body and air.

Sometimes, we don’t smoke to feel alive.

We smoke to forget that we are.

And sometimes, we smoke to feel anything at all.