A sledge hammer driving railroadspikes into tracks. That's how my fatherbends Russian.Thirty-two years in the country I call my homeis not enough time for his Syrian tongue to slitheraround the Cyrillic alphabet.Among its rolling sounds and letterswith too many squiggles and tails, my fatherstill feels a foreigner. A hyenabathing in the Neva river. A kingwith no crown or throne.□How do we rate the perfection of language?I've been told my English is perfectcountless times. The accent is flawless— not fully gone but just enough of it left to keeppeople wondering about my origin.Five rubles tossed into a wishing wellfilled with cents— in America, people welcome meas long as my voice entertains.□I feel Russian dangling from my tonsils,but when I channel my firstborn tongue,my mother cries out in what I hear as perfection,the rumbling language of those left behind.You sound like a foreignerwho knows Russian really really well.Посмотри, что со мной сделала Америка.Then look at what Russia did to my father.From years of casting the steelof nonnative vocabulary, we moldedour own versions of accents.With conjugations that choke my father's neckand lax vowels skewing my jaw, listen to our mouthsjoin the choir of second-hand syllables.Hear them grow louder.Get ready to misunderstand.