Why I'm Teaching My Son Russian

Hi I’m Taty, or Tatyana - the painter and multidisciplinary artist behind tatyfairy. Most of you already know that because you know me, but sometimes identity can get lost in the sauce. Growing up as a Russian immigrant in the American South, I hated my name: Tatyana. It felt like such a mouthful in English.

I begged my teachers to call me Tanya. (As we Eastern Europeans know, that’s our at-home name anyways.) Later, after a 11 years of “TAN-ya” and “TONE-ya,” I decided to go back to just saying “Tatyana” when asked for my name as I went to art school in up north, in Philly. “Taty” came naturally as friends affectionately shortened it.

I never put much stock in my Russian heritage, I just was. When I had my son in May 2025, I knew I wanted to teach him my mother tongue. But with the war going on and waves of shame like stones on my empath heart, I wondered, why?

It was hard enough to just speak out loud to a newborn when they don’t respond and you’re running on maybe two hours of uninterrupted sleep. Speaking aloud at all — especially speaking Russian — became more acutely a choice I would have to make daily, every moment, instead of second nature.

I was no longer the kid with adults all around, immigrants who’d been raised in the USSR and spoke Russian to each other at family gatherings. I was the adult now - and it was up to me and me alone if this child would understand our language. Though my husband had been learning Russian for the last four years, it would largely be on me to make it happen.

I felt like I needed a stronger why, and more support, deeper support. I began to seek it, and to pray. I began speaking to my ancestors, asking for support.

The result was overwhelming. Instead of just an opening of my throat chakra, it was an eruption in my root creating a golden cord connecting me to all those who came before. First, it was my late uncle, who became my guide through his books of poetry in games I’d play by closing my eyes and flipping to a page, then reading whatever line my finger landed on. It always made sense. Then it grew deeper — my grandparents, their parents. Their parents’ parents. continued in comments

I needed to know where we came from, who we were before the Russian Empire swallowed our ethnic peoples and, later, the Soviet Union folded so many distinct identities into one. I needed to see beyond the labels of “good guy” and “bad guy” and find that golden thread in our lineage that was truly worthy of passing on.

This practice has now become inseparable from my work, and sharing so vulnerably is scary to me, no matter how free my spirit. Sometimes I think the people who seem the most free and open have the most fear of showing their deepest selves. It’s easier to be a sparkly light in others’ lives when they don’t see the weight you carry.

But that weight is what makes us, what builds the foundation of the temple to our souls and the home our hearts make. I get to choose what I pass on to my son, but first I need to become the fullness of that world, the world of my ancestors, so that I know he won’t just get my scraps.