That’s not important — I know nothing about Uzbek culture — but it’s what I used symbolically in a dream. I was on a train, and I watched a young woman dying by poison. At the end, she had seizures and flung herself through the window onto the ground outside the train. People laughed, and I realized that’s the part every viewer looks forward to (the seizures, as entertainment).

Then I was gripped by the poison. I was so surprised! I had only a few moments, felt the poison killing me, didn’t understand why it was my turn, and then acceded — said to myself, “Oh well, that’s what happens when you’re an Uzbek.”

Awake, I think I was dreaming about the power of belonging. We don’t know who we are unless we’re a member of something. Since my “something” gave me a reduced and lonely idea of myself, I’m still struggling to withdraw my identity from that small group (my Uzbekistan, my family).

Do I — do I — agree with my local culture? Is it okay for me to belong in something like a group that administers death and laughs? No. I have to shift some of my identification out of my group and onto myself.

Especially since I come from a group that barely registered my reality, it’s a challenge. I’m still pale, compared to my vivid awareness of them. I need to pay more attention to my feelings, what makes sense to me, what I prefer — and then trust those perceptions, base my life on them. The hardest part is believing me instead of the group will. I think it’s an act of faith, and practice (making it familiar) will help.

I’m starting to believe I’m not an Uzbek. I need to get off that train.