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I shudder at the sight of it. I'd rather see them steal that salad than throw it away," my father bellows in consternation after witnessing the closing rituals at Wendy's.



"Pa, they do it so they can serve fresh food tomorrow," I defend the fast food employees' actions.



Despite our past four and a half years in "the Land of Plenty," my father clings to his frugality and tremendous respect for food, acquired by necessity throughout his life in the Soviet Union. The sharp contrast between my Americanized perspective and old views and habits retained by my father makes such debates a common occurrence. Besides performing all the prescribed functions of a "parental unit," my father helps me attain objectivity in my judgments by demonstrating how cultural background affects our view of situations.



Coming to the United States at the age of thirteen felt like falling into a roaring stream without any swimming skills. Dog paddling, panting, and swallowing gallons of water on the way, I learned to keep myself afloat and gradually gained experience. Cultural adaptation was not a choice--it was a survival need. Along with comic strips and smiles at supermarkets, my mind absorbed such elements of American culture as equal opportunity and self-confidence. The existence of programs such as English as a Second Language at my junior high school persuaded me that these concepts were implemented in daily life. I was thrilled that someone had toiled to ensure that foreigners like myself had the same access to education as the other students. Thus convinced of the tangibility of American beliefs, I began to deem them universal.



On the other hand, my father, a 45-year old when we arrived, still perceives reality in Soviet terms, with American customs being an exception to the rule. His comments on the news radically differ from what my American friends have to say....