Reflections from the Wonder Wheel
Alix Stseryna
→MFA D+M 2027
Wonder Wheel at sunset, Luna Park, Coney Island
I wrote this essay when I was a nineteen-year-old exchange student living in the United States for the first time and working as a legal assistant at the Legal Aid Society in New York City. It captures my early impressions of America—formed at the intersection of my background in Belarus, my daily exposure to the U.S. justice system through my internship, and the overwhelming visual and emotional contrasts I experienced in New York. The essay reflects on propaganda, fear, the pressure to conform, and the stark difference between controlled public life in Belarus and the expressive, imperfect, but open atmosphere I encountered in the U.S. The photographs mirror this contrast. The bright, spectacular Wonder Wheel of Coney Island stands opposite an image I took in front of Pishchalawski Castle—a fortress-like prison in Minsk tied to a long history of political repression. During Stalin’s Great Purge in 1937, it became one of the central sites of the “Night of the Murdered Poets,” when Belarusian writers, artists, scholars, and cultural figures were executed in its underground cells. Today, photographing prisons or detention facilities in Belarus remains unsafe and can lead to serious consequences. I managed to take this picture only because two stray cats happened to be sitting directly in front of the gates.
I photographed the cats, and only later realized how eerily soft that moment felt against the backdrop of a place built on fear, secrecy, and erasure. Three years later, rereading this essay feels different. At the time I wrote it, I could not imagine ever returning to Belarus—yet this summer, due to unexpected circumstances, I found myself there again for a long stretch of time. Belarus has grown even more repressive. The state of democracy and freedom of speech in America is changing as well, in a way that reminds me of my home. I now understand much more clearly how deeply an environment shapes a person: their sense of safety, their future, even their access to their own emotions. And yet, despite everything that has changed, I’m struck by how accurately my nineteen-year-old self managed to articulate what I felt in those early months. What follows is the perspective I had then—unfiltered, immediate, and written from within that first, overwhelming encounter with a world so different from the one I grew up in.
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About a month ago, I visited an amusement park in Coney Island for the first time. I hadn’t realized how close Brighton Beach was. For this reason, I wasn’t mentally prepared for the signs in Russian, the stern faces, or the panel buildings. Gray, post-Soviet panel buildings that resemble anthills. Anthills with people inside. People-hills. When you are on the rides and getting tossed into the air, you only see two scenes: the vast waters of the North Atlantic Ocean or these people-hills. Rising several dozen meters high, your thoughts can drift far away. The sight of the bleak panel buildings brought memories of my childhood flooding back. I am from Belarus, a country where patriotic education begins at a very young age. Not from parents, but from educators and teachers. Propaganda is omnipresent: in posters, on TV, and on the radio. My parents were never fans of the dictatorship. But after their divorce, they did not pay attention to what I was told at school. By the time I was in my second year of elementary school, I had developed an idea of my country as a “small but proud power.” We sang the national anthem every morning at school. It was not that I had a clear idea of what I was proud of. Rather, we children felt united by the idea that “we are one big family, we are all the same and equal.” The message is still kind and bright to me. I never really focused on who was in power and why. When you are 6 or 7 years old, you do not care about such nuances. On April 11, 2011, a terrorist attack took place in Minsk, the capital. It was the first and the last subway terrorist attack in my country’s history. The explosive device was filled with chopped rebar, nails, and metal balls about 1.5 centimeters in diameter, with a TNT equivalent of about 5 kilograms. Fifteen people were killed and 200-400 people were injured. At the scene of the terrorist attack, the president almost instantly appeared with his 6-year-old son. A couple of days later, they found the two terrorists. They were executed. The court found no direct link between the explosives and the accused. No motive for the crime was established. Both of the accused were citizens of my country. To most Belarusians, they were indistinguishable based on their names, ancestry, skin color, or religion. They were ordinary. Everyone knew they were innocent. Everyone understood that two 25-year-old boys were executed for nothing. Everyone understood that the president would not have traveled with his young son to the scene of the crime if he had been unsure of their safety. This situation was comical. It did not seem real. It was nonsense. It was disgusting. Shortly before the incident, there was a palpable tension in the air and angry comments about the government everywhere. People whispered about it in cafés and at universities and discussed it out loud in their kitchens. It seemed everyone was talking about it, whether over the phone, in personal meetings, or just making passing remarks expressing their discontent. Peaceful protests were likely being prepared. But after the terrorist attack, full of grief, people forgot their grievances. The tragedy weighed heavily on everyone’s hearts, and the mourning overshadowed any previous discontent with the government. I was 7 years old. The situation was so obvious that even a child could collate the data and come up with a logical answer. I remember when my mother, with a blank stare and trembling hands, told me, “You need to get out of here. Do your best. Study diligently. Just grow up and live a normal life. Not here.” After that incident, my life changed drastically. Not a day went by without me studying. I did not memorize verbatim like a puppet. I analyzed all information and only absorbed what was necessary and useful. I ignored all the propaganda present in Belarusian history textbooks. I was trying to find the paths of least resistance. It was a race for grades. Maniacal attempts to leap above my head. When I say that I enjoy learning, I mean that I experience anxiety when I do not learn. Learning became a habit. Sleep deprivation and overloading work became the norm for me. Please do not misunderstand; I am not seeking pity. I am more than okay with my childhood. I am just telling you the logical chain of everything that is happening to me. Having spent a semester in New York, I feel like I have done quite well. Back home, I loved watching American TV shows, sitcoms, and teen dramas. They seemed less about perfection and more about a sense of rightness and calm. In the children’s and teen shows on Nickelodeon, the characters always seemed otherworldly: their voices were overly expressive, and their movements felt whimsical. Every scene, every backdrop, and the entire set design were wild, vibrant, and out of the ordinary. My young eyes were captivated by this idealized portrayal, this artistic chaos, and the exaggerated friendliness. It did not matter how silly the plot was or how unrealistic the scenes were. To me, taking everything into account, this portrayal felt more right, appealing, and vibrant compared to the drab realities of life. It became my cherished dream to live that way. When I got to America, I did not experience culture shock. Instead, everything made sense. No one here is trying to seem “right” or to become “idolized.” Everyone understands that there is no perfect system. Everyone is loud and no one hides their flaws. Always arguing, yelling, disputing. I have never felt the eerie, “plastic world” sensation here that I felt in Minsk. Believe me, having this feeling is unsettling. It is as if everything around is made of roughly glued fragments of the past; uniformity is the norm, and standing out draws stares. After all, in Minsk, everyone’s facial expressions are always the same, everyone has the same gait, and virtually everyone has the same style of dress. In Belarus, it is very embarrassing to look any other way because everyone will stare. This judgmental look pierces everyone. Some people like the culture that the look perpetuates, but I am not one of them. I do not blame the people of my country. They are still held down by old shackles. We still have “Lenin Street,” “Oktyabrskaya Metro Station” (in honor of the October Revolution), and “Moscow Cinema on Winner’s (of WW II) Avenue.” Echoes of the Soviet era are not just heritage; they are nostalgia for the older generation. Younger generations have not experienced life in the Soviet Union. Belarus is a haven for old generations to indulge in the memories of their youth. These people did not live free and do not want others to live free. This is not the case in New York. No one here is perfect, and nobody is trying to maintain a façade for the media. Nobody lives in the past. Even if they do, they do not impose their views on others. Even if someone tried to do so, they would be rebuffed.
I am interning with the Legal Aid Society. Every day, I witness people fighting for their rights and well-being. I see the efforts made to empathize, to assist, and to understand the issues at hand. No matter what is happening or who is involved, we strive to be humane and compassionate. I have seen firsthand that alleged criminals are not apprehended without proper evidence and denied due process here. There is no rush to judgment, no mob justice. Every piece of evidence is weighed carefully, and no one is handed a death sentence without extensive deliberation and investigation. The value of human life is deeply respected here. Imperfections make us human. I like the rough edges of people’s souls. I find it intriguing to observe how people react to scandals such as the Facebook data privacy issues or the Wells Fargo account fraud. It is fascinating to see the range of emotions, from disbelief and anger to concern and demands for justice, that such events trigger amongst the masses. I do not place myself on a pedestal or claim moral superiority. Instead, I cherish freedom of speech and find solace in the fact that people can engage in discussions without the fear of being imprisoned for their views. I am fascinated by New York teenagers reveling in consumer culture, whether it’s their obsession with the latest iPhone release, their fervor for brand-name sneakers like Yeezys or Jordans, or their dedication to following influencers and trends on TikTok and Instagram. I enjoy seeing elderly people on the streets calling every person in their neighborhood just to ask how they are doing. I see hope in all the evening smiles and all the frowny faces of a rainy morning. Out of this variety of human experience, something real is born. Idealism can give birth to more cruelty, but to me, apathy and lack of emotion are worse than depression, rage, or ennui. That is my view of the world. It is a small piece of the backstory of my “growing up.” As soon as that last thought crossed my mind, my body began its descent amidst the sounds of screaming children nearby. The amusement ride came to an end. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the height that terrified me, but the surge of memories it invoked.
Two cats sitting in front of the Pishchalawski Castle, Minsk
Alix Stseryna is multifunctionally confused, but still determined.