Title Ideas? (historic fic comp - PLEASE HELP/REVIEW COMMENTS ANYTHING!)

Dawn erupts and chases away the lingering streaks of night. The buzzing of a fly finding relief in my air-conditioned bedroom from the sweltering July weather outside wakes me. Bleary-eyed, I notice the rays of sunshine reflected from the sky, escaping through the slit in my curtains, faintly illuminating my messy bedroom; my comforter is half on the floor, my eighth-grade school books are astray, dust lines the shelves filled with neglected books and my clothes are littered everywhere. The smell of my favourite breakfast, kasha plagues my nose and finally urges me out of bed.

"It's the day," Matushka says excitedly, her golden cross necklace swinging: a reminder of why they fled.

My half-closed eyelids open and I peer up, the sleep fading from my face. It takes a second for the fog of just waking up to lift from my brain, so when I finally understand, I splutter, then scream, and then rush to wake Batushka from his deep slumber. I shake him a few times and his eyes grudgingly open, seeing my exuberant, almost feverish looking face, and he immediately knows what today is.

Two minutes later, the television crackles to life and I am about to witness history. The pixels on the screen are exaggerated and the small box that barely takes up any space in the already small living room could have been called my most prized possession at that moment. The countdown starts, and we watch raptly, as we get closer to liftoff. A few men donning blue suits and white construction hats momentarily appear on the screen, looking at clipboards, huddled together, their heads leaning towards each other conspiratorially as if they were telling a secret. At that moment I desperately wished I were them.

"Ten," we scream, loud enough for the neighbours to hear us, although they're likely doing the same.

"One," we roar, nine seconds later as the Apollo 11 flies into the air.

A large blast of orange-tinted light trails after the huge cylindrical object determined to touch the stars. As it goes faster and higher, into the sky, it cuts through clouds, and little wisps bounce away in the shape of arrows. As the rocket hits the atmosphere, Matushka, Batushka and I collectively hold our breaths as a ring appears around the rocket, a sign of breaking through the sky. The beauty strikes something in me, and at that moment I am proud of this country.

My face goes slack with vulnerability as I whisper in Russian, "is it okay to be proud of this country?" I am neither American nor Russian in my mind and the heartbreaking fact that I cannot associate myself with either, distances me from belonging.

They look at me in shock, and then their eyes dissolve into sadness. Matushka pulls me over, and I breathe in her comforting scent as I settle into the crook of her neck. Batushka strokes my hair, and for a moment we sit in complete silence, something heavy settling over us.

I notice it in their looks at the grocery store when my parents speak Russian. Their faces twist in disgust and fear, and their eyes cut like blades. They stay away from us as if we had an invisible force field that everyone but us could see. It's never subtle but I pretend not to notice, turning my eyes to the ground, my head tilted: a forced sign of submission. Perhaps they think we're spies, which would be unsurprising considering the Cold War has everyone paranoid. They usher their children away as if we're crazed animals waiting to attack. Tensions are high in this town because we're not the only Russians settling here. We've settled in Portland with a few others who have escaped the communist regime as well, and I have found friends as if there was an invisible string of forgotten heritage tying us together. They are there when I speak Russian and my tongue turns to lead, rusty from disuse from hopes of assimilating to become more American: the cause of my tears. My Russian heritage is a different lifetime away, as we escaped to pursue the American dream, to be somewhere their religion was accepted. Something tethered me from fully becoming American, perhaps the reaction that I'd never be accepted.

"Zayat," Matushka murmurs, breaking me out of my thoughts.

Surprisingly it's Batushka who answers me. "Your Russian heritage is weaved into how we live, zayat. You'll always have it even if we live elsewhere. Our little traditions - knocking on wood and holidays like Maslenitsa will always be chained to your life, reminders of where we've come from! But, zayat, you must also remember you are American. You live in the land of the free, so don't let others limit you. We've come for a better life, so you must embrace that. Don't let the unwelcoming distract you from a dream. So unashamedly attach yourself to this country!"

By the end, Batushka is panting heavily, the passion bright in his eyes, refusing to fade. Matushka looks at him with a prideful smile and it lights up the room. She threads her fingers in my hair and shakes my head jokingly. Now I’m thinking, perhaps from another perspective. The atmosphere in the room drastically improves from the dark and inevitable mood that had somberly set over us earlier.

Four days later, in the brisk evening, dusk setting, I am clapping proudly with the rest of America as Neil Armstrong sets foot on the moon.

"One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

His crackling words reverberate in my head, as I try to mentally try to grab the elusive significance my head is so adamant on noting. Perhaps it's a milestone for not just America, but the world. We share it, regardless of where we came from, and that connects me with everyone.