I was born in Toronto, Canada and, after a brief stint in Madison, Wisconsin, grew up mostly in Los Alamos, New Mexico, where my father worked as a theoretical physicist at the national laboratory — the same institution where the Manhattan Project was carried out during World War II. It was a unique environment in which to spend one's childhood; not only does the town supposedly have the highest concentration of PhDs anywhere in the U.S. (the vast majority of them in scientific fields) but northern New Mexico also boasts a spectacular and varied natural environment, alongside a rich interweaving of many cultures and a vibrant artistic and classical music scene. All of these became important influences on me.

Following high school, I attended Brandeis University in Waltham, Massachusetts. There — thinking better of my initial plans to enter the field of physics — I minored in mathematics (a nod to my math- and science-inflected childhood) but gave in to my love of reading and writing and majored in English and American Literature.

I also made the momentous decision in my sophomore year of college to begin studying the Russian language. I had always loved learning languages (I had picked up smatterings of Dutch and Chinese through childhood friendships with exchange students, and I had studied German and Spanish in school and Latin in a summer program), and I had long loved the music of Mussorgsky, Rachmaninov, Stravinsky, and Prokofiev; Russian seemed to be calling to me. Indeed, I remember vividly how, on the first day of class, we students each chose a Russian name (mine was Anya) and learned to say “Меня зовут...” (“My name is...”). When I stated my new Russian name out loud in Russian, it was as if, through the new name and the new language, I had suddenly created myself anew and tapped into a whole new identity, a new self that was formerly unrecognized and inaccessible.

I finished college a semester early and, restless and eager to experience the living Russian language and culture, in January 1990, I embarked on my first trip to the Soviet Union. After a brief orientation in Helsinki (I was participating in a semester-long study program), where, as I recall, the sun never really rose, my small group set off on a lumbering, olive green train to Moscow that was like something out of an old movie. That night at around 1 a.m., waking on my sleeping bench when the lulling motions of the train suddenly ground to a halt, I peered out the window to see a quiet dark platform, snow falling gently and softly in the early morning hush, and people moving alongside the stopped train as if in a trance. My gaze was drawn to one pair in particular, a mother and her young daughter, both dressed in fur coats and hats and fur-topped boots. They were covered in a dusting of magical snow and appeared to me like beautiful apparitions... That was my first vision of Russia, and it was the moment when I truly fell in love with the place. From that moment until February 2022, Russia, the Russian language, Russian literature, and Russian culture were at the center of my life.

The full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine has shattered countless lives, cities, and cultural and historical treasures, and it has shattered long-standing alliances, convictions, and commitments, too. Since the start of this horrific war, I have been studying the Ukrainian language intensively and learning everything I can about Ukrainian culture, literature, and history--and the center of my creative and intellectual energies has shifted. Though helpless to stop the unfolding tragedy, I am determined to use my talents, going forward, to make more Ukrainian literature available to Western audiences and bring the world's attention to the rich, deep, and varied culture of this incredibly brave and admirable nation that has lost so much.