Category: Identity Essay submissions

I grew up in the modern orthodox community of Long Island, keeping Shabbat and kosher in modern suburban America. I had a dual curriculum in elementary and high school, half the day learning English and science and history, and half the day learning Prophets and Talmud and Hebrew. Judaism is both a religion and a historical identity, and when I was growing up, it was often hard to understand how different aspects of Judaism fit into my identity as a 21st-century girl whose family has been in America for five generations. Then, last year, I had the privilege of doing a gap year studying Jewish texts in Israel. I was living with other girls who grew up in different Jewish communities, girls who came from America, Israel, Ethiopia, and England. learning with these women I saw first hand the range of religious identity within the Jewish community.  I decided to study ספר תהילים or The Book of Psalms (pictured above).  I love poetry so Psalms was an obvious choice as it is written in verse. I took on a project to write my own poetry based on the 150 verses that the ancient King David wrote, one poem for each. Writing about my experiences in Israel helped me feel more connected to religion and spirituality and also to the people around me whose Jewish heritage was so rich and diverse. I found a place for myself within the world Jewish community, became fluent in Hebrew, made friends, prayed. You’ll notice that my book of psalms isn’t ancient. It isn’t even vintage.  But it’s the same words, with new binding. That’s what it’s like for me to be Jewish. I’m definitely a modern girl, I have new ideas and dreams and lifestyles and personality traits that would never have been accepted in the past. At the same time, David and I have the same wish to connect to other people, to reach out to higher forces in the universe, to live and love and wonder. I love that I can read a text that was written two thousand years ago and understand from it the same universal human experience that I live today. To close, I’d like to share one of the poems I wrote.

Based on verse 122

All us little American girls hold our breath at the holy city gates

Ready to become as David was sacred in the stones sacred in the holy home of old golden ages

We stand backstage ready to be the king of god’s hand

I was born a little American girl

In an era of denim and vintage picket fences

My grandpa sang in Yiddish and my grandma sang her prayers like colored scarves

She cuts her synthetic cotton in Brooklyn ir hakoidesh and they’ll probably live there the rest of their lives but I wanted to fly to the real holy city

An American girl singing the language king David sang and I brought my denim and my momma’s lyrics with me to make them holy in David’s city and find out where I’ll land

Whether I’ll stand within these golden gates or fly over the bridge where my momma grew up, make the hour drive up from San Francisco

We all made our pilgrimages to somewhere

And we take our old countries with us to make them into something new

Some hybrid ascending song whose borders touch both sides of the ocean

And I’m an American girl in a holy city I speak two, three, four languages at least if I can sing them

And I think my ancestors would want me to end up in all the places that most make me want to sing

I came here from Bangladesh when I was 2 years old, and have gone back only once when I was 4. As a result, I can only recall glimpses of some distant memories. Therefore, I found it difficult to pick an object that is meaningful to our migration as I can barely recall migrating. However, as I looked through my peers’ posts, I realized that the most meaningful objects aren’t necessarily those that stand out, but rather have stuck around for so long that you barely notice them anymore. For me this object would be the green, circular plaque that has been hanging over my bed for as long as I can remember.

The plaque has a golden border with a green interior. A verse from the Qur’an is inscribed in black letters on the green background. My parents are devout Muslims and have tried their hardest to preserve their cultural and religious background. Instead of having bed time stories like other kids, my parents would have me recite various verses and prayers before I drifted off. They told me it was meant to keep all of us safe. I also attended mosque school for a while on the weekends where I learned about our religion and how to read the Qur’an. They also taught me how to read and write in Bengali. Although I am no longer as fluent as I once was, I have been able to keep the literary parts of my heritage. My parents also found a community in their new home where they could continue to celebrate their culture with me alongside them.

As a child, once I learned how to read the Qur’an, I attempted to read the plaque that hangs over my head. I had a slow start, but I gradually picked up the pace as I realized that I have heard this verse recited hundreds of times before. This specific verse, known as Ayat al-Kursi, is believed to be among one of the most powerful and fortifies one’s belief in the greatness of God. In English it is referred to as the Throne Verse or Power of Knowledge verse, depending on the translation. It is said that simply reciting the verse places you under the protection of Allah, and therefore my parents made sure I recited it every night. It also explains how they were able to take a leap of faith by coming to a country in which they knew no one and had no family. Religion is integrated into our culture and by believing that they would be kept safe by Allah, they found the courage to ditch their lives in Bangladesh. They came to the United States seeking what every immigrant wants: a better life with greater opportunities.

The plaque has been hanging in our house for years and has woven itself into the fabric of our daily life. What fascinated me about the plaque when I was younger was how it glowed at night. It was as if it was casting a holy, green aura to keep out the evils that ail our lives and kept us safe. Of course, it glows only because of the fluorescent material the plaque consists of, but to a younger me it was much more metaphoric. Although it is unfathomable for me to understand what my parents gave up or went through to make the journey, I can say for sure that it was their faith in God that made it possible. It is thanks to this that I find myself lucky enough to have grown up immersed in both the more diverse western culture as well as my own cultural background.

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After much contemplation of which of the various objects that remind me of migration, movement, settlement, and home within my household I shall choose, I came across this tea set, which had not one specific significance, but various stories tied within it. Upon glancing at one of the most remarkable fine china sets we own, I was reminded of where it came from, who it was associated with within our family, what it meant to us, and the significance of it within our culture.

The fine china set pictured below is unique and special in regards to our migration and movement because it was originally purchased back in Saudi Arabia around 1984 by my maternal grandparents, then imported back to Pakistan when they moved back home, and was finally brought to America by my parents after they got married.

On surface level, the set was just some forgotten kitchenware packed up in a box in the basement until a few years back when we came across it during some home renovations. However, upon rediscovering the set, I was mesmerized by how beautiful it was and thought of how we now had a royal looking tea set for if we ever had the privilege of hosting some esteemed guest at our house. Typically, tea sets are essential in Pakistani households like mine, as we like to drink ‘chai’, the South Asian rendition of milk tea, when guests are over, throughout the day, breakfast, evening tea time, and sometimes even after dinner. However, upon my inquiry, my mother told me the background story to this specific set, running deeper than just some fancy teacups to add to our collection.

The tea set was originally bought by my grandparents with the intention of stowing it away along with some others to gift to their daughters upon marriage. It was one of the various items gifted to my mother by her parents upon her marriage.In a sense it was a form of dowry, but not exactly, as dowry is not a practice in Islam or Pakistan, rather one that was widely adapted among many muhajir Pakistanis from the Hindu Indian culture prior to Pakistan’s independence from India in 1947. My family comes from a Muslim Pakistani background, part of the ‘muhajir’ Pakistani population. Muhajirs, are specifically those migrants who fled persecution in India during or immediately post revolution to become a part of Pakistan as a newly independent Islamic state. My grandparents and great-grandparents among these migrants, allows for my roots to stretch to India, and makes our culture more rich, integrated and similar.

This tea set, the discovery of it as we were renovating our home here in America, and the story that came with it, make it hold a much deeper value than just fine china. Every time I look at it, I am reminded of the magic I felt when my mother sat next to me and we stared at the set together as she described its fascinating origins. It is an object purchased by my grandfather with his hard earned money as an army physician in Saudi Arabia, a reminder of their successful ‘Saudi Arabian days’ and the life they built there. The way it was gifted to my mother for her wedding serves as a reminder of my culture. Lastly, the object itself, being fine china teaware my family uses to serve ‘chai’ on special occasions makes it an object that unifies us as not only a family, but one that is deeply rooted in our culture, hard work, and especially unified, no matter what part of the world we are in- Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, or right here in America, that tea set is an essence of my pride in my culture, family, and a holistic symbol of part of my identity.

This is a picture (https://www.estatesales.net/AL/Birmingham/35205/1731738) of a sewing machine that looks similar to one of the ones that my great aunt used to have. She was one of the first people to immigrate to the United States from my mother’s side of the family. After she got here, she sponsored a bunch of my family members, including my grandmother, mother, aunt, and uncles. She got an apartment in Washington Heights and got a job as a seamstress. She also sent a sewing machine and fabric to my mother, so my mother could make her own blouses. After my mother and my aunt came to America after waiting for eight years, they went to live in her Washington Heights apartment. By today’s standards, the apartment is very large. As well as this, it is rent controlled and much cheaper than other apartments of the same size. Throughout the years, she has tried to keep it in the family so that we would not lose it to someone else. Since the apartment is so large, it was perfect for allowing my aunt and my mother to live there while they went to school. Most of my uncles were supposed to go with them and my grandmother to the United States, but they turned twenty one before it was their time to leave, so they had to wait an extra five years.

Despite this, my mother and her family still worked hard to make sure that they would be able to survive in New York City and continue to bring family members here. My mother, aunt, great aunt, and grandmother needed to work in order to make ends meet, even if it meant doing school and work at the same time. My mother was seventeen when she arrived in this country, so as well as being a high school senior she had to also work many hours. My family did not even speak English at the time, so they had to learn that on top of everything else. They were at a great disadvantage compared to others that were born here and were already fluent in the English language, but they did not let this hold them back. They did not allow others to tell them that they should not try because the world was out to get them. My great aunt kept sewing, the rest of my family kept working, until we get to the day of my mother’s wedding day. This day marks a big change in the lives of my mother and father, which is that they plan to do even bigger things together than they would apart, going beyond what the world expects of them. My great aunt made my mother’s wedding dress for that day. She built something beautiful from the ground up, using only her hands. This is the essence of my family, who built themselves from the ground up giving me, my cousins, and my brothers better lives, so that we can continue to build for the next generations.

 

The object I chose to signify my family’s experience with immigration is a photograph of my grandparents. My grandparents were originally very successful financially and deeply respected in their home town of Ahmedabad. My grandfather was a businessman, with a multitude of connections and complete financial freedom in his twenties. Although my grandmother didn’t work, she cared for her four children immensely while my grandfather was working. They were living an extremely successful life, and were deeply revered throughout their community in Ahmedabad. But, their entire lives were shattered when my grandfather had a stroke at the age of 28. My grandfather was left with half of his body completely paralyzed, and our family was stripped of all their possessions in India. Since there was no source of income for his family, my father and his three siblings worked various jobs to support themselves. Although they were able to support themselves for a few years, living in such adverse conditions was very detrimental to their health and future. As a result of these conditions, my father’s family immigrated to America and desired to utilize this opportunity to support their future families. 

Additionally, although my family immigrating to America was directly due to my grandfather’s paralysis, they persisted and worked extremely hard to better their lives. These circumstances pushed my father to constantly work and build a secure future for his siblings, and eventually me. This photograph not only represents the sacrifices my grandparents made when raising their family through adverse conditions, but also my father’s intense work ethic and passion for securing a future for my grandparents and myself in America. My father stepped up, without a father figure to always comfort him, and planted roots in America that would secure a future for his family and myself. Simply put, this photograph would not exist without the sacrifices made by my father, his siblings, and my grandparents. 

Personally, this photograph is extremely meaningful to me and paints a clear image of all the sacrifices my family has made for me. Although I am extremely grateful for the circumstances my family endured for their future, it is difficult to truly understand everything my family experienced in India. I’ve spent the majority of my life in America and lived without worrying if there was enough money for my family. To me, this photograph represents perseverance, and never succumbing to pressure despite the conditions surrounding someone. I view my family as a source of inspiration and people that can fight through any and all negative situations. My education and even outlook on life is centered on positivity, and always working hard for my future. This photograph will always convey the strong work ethic of my family, and I will cherish it for my future family. Therefore, this photograph is extremely meaningful to me and provides me motivation.

As young adults, my parents made the ultimate sacrifice in order for me and my siblings to live a better life than what they knew: They decided they had to leave their families back home in Montenegro. During the time, the Yugoslavian government was in shambles. The Serbians were marching through the Balkans committing genocide on the Muslim residents of the country. Eventually, this led to the division of Yugoslavia into the countries we know in the Balkans today. This was the conflict my parents sought to escape, and as a result, they had to leave the comfort of their rural culture to find a safe haven in a bustling city where it is easy to forget who is who and where they came from.

However, my parents were reluctant to forget the culture that raised them and made them work for greatness. As a young child, my parents made me and my siblings learn how to speak Serbo-Croatian before we began speaking English. My mother decorated the house in traditional sheep carpets and long curtains, and the glasses in her cupboard were straight from Montenegro. My father bought a cable box from Montenegro so he can continue watching the channels he knew in the language he grew up with. All of these items are significant to my family’s identity in relation to our experiences of adapting and settling into America. However, above all the other items, our traditional food is the most significant to our identity.

One story that comes to mind that shows how significant our food is to our identity is the time my friends in high school first came over to my house. We were playing basketball outside on my driveway, and after hours of shooting hoops, we were starving. But we were only freshmen with no money or job, so I invited them inside to eat the food my mom had made for my family before leaving for work. On the stove was a huge meat pie called pita and Montenegrin grilled sausage, known as cevapi. In addition to that, we had traditional goat cheese in the refrigerator along with a pepper-based condiment known as ajvar. I was excited to sit down and eat, until I realized that most of my friends were hesitant to eat the food that to them was completely foreign. Upon realizing this, I started to explain what each dish was and why it was made that way. Since I was a child, my parents always explained to me how people in Montenegro were poor farmers and herders who went by each day eating light food in the morning, and then once more at dinner, skipping lunch all together. Being herders of cattle, sheep, and goats, it was inevitable that the main ingredients in most of our dinner dishes were meat and some form of dairy. Furthermore, the Montenegrins cherished the meat they had because it brought them lots of energy to get to work on the farm the next day. After explaining to them the origins of the food, it finally clicked why my parents loved to keep the house filled with it. To them, it was a reminder of the struggles they had to go through, yet they were able to find a better life by working hard in America. Back in Montenegro, after long hard days, they sat with their families to eat the food that they produced and worked for on their own. At those times, they were proud of their work, and they treated dinner as their reward. Now, they might not grow and raise the ingredients themselves, but at the end of the day, they get excited to sit with me and my siblings and talk about their long days and hard work in order to keep us healthy and safe. To our family, the food we eat is a reminder of where we came from and how far we have come. Sharing our traditional food at dinner only further reminds us that we must work to achieve greatness the same way the people back in Montenegro worked for their dinner every night.

After having explained the food to my friends, they were still hesitant to eat. One of them said, “It looks dry and weird, I’ll just eat when I get home.” I understood my friend’s choice. After all, it was a completely new food to him, and not everyone is open to eating new things. Yet still, I couldn’t help but think, “Eh, he just really doesn’t get it.”

I have always had an affinity for pens. Ever since I was in grade school, I have collected all sorts of pens, from the free pens at information desks, to finely made fountain pens. While at my grandparents’ house, I couldn’t help but notice this bouquet of fancy pens inside a cream-colored marble pen holder, placed on the side of a desk. It contained fountain pens, and old fashioned Parker Pens. One of the pens stood out, with its light turquoise casing. As I took it out, it read “A. Gregory Tashjian: Servicing Rugs Since 1912”. I couldn’t believe it — I had heard about this business, but it’s hard to imagine something that you weren’t around to see. This pen, in an interesting way, brought this story to life.

Back in 1907, my great-great-grandfather, Krikor S. Tashjian, came from Armenia to the United States in hopes of creating a better life. He settled in Trenton, New Jersey, where he married and settled down with his wife, Aznive, my great-great-grandmother. In 1912, he founded K.S Tashjian Oriental Rugs, which still exists today, (under the name ‘Tashjian Rug Service’) and has been passed down through four generations of sons. Since my great-grandmother was his daughter, Arevag, the business was not passed down in her direction, and therefore wasn’t passed down in my direct lineage. However, this business still defines a big part of who my family is, and who I am.

Because of this business, my family grew a love for oriental rugs. When my grandmother was buying a house, one of the main criteria was that her rugs had to fit in every room. Somehow, she was able to find a house in which the dimensions of each of her rugs fit the dimensions of almost every room in the house. In fact, she didn’t have enough rugs for rooms in her new home. So, Antranig Gregory (her uncle, and the man named on the business pen) gifted her with extra rugs, and a small heart-shaped rug for her cat. 

Today, Antranig’s son, Wesley Tashjian Sr. , runs the business with his two sons Wesley Tashjian Jr. and Justin Tashjian. Wesley Sr. has been around rugs so long, that he jokes that he “was born teething on rugs.” My great-great-grandfather migrated to America to build a better life for him and his family, and that is what this pen symbolizes. The pen came from a business that is still busy and vibrant today, with many loyal customers over 100 years later.

— Sarah McKoy

     A drumbeat is universal, remains in the background while people nod their heads in a trance, guided by the drummer’s movements. This sound is produced by wood on a taut synthetic drum belly. We hear the reverberations as it waves through the material of the drum. With the geta bera, my hands are the sticks. What I produce is the only sound. It guides dancers and helps the audience anticipate the movements. It is the sound of happiness, of sadness, of all human emotion. The drum faces are both monkey and cow skin and they are tightened to the wooden base using deerskin. Like the drum, I am rooted in Sri Lankan culture. I express myself through the drums and hear the reverberations, as it waves through the materials, and waves through me.

     My connection to Sri Lanka was tenuous before I started learning the geta bera. I had not visited the country for 12 years and I found the language only in my home. Outside of this, my Sri Lankan-ness was hard to find. I didn’t care for my culture; therefore, I chose to immerse myself as a “regular kid” in America. My culture felt foreign to me and I didn’t feel like I had a connection to it. My sisters were both Sri Lankan Kandyan dancers but dancing didn’t resonate with me. Things began to change when my sisters’ dance instructors started a Sri Lankan Kandyan drumming class. At first, I had no intention to devote an hour on Sundays to learn how to play the geta bera and his showed in the sound my drum was producing. I was told by my drum instructor that my sounds were thin, lacking in character. I continued to attend classes, but I could not connect with this drum.

     It took a long flight to Sri Lanka, far away from my home to recognize what the geta bera represents. I saw the trees that made up the drum, I saw the drums at various processions, weddings, religious ceremonies, and I saw the area where my family and drum came from.

     In Sri Lanka, I attended a drum performance by the most renowned drum players and dancers in the country. Seeing and hearing them, I understood what my drum teacher meant. I was missing fullness because I was divorcing myself from my homeland to “fit in.” Since I was one of the few Sri Lankan drummers from an American program, I was invited to play alongside them, which allowed me to fully appreciate the complexity and beauty of the rhythmic bera. Although my companions and I had very different backgrounds, this drum connected us. I felt a familiar wave from the drum, I returned with movement from my fingers. My fellow drummers on each side were speaking to me with their waves. It was in that ocean I felt I finally belonged.

     The geta bera gave me a deeper connection to my homeland. This drum made me learn more about my roots, speak more Sinhalese, and most importantly be proud of my culture. Without the geta bera I would have slowly lost a part of my identity.

~Viyath Navinna