Although I never had a bar mitzvah, I occasionally attended temple and almost always celebrated the Jewish holidays when growing up. My mother learned a lot of Jewish traditions and practices from her mother, which were then brought into our household. My maternal grandmother Grete, or “Gigi” as we called her, (pictured below in the center) was an Austrian Jew who immigrated to London and then the United States during the Holocaust. My grandmother gave the Seder plate pictured below to our family; consequently, it always reminds me of her.

The Seder plate, as pictured below, holds each of the six symbolic foods of the Passover tradition. The bitter herbs represent the bitterness and harshness of the slavery the Hebrews endured in Egypt. The charoset, a mixture of apples, cinnamon and chopped nuts, is a symbolic representation of the mortar the Jews used to lay in between the stones of the pyramids. As a young child I never payed much attention to the specifics of each tradition, such as the meaning of each Seder plate item, but as I grew older I began to.

Plenty of traditions went into the celebration of Passover. Every year my family and I would go over the story of Passover. Typically my mother or uncle would read short prayers translated into English from Hebrew. Everybody would listen while seated around the dinner table on soft cushions, which signify our luxury as free people in comparison to the Jewish slaves.

After prayer we would eat. The favorites among my family were my grandmother’s heavenly brisket and the charoset. I remember as a kid loving Passover because I was always a big fan of steak. The adults typically drank wine, a glass of which was left in the center of the table. This was accompanied by leaving open the front door to invite in the good presence of the ghost of prophet Elijah. The favorite part of the Passover tradition among the kids, was the hunt for the afikoman, a piece of matzo wrapped in cloth and hidden somewhere around the house. As many people know, the Jewish population eats unleavened bread (matzo) on Passover because the slaves were not able to bring yeast with them on their escape from Egypt and thus could only bake matzo. The finder of the afikoman receives a reward. In our case this was often $10 or $20, which is a lot of money for a small child, and a nice bonus for a young adult.

The main reason all these traditions were such a big part of my childhood and are continually celebrated by family is my grandmother Gigi. Despite German efforts during world war two, Jewish culture has survived in my family through Gigi and my mother. We carry out these traditions for many reasons; they’re fun, they’re an important part of our culture and perhaps most importantly, they honor my grandmother. Although she died of cancer when I was just seven, I remember her fairly well. She was an extremely kind woman and I always looked forward to seeing her either at my own house or my grandparents’ apartment in Yonkers. The Seder plate given to us by my grandmother and the traditions we carry out help to preserve the Jewish element of our culture and honor my wonderful grandmother Gigi.

My Family and I. Gigi is in the center holding my sister and I’m on the bottom holding my mother’s leg.

The seder plate Gigi gave to us.

One of the most recognizable Jewish artifacts, the mezuzah is an important part of Jewish culture. It is placed on the side of the doorway, usually slanted, and generally contains a small passage from the Torah (התורה). Its purpose is to signify a Jewish home. While many Orthodox homes and synagogues have mezuzahs even on interior doors, more “modern” sects of Judaism, such as Conservative Judaism, only require that a mezuzah be on the front door. In other cases, some families may not always adhere to Jewish customs (i.e. keeping Kosher, observing the Sabbath, etc.), but place one on their doorposts anyway to identify with their roots. In either case, it is generally Jewish tradition to place one’s fingers on the mezuzah and kiss them when passing through a doorway with a mezuzah on it.

As my grandmother, Anita, came to the United States during a great wave of immigration a century ago, her identity as a Jew was invaluable. While she came before the onslaught of the Holocaust, turmoil was already occurring in the Eastern European region as early as the 1920s, as a result of radical factions and struggles in the continent after World War I. In America, Anita kept a Kosher home and was more faithful to Jewish tradition. As a result, keeping a mezuzah in the house was extremely important. While I do not know if she kept a mezuzah in all the doorways of our house, we currently still keep one by the front door and by the back door, even though we are not as adherent to religious laws.

In general, it was always an identifying symbol of a Jewish household. However, particularly during the wave of Jewish immigrants and, not too much later, the Holocaust, it served as a bond between a community—whether building up in another country or trying to survive in their home country (interestingly, Germany had one of the largest Jewish populations in Europe before the Holocaust).

***Below are two photos I also uploaded to the Tenement Museum Website.***

Upper: My great-grandmother, Malka (Hebrew for “Queen”), for whom my father, Michael (Melech, Hebrew for “King”), was named.

Lower: The mezuzah on my own front door.

My great grandmother, Rebecca Weidess Chandler, was a collector of clocks. She lived from 1907 until 2007. Her side of the family was of British descent. They immigrated to Virginia in the 1700’s to start a new life in the colonies. Their original surname was “Whitehurst” but was later changed to a slang-sounding “Weidess”. I figured that this was a natural change due to family members adopting a southern vernacular, however my grandmother informed me of the real reason. The Whitehurst’s in England still revered King George, while the Whitehurst’s in America wanted to split away from his rule. The name change was a separation from any family that didn’t share the colonist ideologies.

In her one hundred years of life, Rebecca acquired many different types of clocks, whether they were pendulum or “coocoo” clocks. My grandmother (her daughter) tells me that in her childhood house the clocks would sound every hour, and at night you were lucky to sleep through any of the loud, pulsing bell tones. After my great grandmother died, she passed on all of her clocks to my grandmother, who made sure to take care of them to keep them in working condition.

One clock in particular was given to my family to keep in our house. This clock is special, because it was custom made for Rebecca with mahogany wood. There is a string inside that controls the chiming every hour. To make the clock sound every 60 minutes, the string must be pulled down. Otherwise, it will tick silently. My family, who appreciated the history but not the noises, elected to not pull the string down. All of my life I have never heard the clock chime, and who knows if it would even work if we tried to pull it today. Even though I’ve never heard the clock sound, I’ve imagined what it would sound like. The bell inside is fairly large, so I’d imagine that it would have a deep, rich, swinging tone. Noise aside, the clock itself hanging in my parent’s dining room always reminds me of my great grandmother. I can vividly picture her house with clocks in every room, chiming all at the same time…driving some people crazy, but providing a sense of stability and calmness for Rebecca.

On August 19, 1943, my great-grandparents married in a mosque in Punjab. That summer, my great-grandfather worked diligently as owner of the Coca Cola facility in India to save 100 rupees and buy my great-grandmother a wedding present. Back then a gram of gold only cost 10 rupees, but now costs around 3000 rupees for the same amount. My great-grandfather bought his wife a 10-gram, 7-carat gold necklace adorned with diamonds. In 1944 they gave birth to a beautiful Aziz Fatima, my beloved grandmother. In 1947, the partition of India caused havoc among Hindus and Muslims, and my great-grandmother tragically died four years after her marriage in a bloody riot between the two religious sects. My great-grandfather cherished the gold necklace until 1961, when my grandmother married my grandfather in Al-Madinah, Saudi Arabia. My grandmother proudly wore the necklace as a link to her past and her sole connection to her mother. On December 20, 1995, my grandmother placed the beautiful necklace on my mother’s neck as she recalled memories of the cherished family heirloom. According to my mother, “I felt the love from my grandmother and mother when I wore that necklace, and it gave me the confidence I needed for the big day.”
I am the next person in line to receive that necklace, the fourth generation in our family. The necklace serves as a reminder of my roots and precious memories of my beloved grandmother. The necklace is over seventy years old, yet remains in style today as an antique piece of jewelry. In traditional South Asian and Middle Eastern cultures, families pass down sets of gold jewelry from generation to generation, most of which are traditionally worn at the wedding. Our weddings consist of three days of celebration, with the second day as the actual wedding day. My great-grandmother set the precedent to wear the necklace on the second day to match the traditional red and gold bridal dress. The necklace set motivates our family to retain the traditional Pakistani and Arabic wedding ceremony and ritual, even in America.
When my mother immigrated to America in 2000, she kept the necklace in a case with a lock and key. The necklace set was the most valuable item to my mother because it served as a connection between our new home and our native homes, i.e. Punjab, India, and Saudi Arabia. It reminds us of the family, culture, and traditions we left behind, but the memories we cherish will always travel along with us.
The sentimental value of the jewelry depends on the story, not the actual price of the gold or diamonds. Each story evokes a memory on our past because it reminds the recipient of the giver. When my mother opened the jewelry box of the necklace set to show me the heirloom, she instantly flashed back to wonderful memories of her mother and her wedding ceremony. The feeling, the luster, and the colors of the necklace brought tears to my mothers’ eyes.

An object that conjures increased sentimentality, pride, and allure inside of my household is none other than the velikku(a golden oil lamp) that sits on top of the mantelpiece. A couple of rosary beads usually sit on the base of the lamp because we use them often while our family prays in the evening.

The practice of using velikku’s is largely native to Southern India, specifically Kerala, where my parents were born. In 2004, my parents and I went to India for the first time since my parents left Kerala in 1993. We stayed for the majority of the trip at my father’s house in Changanasherry but we also spent some time at my mother’s house in Arpookara. In the evening, I distinctly remember seeing my grandmother lighting the velikku with a theepetti(a matchbox) and as a result, the living room was illuminated and there was no need to turn on the lights in the house with a simple click of the lightswitch. The velikku remained illuminated until the entire family ate together, prayed together, and went to bed.

Before my parents and I were about to return to the U.S, I remember my grandmother giving my father a velikku that his family used to use when his nine brothers and sisters were all under one roof. She said, “Please bring this back with you and have your children pray every day; pass down our Catholic traditions and Malayalam culture on to your children as well.” My dad took the velikku, packaged it well, and put it inside one of our suitcases to bring back home with us.

To this day, the velikku has been sitting in the same location where my dad placed it eleven years ago. It must be why it is so difficult to move to another location because it is firmly placed on top of the mantelpiece.

The velikku that stands on top of the mantelpiece robustly stands as a testament to our proud Catholic tradition. My father always used to tell me that we categorize ourselves as St. Thomas Syro Malabar Catholics, meaning that our ancestors two thousand years ago were one of the seven families converted by St. Thomas. Originally Brahmins, they accepted the Catholic faith willingly and the tradition of Catholicism has been maintained since that time. Symbolically, the velikku stands for our Catholic tradition that has been maintained for about two thousand years, it helps us vicariously celebrate our Catholic faith with our fellow Syro Malabar Catholics spread throughout the world, and it reminds my parents of a simpler life they had back in Kerala with their family.

My father’s mother died when he was fifteen. She had had uterine cancer several years before and it came back, metastasizing to her bones. For months, my father administered his mother’s chemotherapy shots everyday. I don’t really know why this responsibility fell upon his fourteen year old self, since  he had a brother seven years older than him and his father was retired and always home. When I had cancer, I had to get a hormone shot every month for nine months as part of my treatment. Because my father worked more flexible hours than my mother, he always went with me to the oncologist. Looking in his eyes, I could tell those appointments brought back memories of his mother’s illness. It was definitely harder for him than it was for me.

Ten years after his mother’s death, my father had left college and decided to move to America to join my mother. His father had also died by then, and, having only a small salary from his work at an illegal printing press producing and distributing anti-communist literature, he had trouble obtaining the funds he needed to buy a plane ticket and pay the bureaucratic fees (and possibly bribes) to obtain a passport. The only possession of any significant worth he had was a ring that had belonged to his mother. It had a delicate gold band, and a small round magenta stone. It was one of the only things he had left from his mother, but he would have to sell it.

Luckily, my mother’s mother decided to help my father out by buying the ring. He moved to America and married my mother a few years later. They lived in apartment with my grandmother for several years before moving to their own place across the street. My maternal grandmother has worn the ring on her finger every day for the past two and a half decades, and throughout her own battle with cancer ten years ago. Though my parents no longer live with her, she is at their house every day, and I was raised mostly by her as my parents both worked long hours. My father calls her Mama.

Ever since I was a toddler, my parents always made sure I had a piece of red thread tied around my ankle or wrist. My mother and father fled Ukraine and Moldova respectively to escape religious persecution. They vowed that they would freely celebrate their Jewish heritage, for the first time, when they came to Brooklyn. The red thread is a talisman in Kabbalah that is said to protect someone from the “evil eye”. It’s an old Jewish mystic concept but it’s been central to my identity and growth as a child of immigrants.

When I was younger, I always hated having the string tied around my wrist. Whenever I felt stressed or angry, I would displace my frustrations toward the string. I remember trying to rip it apart, piece-by-piece. Other times, if I started to notice that it was wearing down, I would try to purposefully get it caught on something sharp so that it would be ripped apart. It was weird having this tight piece of string clinging relentlessly to my skin and leaving indentations. I felt that it was holding me back.

No matter how many times the string would break, though, my mother would always notice within a few days of its disappearance. She would lead me into the kitchen and sit me down. Then she would walk over to the kitchen drawers and pull out a Copenhagen Butter Cookies tin. I always hated the metal clink of the tin banging onto the kitchen table. When the lid was removed, a sewing set was revealed. She ran her fingers along the vibrant greens, blues, purples, and stopped at the reds. She pulled out a cylinder of crimson red string and started working her magic. Her delicate fingers quickly wrapped multiple layers of string around my wrist. When I got a bit older and started complaining about how tight the string was, she would have me keep my index and middle finger underneath to leave extra room for my wrist to breathe. She knotted the ends, each time tighter and stronger than the last. Then she would lick her fingers, and wet the ends so that they stayed together. Eventually she would pull out a big pair of scissors and cut the remaining thread off. As much I hated the thread when I was younger, having a brand new bracelet was always interesting. It was bright, free of lint, and a change of pace. When things at school seemed stagnant (as they often do in elementary school), it was something that symbolized progression.

As I grew and became more cynical, I started to refuse wearing the thread. I think I went two years having a free wrist. My life didn’t change all that much. I wasn’t any more susceptible to the “evil eye” than when I wore the thread.

A few weeks ago I came home to visit my parents. I’m not really sure why, but I asked my mom to tie the string around me. I just knew that I kind of missed it. Even if I don’t believe in its mystical protective powers, it does give me a sense of safety. When I look down or fumble around with it, I think of my parents and my heritage. I think of what they had to go through so that I can walk around carelessly with a red string tied around my wrist. I think about all the complicated superstitions and rituals I had to perform daily to avoid all sorts of imagined perils, and I can’t help but chuckle to myself.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop wearing red strings again.

Left hand decked out in Kabbalah bracelet if you look closely, also trendy Judo-Slav patterned pillowcase/ trendy Judo-Slav dad

My great grandfather, Koho Higa, came to America in 1913 on the Shinyo Maru. As my grandma’s sister puts it, his dream when he first came to America was to make “a pocketful of money and return to Okinawa, but instead, he was blessed with a pocketful of nine wonderful babies”. Therefore, he brought little in terms of physical possessions. Six years after Koho arrived, and after divorcing his first wife, he married Koho Nakao by proxy. These marriages, arranged through an exchange of photographs, were often among young people from the same village, whose families knew each other. There was sometimes deception within this process though. In the case of my great grandmother, she was looking forward to living in the huge house in a photograph sent by my great grandfather, but it turned out that he only worked there as a yard man. Kana also was unable to bring very many personal possessions; she travelled here by way of slow boat after two years of persuasion by her mother adorning an Okinawan formal kimono, which slightly differs from the traditional Japanese kimonos. Okinawan women wore a kimono of dark colors whose only pattern was within the weave of the fabric and was typically tied at the waist by a narrow belt. The patterns on the fabric were often imitations of the indigo or blue tattoos that picture brides often wore on their hands; this was a custom which originated in the 16^th century as a precautionary measure mothers took to protect their daughters from being raped by warriors who roamed the country.

My great grandmother (Left) and my great grandfather’s sister and family (Right) before leaving for America.

Okinawa is a prefecture of Japan located in the central Ryukyus, south of Japan. Okinawan immigrants to Hawaii were often discriminated against by the Japanese immigrants who arrived there fifteen years earlier. This drew the Okinawans together and helped them cultivate a strong pride in their culture that they still pass on to their descendants to this day. My grandma and her siblings, with the exception of the youngest son, were all born in plantation camps in Hawaii. Life in the camps was hard and all the Higa children worked on the sugarcane plantations or as maids for “haole”, or Caucasian, families from a very young age in order to help their parents. The support of the Okinawan community which was imbibed with a fervent sense of pride in their Okinawan heritage helped them stay strong and overcome their times of trifle. Kana’s kimono served as a physical representation of home and the culture which filled her with the tenacity she needed to take care of her family and survive. Unfortunately, after the attack on Pearl Harbor there was little remaining of Japanese culture. My grandmother’s siblings recall running home through the sugarcane field and being swarmed by military soldiers who ransacked their houses. They were stripped of their cultural possessions, their language, and even their Japanese names. So, sadly, the kimono survives only in photographs but it serves as a memorable representation of the Okinawan culture my ancestors came from which helped them endure the hurdles of poverty and plantation life.

A great part of my immigration history, comes from my Great Grandparents on my mother’s side. My Great-Grandfather William Oldhafer came over from Germany before World War I started. Writing had always been an important part of his life, and he many times would write diaries and journal entries. In fact, when he came over to America, he worked at a print shop, to help print different literary works. In order to keep up with what was going on in his life, my Great-Grandfather had a set typewriter that he would always write on, and this object is so important in my immigration history.

When he came over to New York, William Oldhafer took very detailed accounts of his experiences here, and what he did. While he was younger, he was able to write well and keep good accounts. However, as he got older it became harder to write by hand, and he thought it would be easier if he used a typewriter. So he went out and bought one. From then on he would type mostly everything that happened in his life. In this way he was able to show how important everyday things are by showing me insight into what his life was like. This typewriter was so important, because in a sense my Great-Grandfather carried part of the family legacy. He saw how very special it would be for his descendants like his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to read what life was life for him, and what he did.

I’ve never thought about this before when I have written journal entries, but he had great insight into how significant it would be for my family to learn more about our immigration from one country to another country. For example, in one of the typed entries from August 25 1966, he tells about a trip he took with his wife to Vermont. In it, he includes different words in German, and from this I was able to see how his German culture affected his writing. Another important aspect of his writing included milestones, like the birth of my grandmother, and the birth of my mother. Without knowing it, he was documenting my family tree, and giving it life apart from set dates and facts. The typewriter gave him the means to do this, and made it more efficient for him too.

Without the typewriter, our family would not have had a more detailed account of their past, and would have lost a significant part of our heritage. I can still remember as a kid, going down to the basement and looking at the typewriter. As a kid, I thought it was just a fun object to play “history” on. I did not realize that about forty years prior, my Great-grandfather was in the same position. Now as a young adult, I can see how the typewriter was no mere “plaything,” but rather an essential part of the my immigration history, and key to keeping part of it alive.

The barong tagalog (“Tagalog dress”), or simply the barong, is a traditional Filipino men’s outfit made from hand-sewn pineapple fiber. With material similar to sheer, the barong is thin to keep men cool in the hot Filipino climate, and is usually worn for special occasions such as weddings, special masses at church, and parties. As a traditional outfit, many of my ancestors have worn barongs; my father wore one on his wedding day. When he immigrated to America, he brought a barong to wear at Filipino special occasions. Even today, he will wear it once a year to the Filipino festival of the Flores de Mayo and to any international festivals to show his heritage.

I have semi-sweet memories of the barong through my life. Every year, my parish celebrates the Flores de Mayo, a spring celebration of Our Lady of Antipolo, whom Filipinos venerate. Every May my parents made me wear the barong, which I did not enjoy. In contrast to the hot and humid Philippines, weather in New York averages 70 degrees in May. The barong’s sheer-like quality makes it a poor insulator, so every time the wind blew on the Flores de Mayo I would always shiver just a bit. I was also embarrassed by its translucence; as a child I sometimes envied the girls who got to wear opaque clothes instead of a translucent barong that would show my arms and undershirt. Because it is made from pineapple instead of cotton, the barong has a rougher texture than modern Western dress shirts. I remember every year I would joyously await the post-mass celebration, where delicious food awaited with the chance of replacing my barong with a more comfortable t-shirt.

Now that I’m older, I’ve mostly gotten over my insecurities with wearing the barong. I no longer feel cold wearing a barong in May, no longer feel embarrassed by its translucence (in fact I feel the translucence gives the barong a unique quality), and I no longer feel bothered by its texture. Instead I see it as a symbol of my heritage and a link to my ancestors. By wearing a barong I identify myself as Filipino, and I acknowledge the culture my parents grew up with and gave to me. Now that I’m slightly bigger than my dad, I can wear his old barongs instead of the boys’ barongs I grew up wearing. I think I look much better in a barong than I did when I was a child.

In the future, I intend to continue wearing the barong for special Filipino occasions or for international festivals, the way my dad does. One occasion remains, however: will I wear it to my wedding? My girlfriend says she intends to wear her mother’s wedding dress if we get married, so there’s reason for me to wear my dad’s barong to our wedding. As much as I like the barong, however, I’m a bigger fan of suits and ties. I suppose this is something I’ll decide when the time comes!

My first full time job was in Israel. I was living in Jerusalem at the time as an American immigrant. The lovely apartment that I shared with a friend, was situated right near knisa la’ir – the city entrance, only a few blocks away from the rolling hills of the Jerusalem forest. This location benefitted me greatly, since my job was in the city of Bet Shemesh, an hour-and-a-half bus commute away

Though Jerusalem winters are far less snowy than the long winters here in New York City, they are still dreary and cold. Middle Eastern busses aren’t known for their promptness, and I would spend many chilly mornings wistfully staring out over the Lifta valley leading up to Jerusalem from my bus stop on the city’s edge, searching for the first signs of the changing seasons. Most gloriously, and in classic Israeli fashion, spring would always appear in one fell swoop. Winter would creep away overnight, and in its place, spring would take hold. On the first spring morning of the year the valley’s groves of almond trees would be surprisingly bright with sweet, white blossoms poking up towards the sky, and the ground would be carpeted with red, purple and white kalaniot, the national Israeli flower. Somehow my coworkers were always happier that first day of spring; the clouds a little less thick, the grass the greenest it would be all year.

My friends and I used to hike the Jerusalem forest as often as we could during the spring. Kalaniot grew wild all over, and we would picnic among their bright blossoms, perched on little patches of sun in the forest shade. There was no need to pick them – the flower men in the Machene Yehuda shuk, the central farmer’s market, would sell bundles of the best kalaniot from the north for about a dollar. During kalania season I could split a few bundles of the flowers with my roommate and feel like a princess in my anemone-bedecked apartment, throwing open the winter shutters to let in the returning sunshine.

Once I made the decision to move to New York City, my departure happened rather too quickly. Within several months, I had sold my furniture, ended my apartment lease, and quit my job. I didn’t have too much time to think about what I would miss about my adopted country; instead, my mind was on the logistics of my move. On one of my last trips to the Jerusalem market, I paused, growing nostalgic for all the loveliness I had experienced during my time in Israel. It was quite a few months ahead of kalania season, but, on the shelf in a small pottery shop, I saw one of those sweet, bright flowers nestled in the bottom of a handmade ceramic bowl. I knew that this red kalania, painted in sure and flamboyant strokes by a Jerusalem native, was meant for me: I would bring this piece of spring back to the United States. I saw it as a talisman of hope for my future in an unfamiliar and daunting city. It would be hard to start anew, but, bright times were sure to unfold – with, I hoped, the same speed and warm surprise of a kalania after winter.

These days, I keep the kalania bowl on a special shelf in my New York apartment. On Friday nights, after the ritual candles are lit, my friends often stop by to share in the traditional Sabbath meal. Though the bowl doesn’t really match any of my other dishes, it still makes a frequent appearance on my table, the bright little kalania showing its face as soon as the food is finished. I often find myself lingering over the flower as I wash the dishes once everyone has left, remembering the Jerusalem forest carpeted in anemones, and appreciating the promise of a sudden, glowing spring.

A 360 degree view on Google Maps of the a picnic spot near my bus stop.

It was a beautiful spring day. The sun was glistening; a beautiful breeze danced through the trees, and the grass was a vibrant green that made the whole backyard sparkle. My parents were sitting in chairs on the deck, and I was lying on the grass next to my dog, Yodle. I had my head propped up on his belly, and it was precariously placed on top of the schmatta.

Fast-forward to three years later, when I came down with strep throat in second grade. I was sick in bed, and my mother handed me a schmatta to hold and lay with. Later that year, I had a bad dream and was sobbing, so my mother gave me a schmatta to squeeze and cuddle next to me. I remember the word schmatta used a lot when we went to my grandmother’s apartment in Brooklyn, especially as a young girl. We used it in my house as well, but even more so in my grandmother’s.

My grandma Ingrid immigrated to the United States with my great-grandmother, whom I call Mutti in 1940. They came here from Vienna, Austria just before the Holocaust had begun. My great-grandfather was put in a concentration camp, but eventually escaped to Poland and joined my grandmother and Mutti here in America in 1945. With just a few belongings, they packed their lives up from Austria into a small suitcase and set sail for America. Of these vital belongings were a couple of small cotton cloths called schmattas.

A schmatta is a small piece of thick cloth, smaller than a hand towel but larger than a washcloth. When it gets dirty, it just needs to be washed as any piece of clothing might be and it’s as good as new, but never put in the dryer (as my mother wags her finger at me). The origins of the term schmatta are Yiddish, and usually refer to old or torn pieces of clothing. However, in my family a schmatta is a multi-use object. We don’t really use it in the context of battered clothing. Our uses of schmattas are much more personal and rich in emotion. Although it may be used for cleaning, we use it as a source of comfort, as a blanket, a cover for a pillow, and anything else you might think of.

I remember as a young girl I would turn to my schmatta to help calm me down, almost like a blanket or stuffed toy some children have. I would hold it when I was sick like a teddy bear, or I would rest my head on top of it when I was ill. If I were crying or upset, I would squeeze the schmatta and hold it close to my heart. This was how my grandmother used the schmattas as well. Especially while transitioning to a new way of life in an unknown country, the schmatta provided her with a sense of ease as it did for me when I was little. The schmattas have been passed down through my great-grandmother, to my grandmother, to my mother, and to me. Surprisingly, they have endured and lasted through the years. Looking back on my childhood, I was very close with my great-grandmother. She was someone I could always talk to, and I loved her very dearly. Since we only saw her a few times a year, schmattas gave me a connection to her although we were physically not together. They are a symbol of a journey to a new life, a culture, but most importantly, a symbol of family and love.

My family object is a stock certificate that shows my Great Grandfather, George Marino, selling stock in the Sunray Oil Company, which would later become the modern day Sunoco. A share of stock is a very American idea, a symbol of capitalism ideal, and my Italian Great Grandfather’s share represented that he was truly becoming a New Yorker. New York City is home to the world’s capital of finance and the top two largest global stock markets. From 1907 to 1930 these very markets were the scenes of booms and busts that changed the history of America. This little certificate is a part of that history.

In 1907 my Great-Great Grandfather came to New York City from Bari Italy. Two years later my Great Grandfather was born. Italians found assimilation a necessity for survival in their new world, and for that reason the Italian language was lost quickly in many families, as were Italian names like Leonardo. But Italians’ struggle to fit in with the New York community paid off and eventually they were true New Yorkers who invested, raised families, and fought for their country.

As much as my Great Grandfather had learned to love his new country, he had also learned to fight for it. This Stock shows my Great grandfather sold his shares in Sunray Oil, as well as AT&T and IBM (not shown here) in order to make sure that his wife and kids had enough money while he went off to to fight in WW2 in 1944. George’s share represent the assimilation, the fear of poverty and the dream of investment, as well as the morals of a responsible family man as he chose to fight for freedom and his family’s safety. As soon as I saw this stock certificate I realized that all those stories I heard of my moral, Italian Great Grandfather, who dreamed large and sacrificed big, were real.

There is a quiet but significant story of my family’s struggle and survival in New York City in this one piece of paper. This certificate shows not only the story of my Great Grandfather, a moral man who put his family in front of his fortunes, but also the story of a city of immigrants and migrants, who lived through bust after boom and then World War II fighting for the world they dreamed they could live in when first coming to America.

The five pillars of Islam are a code that Muslims are to observe in their lifetimes. Acting as the foundation of Islam, these pillars include, taking an oath, fasting, donating, traveling for pilgrimage, as well as praying five times a day. Throughout history, a janamaz, or a prayer mat was used for praying. Originally meant to act as a clean surface, the janamaz has grown to also be a pallet of aesthetic creativity. With a kaleidoscope of colors and exotic threads depicting famous mosques and holy locations, janamazs have become a piece of art in many households.

However, the janamazs in my family represents so much more than art- specifically, our green janamaz. It was the janamaz that I’ve always wanted to pray on as a child because of the beautiful green and red patterned border and the colorful depiction of minarets and of the Kabah. My family has used that janamaz to pray, on special days like Eid as well as on ordinary days. But this janamaz serves as a ticket to my past. Though I don’t have many memories of my grandfather, sometimes I think of how he would pray on it. I remember the distinct scent that it had after my grandfather prayed on it because of his strong ittr, or perfume. I like to think that the green janamaz felt softer back then because over the years it has accumulated tears, lost many threads and generally has worn out. Perhaps the tears are a tangible representation of the hardships of my parents’ immigrations from Bangladesh to America as well as our migrations from New York to New Jersey and back.

Though the green janamaz has traveled with our family for all my life and most of my parent’s life, I am starting to see my parents use this janamaz less and less. From choosing janamazs that are not worn out to avoid embarrassment, to using new janamazs that are softer, my family seems to be moving on. But I am not! The green janamaz has a new home; my bedroom and it will always be used there, even if the family doesn’t want to. . Hopefully my little sister can see me use it and one day contemplate the importance that the janamaz had on the family. 

My object of history is a small, ceramic jar that stands on three legs. The most stylized part of the container is the lid. Sitting on top of the lid is a detailed sculpture of two white doves touching pink beaks together. On either side of them are white roses with fading green leaves.

The object that I describe before me is none other than a trinket from my mother’s home country. For the first seven years of her life, my mother lived on the island nation of Trinidad and Tobago. She would immigrate to the United States in 1973 with her sister. They would follow after my grandma who had gone five years before them. There would be an important family member left behind however. My mother’s grandmother, Maude Peterson, lived quite a ways from her grandchildren. While my mother grew up in Port of Spain, Trinidad, her grandmother lived on the neighboring island of Tobago. A trip to grandma’s house meant a three hour-long commute by ferry. However, that trip was made many times. One of the last trips though was when my mother and her younger sister went to live with their grandmother after their own mother immigrated.

During her stay there, my mother became acquainted with the curio cabinet that her grandmother owned. It contained small possessions and trinkets with the ceramic jar being one of them. That particular item had an effect on my mother, as she would end up keeping it upon leaving the country. At the age of seven, my mother would leave Trinidad and Tobago along with her sister. They anticipated seeing their mother and the new life that she had built upon immigration. However, the small jar would come along as a memento of the old life that they had, storing their memories of their grandmother.

In time, the jar came to contain newer memories. Over twenty years after my mother left Trinidad, I was born in 1996. Shortly after, the United States began circulating commemorative quarters with varying reverse sides in 1999. These reverse sides featured unique images, one for each American state and territory. A friend of my mother would give her these new coins for collection purposes. My mother had already collected many unique coins at this point. They were collected through out her life here and there. Along with the new quarters, the coins would all go in her jar.

I remember from my childhood once being shown the different coins in the jar. However, looking at it now I see that I had long forgotten the sheer variety of coinage. Taking a few of the coins out of the jar leave me with the following: 1 franc and 20 cents from Switzerland, 1 dollar and 25 cents from Jamaica, 2 pence from the UK, and 1 florin from Aruba.

More than being an interesting hobby, these coins and the jar that holds them represent a different age to me. The jar used to belong in my great-grandmother’s curio cabinet and has since been filled with coins from different points of the late 1900s. Now its come to rest in my own mother’s cabinet, so I’ll always be connected to that older generation in that way. My mother always said that the jar reminds her of her grandmother when she sees it. While I can’t have any such memories of that person, I can appreciate them better through the jar and the significance it has for my mother.

This menorah belonged to my maternal great grandparents on my grandfather’s side, Ethel Dalinka and George Levy, who both passed away before I was born. Ethel, who was born in Russia, met George when her family moved (from Russia to New Jersey and from New Jersey to New York City, where George was born). The origins of the menorah are unknown, although my grandfather says he remembers it from when he was growing up, making it over 80 years old. The menorah, a seven-branched candelabrum, is one of the oldest symbols of the Jewish faith. A Chanukah menorah, like the one my great grandparents passed down, contains nine-branches because Chanukah celebrates one day’s worth of oil lasting nine days, hence eight days of Chanukah and eight candles (excluding the Shamash). In order to light the menorah with respect to religious customs, one must start with the Shamash—the “attendant” candle—and use that to light the others. One additional candle is lit each night of Chanukah. When the candles are lit, a prayer is recited: “Ba-ruch A-tah Ado-nai E-lo-he-nu Me-lech ha-olam a-sher ki-de-sha-nu be-mitz-vo-tav ve-tzi-va-nu le-had-lik ner Chanukah”. This translates to “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to kindle the Chanukah light”. My mother recalls that her grandfather, George, was always the one who lit the menorah until he died in 1985. I can still remember lighting the menorah during my childhood with my mother and grandfather.

Unfortunately, unlike many of my fellow classmates, this was one of the only experiences with culture that I have had. I honestly had trouble completing this assignment both because this menorah is the only significant object I know of that has been passed down through my family, and because the cultural customs surrounding it are almost completely lost on me. Religion serves as a culturing factor and I was not raised in a religious household. While my Jewish mother and Catholic father celebrated the major religious holidays, I was not exposed to any sort of religious education, either from my parents or from religious institutions. Because I do not observe any religion, I can say that while this object has familial significance, it bears me no religious significance. In other words, while I greatly respect the fact that this menorah belonged to my ancestors and will be passed down in my small family until it inevitably reaches me, the soul heir, I will not use it for religious purposes like my family before me. While I remember celebrating Chanukah as a child, the cultural customs surrounding my family’s menorah will unfortunately be lost; however, it will become a symbol, both of my family’s history, and its endurance.