After visiting the tenement museum last week with class, I was excited to speak to my grandmother about her experience, if any, with the tenements. My grandmother, second generation American, barely speaks of her past, and little is known about her childhood.
Usually my grandmother takes a good deal of prodding, and after a few words on the subject, she changes it to something more current.
This past Sunday was different though. During a biweekly visit to my grandmother’s assisted living facility, I briefly mentioned the tenement museum, and as soon as I did, she seized the opportunity to tell me about her experience with the tenements, and about her father’s story.
Her grandparents, and my great-great-grandparents, came from Eastern Europe between the 1870s and 1880s. They were the first of their family to come to the States. My great-great grandfather worked in a factory, and every nickel went to his family back home. My great-great grandfather even bought them tickets, but his parents refused to come.
They refused to speak Yiddish with their children, even though that was what was being spoken all around them. But even when my great-great grandparents could afford to move out of the tenements, they decided to stay. My grandmother speculated that they did not want to leave all of their friends and memories behind.
My grandmother frequently visited her grandparents on Cherry Street (or so she says– she is 97), and was shocked to learn about the living conditions of the tenements later on, given the fact that her grandparents lived only two in one tenement when she visited.
I  loved the tenement museum: I really got a sense of what life was like for the Eastern European Jews during the early 1900s, as well as my own family. The community that I learned about was my great-great grandparents’ community, one that my great-great grandparents refused to leave.