The smallest bite of a candy orange slice brings me back to my place on the floor leaning against the padded armrest of a comfortable chair. Zetho, my great-grandfather, John Bednar, spent most of his time in the chair after his stroke. Zetho was the closest we could come to pronouncing dedko, the Slovak word for grandfather. He and my great-grandmother lived with my grandparents in a warm, simple home in Little Rock, AR, within walking distance from my parents’ home. I considered my place on the floor a position of honor, as I was the closest to him as we watched the Ed Sullivan Show in the late 1950s. Zetho would place his left hand on my shoulder, and periodically hold out a small dish of orange slices and say “Take some.” That was most of the English he knew. I could say a few greetings in Slovak, but most of our communication consisted of smiles and hugs. That was enough. I knew he loved me. We never had a conversation or talked about the conditions that caused him to move from Slovakia to Hazen, AR, and then Little Rock. He often read Jednota, the Slovak-language newspaper published out of Middletown, PA, that linked him to Slovak communities across the U.S. As a child I often looked through the pages of Jednota, even though I couldn't recognize a single word. It didn’t matter. I was comfortable and secure in a world where familiar sounds of an unfamiliar language filled my childhood. Over the years, I have grown close to New Orleans; yet, through an orange slice, I remain connected to Slovakia, the country that gave me the gentle man whose smile still brings me joy.

– Al Kennedy

Relationship:  Great-grandchild of im/migrant or more Great-grandchild of im/migrant or more