Growing up, my family gathered every Friday night for a simple dinner of chicken, rice, and challah. We said basic Jewish prayers to welcome Shabbat, but this gathering was rooted in family, not organized religion. My grandparents, who immigrated to the United States at the turn of the 20th century fleeing pogroms in the Russian Empire (we are not sure exactly where), joined us each Friday night until their deaths. This Friday night dinner differentiated us from the other kids in our public school near Boston; for other students, Friday night was occupied by high school basketball games or other social outings. Seemingly the only thing connecting my grandparents to their old lives was their participation in Workmen’s Circle, a Yiddish-speaking secular socialist mutual aid organization. But stories of my grandparents’ life under Russian rule, the boat journey to the US, and their language never reached our dinner table. Now, my mother sends weekly pictures of the Friday night dinner she prepares for her grandchildren to our family chat; the tradition continues, even though we cannot trace our specific family lineage backwards. I continue this tradition in Brooklyn, where I host Friday night dinner in my apartment with friends of all faiths; my Palestinian friend shares his family’s version of chicken and rice (makloubeh) while other friends bring tofu dishes, curries, or chocolate desserts.  Sometimes, my Sudanese neighbors from downstairs will share lentil soup and rice the family prepares after returning from juma prayer, as we all create an inclusive NYC together.

– S

Relationship:  Grandchild of im/migrant Grandchild of im/migrant