grow up as the daughter of survivors in the 70s is to learn how to resolve your own problems. Never worry your parents — they have suffered enough for a thousand lifetimes. Always bring nachas. Only ever bring nachas.
This means finishing every last morsel of food that is put on my plate, to my beaming parents’ relief. It means swallowing my tears when I fall off a chair and break my shoulder, insisting I am fine, until a fracture is discovered hours later.
It means not running to my parents when my older, belligerent sister tells me I am adopted (I am not), or leaves me behind when she goes on the morning city bus (I walk to school that day).
I learn to do almost anything to avoid the looks of worry, despair, or consternation in their eyes when anything goes wrong.
As a third grader, I am elated to be chosen for the school’s official girls’ choir. We will travel to various local nursing homes each Friday and sing for the elderly residents, usually nostalgic Yiddish tunes or traditional Jewish songs. As a bonus, my parents smile widely when I practice in front of them, even surprising them with tunes from the alteheim. “Tumbalalaika” is their favorite, and they hum along with eyes closed.
Our first performance is at the nursing home on Coney Island Ave., a block from where I live. I am standing in formation; I am at the far left. We begin with “Shabbos Shabbos Yom Menuchah.”
My pigtails swinging, I sing loudly and proudly, giving it my all.
