My great-grandmother, Miriam, was born in Romania in 1901 as the youngest of nine siblings. She grew up in a world filled with poverty, fear, and a lack of education. The family survived on simple meals of latkes and broth, often going days without enough to eat. As World War I loomed, they frequently had to hide from soldiers marching through their town.
When the war broke out in the summer of 1914, her father desperately tried to find a way to escape. Ultimately, he managed to get a one-way ticket to America for Miriam, costing $11—a staggering sum at that time. The family decided that she, being the youngest, should be the one to go. They believed America was a promised land, a place where she could thrive and carry on their traditions.
The day Miriam left in late 1914 was heart-wrenching. As they arrived at the port, she couldn’t bear to say goodbye. Clinging to her mother in tears, she felt a mix of fear and hope. With nothing but the dress she wore, she boarded the ship. A man named Jacob Levinson, who was also traveling to America, assured her parents he would look after her on the journey. With a heavy heart, she said farewell, not knowing she would never see her family again.
Jacob Levinson became my great-grandfather. Upon arriving at Ellis Island in New York, they found themselves in a shelter, knowing no one and having no resources. They were assigned jobs—Jacob worked in a printing press while Miriam became a seamstress. They toiled tirelessly until they could afford a small home in Ridgewood, Queens, a neighborhood known for its Eastern European immigrant community.
They kept their jobs to build a life together and eventually married. By 1922, they welcomed their first child, Ruth, and two years later, a second daughter, Clara. The girls attended school, learning English, a language vastly different from the Aramaic that Miriam and Jacob spoke.
Then came the Great Depression. They struggled to make ends meet, but they never lost faith in America. They felt safe and hopeful as they faced challenges together. Later, the rise of Hitler brought new fears. Miriam prayed for her family back home, longing for their safety. Sadly, they never made it to America.
As years passed, Ruth and Clara grew up and married—Ruth stayed in Queens while Clara moved to Brooklyn. Clara Levinson became my grandmother. She married my grandfather, David Salkind, who worked for the U.S. Postal Service after serving in World War II. They raised two children, Benjamin and Marlene, in Brooklyn, where Benjamin remained close to home while Marlene moved to Queens.
Marlene Salkind is my mother. Miriam and Jacob remained in Queens, working hard in their respective jobs. They never became wealthy, but they contributed to society in their own ways, and they were grateful for the opportunities America provided.
I don’t have memories of my great-grandfather, but I fondly remember my great-grandmother. She shared her story with me in her broken English, including the day she gifted me a silk pink dress—just like the one she wore on her journey to America. I was twelve at the time. She also bought my first bra when I turned thirteen and sang me a Hebrew lullaby at fifteen.
I can still picture us playing outside, cooling off with the garden hose on warm summer days, with the delicious aroma of her homemade latkes wafting through the air. I vividly recall crying when she passed away in 1989, still working as a seamstress until the end.
Fast forward twenty years, and I found myself sharing Miriam and Jacob’s story with my own children. Our family has a rich history of serving this nation through various wars—World War II, Vietnam, and Desert Storm. The legacy of immigrants fighting for America runs deeply in our blood.
Today, America looks different from the one my great-grandparents arrived in back in 1914. Their bravery and love for this country inspire me to cherish my own American identity. I wanted to instill this sense of belonging in my kids, so I started a family tradition at dinner. Each night, we take turns sharing who we kissed that day, what we had for lunch, something we learned, and one thing we are grateful for. This has been our routine since 2005 when my daughter was nine and my son was five.
Just last night, I expressed my gratitude that America hadn’t built walls in 1914 or enforced strict immigration bans—otherwise, I wouldn’t have the privilege of calling myself an American. After dinner, I rummaged through the attic and found a box labeled “The History of Emma.” As I looked through old photos of my great-grandparents, I draped Miriam’s dress across my lap.
I realized that I’m not so different from them; I’ve also sought refuge from the chaos of city life, choosing a small, welcoming town to raise my family. As I sat there, I couldn’t help but wonder about America’s future. It pains me to know it doesn’t resemble the America that Miriam and Jacob once believed in, but I hope I can find faith in it once again.
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In summary, my family’s immigrant journey reflects the resilience and hope that defines America. Through challenges and victories, we have built a legacy of love and patriotism that I am proud to pass down.
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