My great grandfather arrived in America in the late 19th century. Likely as he took a sigh of escape from Polish pogroms, he started to hear explosions. He ran to the train ticket office, put all his money on the counter, and told the clerk in broken English to send him on the next train he could afford.

It was the Fourth of July, the explosions were celebratory fireworks, and he had arrived on Boston Harbor. The clerk gave him a ticket to Worcester, MA, where he was taken in by the local rabbi and met my great grandmother. Then came my grandfather, my mother, and then me. All of us experienced what it means to be Jewish and American.

My great grandfather became a baker and started a chain with his newfound freedom: Liberty Bakeries. My mom’s earliest memory is watching her grandfather braid challah for his American business, swiftly and deftly. Both of my maternal great grandfathers served in the American Army in World War I and my grandfather would grow up and serve in the American Navy in World War II, subsequently attending three American universities on the GI Bill then taking over the family business. He and my grandmother raised their family of six in a beautiful home in Springfield, MA, not far from Worcester. They returned to religious observance as their children came home with crafts and practices from their Jewish day school. Their lives were filled with Jewish discovery and nurturing communities.

When all of my grandparents’ children had moved out of Springfield, my grandfather announced that he wanted their next home to be in Israel. Plans changed, and with a vague hope that the grandchildren would move to Israel eventually, they moved to a warm Jewish community in Maryland instead. Recently, my grandfather’s health began to decline and the kids began whispering about the burial plots that my grandparents had bought in Springfield. My grandmother spoke up. He should be buried in Israel, she said. They both should. He always wanted his home to be in Israel, and now it will be. My grandfather is buried in Beit Shemesh, Israel, and has been visited many times by his two grandsons who have moved as he hoped.

My siblings, my cousins, and I grew up in a country of independence, with a remarkable, long lasting freedom as Jews to live meaningful and full Jewish lives. My great grandfather started his career in this country thinking he still needed to run away. Further generations’ America, though complicated and often rife with contradictions, gave us the option to stay. If we go, we go willingly. If we stay, we may join our country’s institutions, businesses, and culture without compromising our religious identities.

I don’t think I fully grasped how lucky I am to be a Jew in America right now until last year. Continue reading →