#dad #Eid #family #YSOS #tradition #immigrant experience #NYC bangladesh Bangladeshi Catskills childhood clothing cooking cross cultural culture doner Family Family Tradition Food foodways gaming generational Holidays Identity immigration Iran jewelry Jewish New York Our Story Persian photograph pot Ramadan religion rice russian technology Tenement Museum tradition traditional Turkey Turkish wedding Your Story YSOS
Ahwenzia
My mother immigrated from Saltpond, Ghana, in West Africa, to the United States in 2000. With her, she brought my older sister, who was still in her womb, and small but meaningful accessories from Ghana. One accessory she consistently brings back to New York after visiting Ghana is a variety of beautiful waist beads, which we call “ahwenzia” in Fante. Ahwenzia consists of thread and colorful beads. It can be worn on the wrist, ankle, and waist; in Ghanaian culture, it is meant to be hidden when worn at the waist because it symbolizes femininity and fertility, but in some cultures, it is shown off. I like to think of ahwenzia as a “permanent” accessory because we measure it to fit snugly, then tie, knot, and burn the thread so it stays; it is not meant to be taken off. My mom, sister, and I all wear waist beads. I still wear ahwenzia that I started wearing about 5 to 6 years ago! Ahwenzia is a beautiful accessory that connects my family and me to our Ghanaian culture!
Your Story Our Story
For my object, I chose my father’s French passport. This passport represents more than just identification; without it, my father would not have been able to immigrate to New York City in the 1990s. As an official document, it allowed him to legally enter a new country and begin building a life there. It made it possible for him to take advantage of the opportunities that New York offers.
Over time, the meaning of this passport expanded beyond my father’s experience. It became part of my own story, as I grew up as a dual citizen of both France and the United States. This allowed me to move between New York and Paris throughout my childhood. Because of this, I came to understand that migration is not always a one-time event, but can be an ongoing and transnational process.
At the same time, this object highlights inequality. Not everyone has access to the same legal mobility. Many immigrants in New York face barriers that limit their ability to travel freely or return to their home countries. In this way, the passport represents both opportunity and unequal access.
Within the framework of the Tenement Museum’s Your Story, Our Story project, this object shows how everyday items can reveal larger social patterns. My father’s passport connects a personal family story to broader issues of migration, identity, and life in New York City.
A Family Legacy in Gold
For my special object, I chose my gold heart charm bracelet, which I hold very dearly to my heart. In June 2010, my dad, my sisters and I moved to America in hopes of a better life with financial freedom and education. Unfortunately, we had to leave my mom behind in Guyana because my parents weren’t legally married, so my grandmother couldn’t sponsor her as well. Before we moved our entire lives away without my mother, my father gave her this bracelet as a testament to his love for her. A couple of months later, my dad and I returned to Guyana for my parents’ legal marriage. After this was complete, my dad sponsored my mother, and she came to America in March 2013. Later, in 2018, my mom passed the bracelet down to me, her youngest daughter. This bracelet holds a very special place in my heart because it represents two generations sacrificing, evolving, and changing their lives for a better future. It has traveled across the ocean, existing on two separate continents while symbolizing the connection and love between my parents. It served as a connection between my mother and father through times of separation and now serves as a reminder of how far we’ve come from a little village in Guyana. To honor my family’s immigrant story, this bracelet will continue to be passed down to my daughter and granddaughter for generations to come.
The Dao – An Icon of the South Asian Kitchen
An icon of the Bengali kitchen, the dao, a sharp, machete-sized seated blade commonly used by rural housewives to cut vegetables and fish, is an incredibly important symbol of Bengali village culture and is a part of Bangladesh that my parents did not leave behind when they made the voyage to this country some 20 years ago.
The dao is a long, curved iron blade that is seated on a flat plank of wood or short iron tripod, and is used by squatting behind it and driving meat or vegetables into the blade in a pulling motion. Unlike in Western kitchens where food is prepared standing up, all food in traditional Bengali kitchens is prepared in a squatted position over a dao and an outdoor wood-fired stove.
The use of the dao dates back nearly 1300 years ago to the time of the Pala Dynasty in Bengal, a Buddhist kingdom in which the earliest forms of Bengali culture emerged. Collections of poems and terracotta sculptures from the time depict women squatting at their dao’s cutting fish; since the dawn of Bengali culture, the dao has been associated with the woman’s role as the nourisher and sustainer of the household.
The use of the dao is also evidence of the sacredness of the bare earth in early Bengali culture. Toiling behind a dao, sharing a meal with cherished visitors, and sleeping were all practices performed seated or lying on the ground; to stay close to the ground was paramount because the Earth and its soil were sacred, and one had to remain close to it. With the arrival of the British colonialists in Bengal, furniture began to gain popularity among the wealthy and we slowly lifted ourselves off of these sacred grounds. Using a dao became a departure from the British, Western culture imposed on us and a symbol of rural meekness and humility in the modern day.
My mother came to the United States from a small riverside village in Sylhet, Bangladesh where the dao was used extensively. She would watch my grandmother cut mountains of uri, or hyacinth beans, with her blade and toss them into a pot set over burning logs. My mother would purchase a dao in the United States and I remember watching her as she cut and peeled the same hyacinth beans that she’d watched her mother cut. She would rush to process as many beans as possible before she’d have to change the diapers of my younger brothers or feed them, and would leave water droplets that would rust the blade; she embodied the motherly spirit that the dao has always represented. My mother shared a piece of Bangladesh with me, her son born far from home.
My mother brought the essence of her village to our small apartment in the Bronx. The humble dao is truly a testament to how a culture can survive the twisting tides of change and migration.
YSOS at Queens College
Wrapping up our time in the classroom in May, class members agreed enthusiastic to visit the Tenement Museum and identified the field trip tours as semester highlights. The YSOS object work students did this semester was my favorite aspect of the course—I learned so much from the students.
The students all chose illuminating YSOS objects to contribute to the museum archive. YSOS is a project designed to bridge the past and present experiences of New Yorkers, to find common narratives that connect people across differences. These short submissions captured so much of students’ understandings of themselves and their family history. Students presented their YSOS objects in two ways: at the Imagining New York MHC conference and in class. The class presentation assignment invited groups of 3-4 students to creatively “remix” their YSOS in collective stories. Group members were encouraged to use their imaginations and creativity to consider the audience they wanted to reach to with their YSOS contributions and the best medium with which to reach such an audience.
The groups did fabulous, attractive, creative work. We were treated to group presentations in the form of a mini museum—“The Migration Museum”–; a museum exhibit entitled “Journeys of War” that highlighted the role of conflict in immigration; a newspaper dedicated to the push and pull of NYC immigration; a series of connected public service announcement posters about the opportunities and challenges of emigrating to New York; a food blog “Sweets and Stories: The Café Blog” that included advertisements and blog entries; and a guided tour, airport-themed, of New York immigrant experiences through recipes from across the globe.
To the very last submission, student YSOS submissions were excellent. As a result, I cannot choose one or two to highlight but can only thank the students for thinking so carefully about the role of immigration in their lives and in New York City past and present.
Kara Schlichtling
Associate Professor of History
Queens College
Ukrainian Throw Blanket
This embroidered throw blanket means a lot to my family because it’s more than just something we use, it’s a piece of my mom’s past. It originally belonged to my grandmother in Ukraine, and she gave it to my mom when she left to move to New York in 2006 to join my dad. At a time when everything in her life was changing, the blanket was something familiar she could hold onto, reminding her of home and her family. Even now, she uses it every day while ironing, which makes it feel less like an old keepsake and more like a living part of our daily life. To me, it shows how my mom carries her history with her, and how something simple can hold so many memories, emotions, and connections to where we come from.
More Than a Coin Purse
As humans we often assign personal value to objects and my parents were no exception. When my parents migrated from Colombia in 2011, they packed their whole life into one overfilled suitcase and when it could hold no more, they carried essentials in their hands and pockets. One of these essentials was a coin purse. This coin purse was a carefully hand crafted small brown leather coin purse stamped with “Colombia” and the colors of the Colombian flag. To many, it might have seemed like a simple coin purse passing by, but to my parents, it represented the love and pride they had for their country. Despite this, what we love is not always what is best for us. This is why my parents felt forced to leave due to the increasing violence in Colombia associated with the Colombian armed conflict, as well as the economic difficulties that persisted from the early 1980s through the 2000s. They were in search of safety and opportunity. My parents were lucky enough to find that in New York where they were uplifted by their Colombian community in Jamaica, Queens. Over time, the coin purse was passed down to me. Now every time I hold it I am reminded that the coin purse carries more than just physical currency but also cultural currency and it represents a story that didn’t end with my parents, but continues through me.
Authentically Faux Pearls
Throughout my life, asking questions about my family’s history within Asia has proved futile. My ancestors arrived in China from Korea multiple generations ago, yet fragments of the past were never passed down and instead were lost. However, during a visit to China in the summer of 2025, my paternal grandmother gifted me a tangible reminder of my family’s muddled history, a faux pearl bracelet. This bracelet, though cheap, has become a priceless symbol of connection. It carries the weight of my family’s migration from South Korea to China, and my maternal grandparents’ and parents’ eventual departure from their homes to live in the United States in the 2000s. My family chose to continue this pattern of migration, cultivating new and better lives for themselves, settling in the Asian-dominated community of Flushing, NYC. Having the privilege of living in the United States, I am constantly reminded of the sacrifices that had to be made for me to lead a more stable life. These reminders fostered a deep desire to situate my family’s unique journey within the broader history of Korean migration and displacement. I have come to understand that 20th-century mass migration from Korea was driven by survival and shaped by multiple instances of wartime and political instability. With this, my simple faux pearl bracelet has come to represent the struggles and resilience of countless Korean migrants, including my family.
Golden Pig, Wealthy Pig, Chinese Pig… Big Pig
Pigs were a blessing in Chinese culture, symbolizing abundance, wealth, and great fortune. My mother immigrated from the quaint town of Taishan in the mountains of China to the United States in 1997; she later gifted me a pig plushie when I was born in 2007, which I would come to name “Big Pig.” In Cantonese, I call it “大猪猪 (Dà ZhūZhū).” It is a soft, pink stuffed pig plushie with large, adoring, beady black eyes and a cotton-like texture that has worn down over time. As her first gift to me, Big Pig represents the beginning of my life and my relationship with my family. I am a first-generation Chinese American woman, born in the United States. My life has always existed between two worlds. This object has traveled with me between America and China throughout my childhood, when my parents were unsure about our living conditions. I carried it on airplanes when I was navigating Asia, kept it beside my bed in different homes as I moved from Corona to Fresh Meadows, and held onto it on nights when I cried myself to sleep. My family’s roots fresh out of China, our life in America created a constant sense of movement as they attempted to settle down comfortably in the States. Carrying 大猪猪 everywhere with me between homes, cities, and countries symbolizes immigration, cultural identity, and what it means to grow up between being both Chinese and American.
Russian-Soviet-Jewish-New-Yorkian-American-Parisian Tea Culture
Every night after dinner, my mom asks me a one-word question: “Tea?” After I nod my answer, she pulls out two teacups, two saucers, and a teapot from the cabinet behind her. In the teapot, she prepares zavarka, a concentrated form of tea, using black tea, named Paris, which I bought from a company based in SoHo. Over tea, she tells stories about her home country, Moldova, and adjustment to NYC. In 1993, my mom and her family immigrated to NYC from Moldova, along with the 35,900 other Jews emigrating from the former Soviet Union. After 1970, the largest wave of Jewish immigration since the 1920s occurred, and one of the largest locations of settlement was NYC. Migration was influenced in part by war breaking out when Transdniestria, now considered a region in Moldova, declared independence from Moldova. This region was composed mostly of the minorities of Moldova’s population, and Moldova refused to recognize it. When she escaped this situation as a refugee to NYC, my mom was one of many Soviet-Jewish women married early. She received one of the most common Soviet wedding gifts: a tea set. This set now stands in a cabinet in my mom’s kitchen, displayed as a reminder of her Soviet roots, but when used with American tea and her American daughter, the tea set reminds my mom of her adjustment to a new home.
Fruit Blender
The object I chose is a fruit blender that sits on the kitchen counter in my house. Every morning,
my mom uses it to make smoothies for our entire family before we start the day. The blender
itself is nothing special, it’s just a plastic pitcher attached to a VERY loud motor. I am convinced
she uses it to wake us all up in the morning as well. My mom fills it with frozen berries, bananas,
yogurt, and sometimes honey and blends everything together into a thick drink that we can
enjoy. My grandmother always tells us that it gets the bowels moving in the morning.
When my parents were growing up in Hungary, one of the dishes they often ate during the
summer was something called gyümölcsleves, which directly translates to “fruit soup.” It is a
chilled soup made from fruits like cherries, berries, or peaches, usually mixed with cream or
yogurt and served cold. It is super refreshing and made with ingredients that are easy to find
locally.
When my family immigrated, their routines changed. The fruit soup had to be substituted by
smoothies made in a blender because it was quicker and easier for mornings before work and
school. Even though the dish changed form, the idea stayed the same. The blender always
reminds me how traditions from one place can adapt to life in another while still preserving
where a family comes from.
Central Asian Manti
Manti are steamed dumplings that are common in many Asian cuisines including Uzbek, Turkish, and Afghan. In central Asia, they are usually made from thin dough filled with finely minced beef or lamb, onions, and spices. The dumplings are folded using special techniques and cooked in steamers. In different cultures, they have different wrapping techniques, but the basic idea is the same: A dumpling that brings people together around a table.
In my family, Manti represent a connection to my background. Preparing them takes time and is usually done together with my family. My sister makes the dough from scratch while my dad minces the meat and onions. Later, my mom rolls the dough, I fill them, and my dad wraps them. Because the process is slow and requires many hands, cooking Manti becomes a social activity where we talk, share stories, and spend time together. For me, Manti are more than just food. They remind me of where my family comes from and the traditions that have been passed down across generations even though we live in New York today.
Many immigrant families in the United States maintain traditions through food by making them with their families at home or opening restaurants. Dishes like Manti show how cultural identity can continue even after people move to new places, becoming part of the diverse food culture of cities like New York.
My Father’s Cross
Growing up, there was an old box of family jewelry tucked away in our home that I never paid much attention to. One day I looked through it and discovered a cross. I asked my mom and she told me it belonged to my dad. I was surprised because I had never seen him wear it before.
I wear the cross every day now. My family is Greek and we follow the Greek Orthodox faith that is very important to us. Not just a religion, but a way of life woven into our culture and identity. My mom was born in Greece and when she came to New York she brought that faith with her, passing it down to our family. The cross represents sacrifice and resurrection, but this one also represents connection.
Wearing this cross makes me think about my dad. Every time I look at it I am reminded of who he is. Wearing something that once belonged to him feels very meaningful because every time I am in doubt, I look at this cross and think about what my dad would do. My dad may have put it down but I know I was meant to pick it up and make it part of my identity and my story.
Sometimes the most meaningful things can find you. You just have to be curious enough to go looking.
My Nintendo 3DS
This is my Nintendo 3DS! It’s really important to me since it was a birthday gift from my parents. I’ve had it since 2015 and I still use it today. I’ve taken really good care of it over the years so I’m really proud of it. I really like taking photos on 3DS, and because I’ve had it for a while I’ve accumulated a lot of meaningful photos of my family and friends over the years. Some of my favorite photos I have saved to my 3DS are photos of my family from Brazil. I rarely get to see them anymore so the photos I took with them when I was younger are really important to me. To me my 3DS is more than a gaming console but is also a device that can show the perspective of a child of a Brazilian immigrant being raised in New York City.
– Erika Rodrigues
Bronze Star Medal
As a child, I was intrigued by the mysterious medal on my grandmother’s shelf, and I sought to uncover what this object is and why it deserved a place of prominence. As I grew up, I discovered that this was my great-grandfather’s Bronze Star medal, awarded in 1945 for his heroism and meritorious achievements during WWII, and an important symbol of my family’s immigration story. My great-grandfather, Manny Weinberg, was born in 1923 in Berlin, Germany, and fled to New York in 1939 as antisemitism and Nazi persecution increased. Following the attack on Pearl Harbor, he enlisted in the U.S. Army, hoping to fight the Nazis who persecuted him. A new military intelligence unit recruited him alongside other Jewish immigrants. They trained at the Military Intelligence Training Center at Camp Ritchie, Maryland, earning them the name “The Ritchie Boys.” My great-grandfather was in one of the first classes to graduate and deploy, landing on D-Day at Omaha Beach. As Jewish immigrants, the Ritchie Boys had the rare opportunity in which members of a community fleeing persecution returned to the place they fled and fought their oppressors. The medal symbolizes immigration to New York, wartime intelligence and how military service can reshape immigrant identity. My great-grandfather’s army service marked his turning point, deploying as a Jewish, German immigrant soldier, and returning to New York as a war hero, securing the right to consider himself a New Yorker and true American.
The Infinite Spiral Cord Between Each Other: The Landline Phone
Despite the 3,000 mile distance between Ecuador and New York, my family managed to maintain connection through conversations over the landline phone. This particular phone is not something from my family. Instead, I bought it as a reminiscent artifact. Whether it was on the side table of my great-grandmother’s living room in Portoviejo or the travel agency in Kew Gardens where my mother would make international calls, the landline phone has been a significant part of my early life that I continue to honor and cherish. Its presence in our family was key in making sure we never forgot each other’s voices.
This means of communication began with my grandmother’s immigration to New York in the 1960s. My abuela Josefina came to New York decades ago and eventually brought her children, fostering the beginning of a new life for her family. However, the landline phone was not the main source of communication; the quality was poor and the price was expensive. This may have been especially difficult for Josefina, a new immigrant, as it could have been unreachable to make such calls without access to a landline phone at her place of residence. But with each occasional call, the long process ended. Josefina could finally hear the sounds of home.
Hearing the ring of the phone, I reflect on that same ring echoing through the past apartments of my grandmother, my aunts, and my parents as new residents of the bustling city. ¡Qué dulce!
Salwar Kameez
The object I chose is a lavender Bengali salwar kameez, detailed with soft pastel embroidery and paired with a light, flowing dupatta(scarf). I wore it for Eid-Ul-Fitr in 2026 in Queens, New York. At first glance, it is simply a traditional outfit, but to me, it carries a story shaped by memory, growth, and identity.Most of all, it brings nostalgia. The delicate patterns remind me of Eid mornings in Bangladesh when I used to get ready with my cousins, share laughter, and feel surrounded by family. Those moments feel distant now, yet this dress allows me to hold onto them.At the same time, wearing it in New York shows a different side of my identity. In a city where Muslim communities are visible and welcomed, I can celebrate Eid openly. It shows how different communities in Queens tend to have a positive attitude towards different religions. This balance between comfort and change defines my experience.What makes this outfit especially meaningful is that I bought it with my own money. As a child, I admired clothes like this but could not always afford them. Now, earning my own income reflects my transition into adulthood and independence. Although life in the United States is different, this salwar kameez keeps me connected to Bangladesh. It represents both who I was and who I am becoming, showing that identity can grow without being lost.
I Don’t Need the Bat Anymore
When coming from Trinidad to New York City in early 2001, my dad brought along the most important tool needed to keep his passion alive: his cricket bat. This wooden bat has evolved throughout centuries, dating all the way back to the 17th century in England and it’s swung low to hit a ball. Growing up in a West Indian neighborhood in New York City, cricket was a common sport to me, and I believed it was a globally famous one, like basketball and soccer, that everyone in the world knew and played at least once. However, as I got older and started to become more familiar with New York City as a whole, I realized my childhood community, specifically my father, influenced this way of thinking. 2013 was the first time I held and was taught how to swing a cricket bat by my father. At that age I was shorter than the official bat itself and needed a smaller one, but nonetheless my dad started to pour all the culture of cricket from Trinidad into my mind and hands. This cricket bat, or really the sport of cricket as a whole, puts into focus the impact of Trinidadian immigration and its effect on the New York community, as cricket has become a much more popular sport with many professional leagues in our boroughs. Now, I can stand above the bat and swing just like he taught me to.
The Greatest Fast-Food: Turkish Döner
Gyros, shawarmas, and al pastor tacos. Besides being delicious, what do they all have in common? They are all different variations of the same food: the Turkish döner kebab. The dish consists of seasoned meat in the form of beef/lamb mix or chicken, roasted on a vertical rotating spit device. Döner can be eaten as a sandwich or alongside rice. My parents both ate döners often as children when growing up in Turkey during the 80s and 90s, whether it was a cheap version from a shop off the streets, or a better quality and more expensive version in Turkish restaurants.
My Dad, pictured above in the year 1998 next to a döner device in a Turkish restaurant in Brooklyn, described döner as a “comfort food.” When they immigrated here in the late 1990s, döner became a bridge to Turkish culture for them despite being abroad. For me, growing up in NYC meant eating many different versions of döner: whether it was from an authentic Turkish restaurant in Astoria, a gyro from a Greek food cart, a Berlin-style döner with fresh vegetables and tasty sauces, or as a home-made Iskender kebab (a different Turkish dish with döner meat). All of these foods, while delicious to eat, provide a special connection to me through döner being a cross-cultural food, allowing me to connect my childhood and the döner I eat/ate here to what my parents ate in Turkey.
Kibbe Hamdah
Kibbe Hamdah, also known as Hamid has been a staple dish on my dinner table almost every Friday night for as long as I can remember. It is a Syrian-Jewish dish that my grandma taught my mom to make. The base of the dish is a lemony soup with chopped carrots and celery. Inside the soup there are meatballs stuffed with another type of meat inside. It is often served with white rice. This dish is a staple in almost everyone’s home in my Syrian-Jewish community, and some people even add potatoes or tomato sauce to their soup. It is customary to eat Kibbe Hamdah on the Jewish Sabbath, which begins on Friday, 18 minutes after sunset. Kibbe Hamdah is not just a type of food, it also represents culture and religion. The traditional recipes in my community are very sacred, and they represent who we are. Eating Kibbe Hamdah with my family every week helps me recognize how far my community has come, and appreciate our rich history and culture. When I’m cooking for my family in the future, I know that Kibbe Hamdah will be a weekly staple in my house as well. My mother will pass down the recipe to me, and I will carry out the traditions of my community with pride and excitement. It is very special that even with everyone’s unique recipes, you will almost always find Kibbe Hamdah on their dinner table for the Jewish Sabbath and holidays.
