Category: Campus

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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Bronze Star Medal

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.

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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!

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Salwar Kameez

A picture of me wearing a traditional Bengali lavender 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.

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I Don’t Need the Bat Anymore

Photo of my dad's cricket bat

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.

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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.

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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.

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The Cross That Traveled With Us

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When my mom left Lithuania to start a new life in New York City, she didn’t bring many belongings with her. But she did bring one small object: a beaded cross that now hangs from the rearview mirror in our family’s car. To anyone else, it might look like a simple decoration, but to us it represents protection, memory, and the feeling of being watched over.
My mom grew up surrounded by Catholic and Orthodox traditions, and this cross was something familiar she could hold onto when everything else felt uncertain. When she first arrived in New York, she didn’t know the language, the streets, or the people. Hanging the cross in her car became a quiet ritual that made her feel safer. Over time, it became part of our family’s daily life. Every time we drive, it swings gently with the movement of the car, reminding us of where we come from and the journey that brought us here.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized how much meaning is wrapped up in this small object. It carries my mom’s courage, her faith, and the hope she had when she left home. It also connects me to a larger story shared by many immigrant families who bring pieces of their past with them to feel grounded in a new place. This cross is more than an ornament, it is a symbol of protection, heritage, and the path my family took to build a life in America.

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Red Lees Duck

Red lees duck always means the same thing in the family: everyone is home. Whenever this dish appears on the table, it’s a signal of a family gathering. It’s enjoyed by everyone while we catch up on life.
Red lees, known as hongzao in Chinese, is a product of fermenting glutinous rice with red yeast rice to make red rice wine. The bright red paste has a slight sweet, savory flavor that pairs super well with rice. It’s a common well loved condiment in many Fujianese households.
At every big holiday, my grandma would make this dish. It’s a dish that she learned from her older sister back in China, long before our family ever imagined life in America. Now it has become almost automatic: Chinese New Year, reunions, birthdays; there’s always a pot of red lees duck simmering on the stove.
Through this dish, I get a glimpse into the life that my grandma left behind. When she came to the U.S. in 2015, she didn’t bring much with her, but she brought her recipes and culture. Red lees duck was one of them. My grandma is the main reason why I’m so in touch with my culture despite us having little to no relatives in the U.S.

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Uzbek Chapan

My object is a traditional Uzbek Chapan that has been in my family for almost one hundred
years. A Chapan looks like a long robe and people wear it as a top layer for warmth and
protection. It is made from cotton and covered with colorful patterns and detailed stitching. In
older Central Asian society, a man’s Chapan showed status. The more colorful and intricate it
looked, the more wealth and respect his family held. Today, people still wear chapans during
ceremonies and important celebrations. Wearing one during these events shows respect for
tradition and for family heritage.

I first learned about chapans during my first trip to Uzbekistan when I was twelve years old. After
returning home, I learned that my own family had one passed down through generations. The
men in my family wore it, most recently my grandfather and now it will pass down to me.
This Chapan matters to me because it connects me with my family’s past. Its patterns and
colors reflect the life my family lived in the old world before coming to America. When I look at it,
I think about my grandfather and the generations before him and learning about it helped me
feel more connected to my family history.

This object also tells a larger story. A Chapan shows family history and cultural identity in
Central Asian culture. Clothing like this represents respect, heritage, and social status. Objects
like this pass traditions from one generation to the next and keep family stories alive. My
Chapan also represents immigrant heritage in the United States and it shows how families keep
their traditions after moving across the world. Chapans have existed for centuries in Uzbekistan
and across Central Asia, connecting modern families to older societies and traditions.

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Poncho

The object I picked of this story is named the poncho. The poncho is prominent in the countries
that reside in the Andes mountains; like from Venezuela all the way to the bottom tip of southern
America which is Argentina. In each country there are different renditions of it with some
prioritizing patterns and or colors etc. The main use of these garments is to protect oneself
against the harsh winds and cold weather of the regions near the Andes Mountains range, dating
back to B.C.E times were indigenous people lived across the large stretch of mountains. My
family and I each got our own ponchos, but I tend to be the one to use it the most. The poncho I
got in Chile, even though I am Ecuadorian marks an important part of my life. Before going to
Chile, I was at a low point of my life, and when my uncle told, me lets go meet some of my
family over there, I instantly said yes. Those 10 days were life changing; I never seen so many
different biomes and animals. My favorite thing to do over there was just staring towards at the
mountain through the car window, cramped in the car with my family. Although the poncho
signifies a changing point in my life, it also signifies my ancestral and family roots. As the only
out of my extended family to be born outside of Ecuador, I always felt like an outsider to my
culture and family, however when I put into my poncho, which is almost daily, I feel more
connected. A nice idea I thought of was the same way ponchos span across the many countries
that contain the Andes Mountains. No matter if we are in Ecuador, Chile, Colombia, and United
States whenever we put our ponchos we’re all connected as a family and to our roots.

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Celebrating Christmas at Home and Across the Country

filipino parol

My family has always valued celebrating the holidays together. Every Christmas Eve, my whole family, including my cousins, aunts, uncles, in-laws, and even plus ones, come together and have a big dinner followed by dessert and games and presents. Every year, a different family hosts. It rotates between my house and my two aunt’s houses. We start from dinnertime till late after midnight. Everyone spends the day cooking, baking, or working, then we all hangout together at night. By the end of the night, people are dropping like flies and falling asleep on any couch in sight. This tradition may have only started a few years ago, but it has quickly become something I look forward to every year. It’s a way for everyone to come together and create special memories during the holidays, which can be when you need company the most.

Not only am I lucky enough to spend Christmas with my family in the United States, but I also get to spend it with my family in the Philippines. My parents immigrated from the Philippines when they were young, and slowly all my father’s side came to America too, but minus my mother, her family is all still in the Philippines. Shortly before we started this holiday tradition, one of my family members sent us a traditional, star-shaped Filipino Christmas lantern called a parol. The lantern symbolizes hope, faith, and the triumph of light. Ever since we received this gift, we put it up in the windows, turn it on, and let it light up the house. Having this lantern makes it feel like my family in the Philippines is celebrating with us. Whether it’s in my house or from across the country, I will always feel my whole family’s love during the holidays.

– HC

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