Category: Identity

features stories about the cultural factors that shape who we are

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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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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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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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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Family Necklace

When I was born, my great-grandmother traveled from Argentina to New York City, where she gifted me and my twin sister necklaces. Each necklace had a silver charm of an angel, with a pearl for its head and gems lined up along its body. Similar to my sister and I, the necklaces were identical, except for one difference. The gems on my necklace were pink, while the gems on my sister’s necklace were blue. As my sister and I grew up, our favorite colors later became the same ones on each of our necklaces. Although the necklaces are such small objects, they always held a deeper meaning within our family. By gifting these necklaces to us, my great-grandmother created a connection between generations of our family. She passed away when I was young, leaving me with very faint memories of her, but my necklace still serves as a reminder of this connection and of my Argentinean heritage.

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Hamsa’s Hand

picture containing red brackets and anklets.

July 12th, the day of my birth and unbeknownst to me was that I shared this special day
with my great grandmother, in my lifetime I will never have gotten to meet her. But I did know my abuela, and she is the one who tied the red evil eye anklet around my foot. This would have significant meaning because of my great grandmother, the eye looked to not only protect me from ill-intentions from outsiders but also honor the most divine protector I have in my lineage. The evil eye travels continents, cultures, and across time–for it to have reached me goes to show how strenuous its passage has been throughout generations. As someone who is mixed, only my mother’s side upholds these beliefs, and as do I, I find this creates a dynamic connection as to how I relate to each side of my blood. I share my mother’s side’s big eyes, button-nose, and shortened height. One of the few attributes that make me unique to them, I was raised in a family-oriented household, where we were all dependent on one another somehow and this made our bond stronger. Food, of course, had its own hold on our way of preserving our culture, having fusions of food but also ensuring we have traditional dishes that keep us all around a table together, laughing and having a good time. Above our heads, the air held our beliefs and faith after we prayed over what we were to eat and while we didn’t have much, looking around the table, it was more than enough. Whenever I miss this feeling of home, I run my fingers over the woven red string, the steel hamsa hand, and colorful beads woven into the anklet. Its mostly used to guard one’s spirit, and used as much as needed, it will break once it has fulfilled its duties. I have gone through many anklets because of this, I feel safeguarded when I wear it, and because the tradition began with my abuela to honor my great-grandmother I feel prideful of our shared spiritual values. Though if I could speak to my anklet, I would like to ask how far it truly comes from, did the indigenous groups of my heritage also shared this bracelet or had they been the ones to begin its ripple effect that circled all the way back to me. One must know that you can’t obtain an evil eye for yourself, it must be gifted as if reversed you also recede its purpose. It’ll teach you that instead of carrying the anxiety of how others think or wish of you, you must leave it to what can hold it, as humans–we can only do so much. So in a way by wearing the anklet you are also saying baja con dios.

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Refuge to Service

This Army Commendation Medal was awarded to my grandfather, Captain Murray Kohn, for his exceptional service as a dental officer at Fort Benning, Georgia, from 1970 to 1972. Born in the Bronx in 1943, Murray was the son of Jewish immigrants who had escaped the rising tide of antisemitism in Austria and Poland just years before his birth. His father, David, fled Austria in 1939, while his mother, Shirley, arrived at Ellis Island in 1926. Growing up in Washington Heights, Murray’s path to American identity was defined by education and service. During the Vietnam War, he entered the military through the “Berry Plan” as an obligatory volunteer, ensuring the health and readiness of soldiers heading to and returning from the front lines. This medal represents more than just military merit; it symbolizes the full circle of his family’s migration story. For a family that had fled state-sponsored persecution in Europe, Murray’s service as a commissioned officer and his receipt of this honor marked a profound transition from being outsiders seeking refuge to being integral protectors of the American nation. As the only dentist in his cohort to receive the medal, it stands as a testament to the “steady hands” and exactitude he inherited from a lineage of survivors. Today, this object serves as a bridge between his parents’ struggle to reach America and the civic legacy he built for our family.

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From One Apartment to the Next

In the 1940s, my great-grandmother, Elza Weinman, and her family fled the Nazis in Belgium and eventually settled on the Upper West Side of New York City. They first lived at 145 West 86th Street, where many other Belgian Jewish families who had also escaped Europe began rebuilding their lives. A strong community quickly formed around shared history and culture. West 86th Street was an ideal place to start over because it connected residents all over Manhattan. The neighborhood was lively, filled with shops and businesses, and it was especially known for jewelers like her husband, Leon. While living there, she attended high school and soon after got married and moved just down the block to 98 Riverside Drive. When they were expecting their second child, they needed more space and moved again to 200 West 86th Street for the next 67 years. Those visits are the only memories I have of my great-grandmother, who passed away during my early childhood. I remember being ten years old when my mom would pick me up from school to go visit her. We took the elevator up to the 14th floor, and I remember this vividly because it was when I learned a 13th floor doesn’t exist. We spent the night playing games and watching the Giants vs. Redskins game. The following morning ended with the sweetest treat of all: Dunkin’ Donuts and the tightest, slightly painful, squeeze on the cheek. Although the apartment is gone now, its story lives on, because the journey that brought my great-grandmother to New York City eventually led to me growing up at 225 E 6th Street, a Jewish-built community as well.

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“Habichuela con Dulce”

Have you ever eaten a dish that reminds you of your childhood? For me, it would be eating habichuela con dulce, a sweet bean dessert that reminds me of my ethnicity. It isn’t just a dish to eat; it represents the history, culture, and the strength it took to make it with a variety of infused cultures. This dish, originally from the Dominican Republic, is a part of who I am as a person. When I was younger, my mother always made habichuela con dulce during a specific time, which was Holy Week. The tradition that was introduced to me was that this dish had to specifically be eaten on Good Friday to give thanks for Jesus Christ sacrificing himself for us and also to bring blessings to the house. At first, I never believed in that tradition, but as I got older, I started to realize the true significance of this dish and also the happiness that it brings around. The specific recipe that my mom uses was passed down through generations, where she was taught by my great-grandmother. Every time this dish is made, it brings me great comfort because of the smell that enters my house, as well as joy because of the flavor. This dish often gathers my family, no matter what may be going on in their lives, because it’s tradition to eat together during Easter. It is a time to relax and enjoy the gift of life that is given to us.

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The Passover Spoon

From Silk Road trading tables to my family’s Passover seder in Queens, this gold-plated “Passover spoon” has carried nearly two centuries of movement across continents, holding a significance far greater than the meals it serves. Each year at our Passover seder, we share a bite of my grandmother’s Plov from this spoon, preserved since 1828. As a child, I was fascinated and repelled by how many mouths the spoon had touched, but now I see it as a witness to migration, trade, faith, and continuity. Family oral history suggests the spoon was acquired through trade, reflecting generations of interactions and shared meals among Muslims and Jews in Central Asia. My father’s side of the family are Bukharian (Mizrahi) Jews with roots in Iran, Afghanistan, and Syria, who worked as merchants along the Silk Road before settling in Tajikistan. They lived under Russian and Soviet rule until my father immigrated to New York in 1992. Earlier periods reflected coexistence and shared commerce between Muslims and Jews, but rising antisemitism and restrictive Soviet policies led to major waves of Jewish emigration in the 1970s and early 1990s. Religious holidays, meals, and language unify my family. We speak Russian, Bukharian (a dialect of Farsi), and English. This spoon brings these elements together in a single ritual. In Queens, one of the most ethnically diverse places in the world, our Passover table reflects the cultural coexistence that shaped my ancestors’ lives along the Silk Road.

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Family Cookbook

This is a photo of a page from a cookbook my mother has had all my life. The notebook is old and clearly well used, with wrinkled pages, faded ink, and small stains from ingredients that were probably spilled while cooking. My parents’ main language is Arabic, which makes sense for the recipes to be written in Arabic as well. Typically, Arabs don’t follow recipes. If you asked an Arab mother how to make a dish she would tell you, “Just add a little bit of this and all the spices you have in your cabinet” (safe to say Arab food is never under seasoned). But my mother made this cookbook specifically for desserts. She’s not much of a baker as it requires precise measurements, so to make it easier for herself she wrote the recipes down. If anyone can read Arabic, they can tell that this recipe isn’t exactly as specific as a recipe written in English, but it’s specific enough that any Arabic speaking person will understand it. This book is important because it carries the different desserts the represent the culture my parents left behind when they came to the United States from Palestine. It was a way for them to bring with them a piece of home where they started their new lives.

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