BELONGING

Peter tells a story of growing up in Larchmont.  His family were part of the Turkish genocide of the Armenians.  Both his parents had horrific childhoods full of murder and fear.  Separately they made their way to Brooklyn, living in a neighborhood of other Armenian immigrants.  They married – a practical union, with the intention of normalcy.  They were not much of a match, but they had three children, and moved, when Peter was born, to Larchmont, an affluent Westchester suburb with many well-educated professionals, many Jewish doctors and lawyers.

The idea was that the children could go to very good schools.

Peter’s father sold wall to wall and oriental rugs.  He had partners and a store in downtown Larchmont.

His mother, a master seamstress, sewed for a living,

The family always felt that they never belonged.  And yet, the schools were good.  All three did well, went to college, found their way.

But they never felt they belonged.

Although Peter’s friends were all Jewish, he was never invited to a Bar Mitzvah.  Even one.

I’ve thought about this story a thousand times, about why he wasn’t invited.  And about how he felt.

I grew up in another way – in a small factory town without many Jews.  My father grew up in the town, but his siblings moved away to live in more affluent places like Woodbridge and Fairfield, so that the children would be better educated, so that they’d be around a different group of people.

I’ve always attributed my father’s insistence on our staying in the town, on growing up there, as his desire for us to know as broad a group of people as we could.  I wonder now if that’s true, or if that’s just what I wanted to believe.

Sometimes my mother said she wanted to move.  But she didn’t say that very often.  We all looked at a house in Woodbridge when I was very young.  The realtor told us there’d been a suicide in the house, and my mother walked right out the door.

Today Peter’s mixed about growing up in Larchmont.  The schools were very good, but he never felt he belonged.

I’m happy to have been a child in Ansonia, Connecticut, to have had friends who were very different from me.  In fact in the New York Times two weeks ago there was an interesting piece about Ansonia, its history, and its newfound immigrant population.

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/09/21/realestate/ansonia-connecticut-new-haven-history.html

But I’ve lived for most of my life in New York City, a place I still love in spite of the infinite quagmire of problems, the gun-carrying mayor, the big divide of rich and poor.  I love the fact that everyone has a place here if they want it, and that this city, in spite of the pandemic and this crazy country, this city is about difference, and about figuring out how we can all belong.

I don’t romanticize Ansonia, Connecticut, or Larchmont, or New York City either.  At this point I am deeply aware of life’s enormous imperfections, and the fragility of choices, every one of them.

But I’m still glad to be right here.

Love,

Esther

PS:

On October 17 ALTE is hosting a holiday ZOOM.  Every single person is welcome.  To come, write us for the link: altetogether@gmail.com.