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Uncle Hershel

$18.00

by Floris R. Freshman

When I grew up in Seagate, which is on the very tip of the Cape of Coney Island, during the fifties and sixties, my world was divided into friends whose parents spoke with European accents, and those whose parents were born in America and had no accents. I thought the latter were special.

They were really ‘American’, they were savvy, established. They had grandparents, lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins, all well-to-do, all in business. Their living rooms were decorated with modern furniture and velveteen wallpaper. They had refrigerators full of TV dinners and made mashed potatoes from a mix. They all had cars and televisions, and knew about the Governor and the Mayor. The mothers had jobs as well as the fathers. They never breast-fed their kids. They didn’t say hello when you passed by their block. They’d buy houses elsewhere and move away, some went to Florida.

The Americans only had one first name, whereas all my relatives each had about five names, which consisted of a Polish name, an affectionate nickname, then Yiddish and Biblical Hebrew names, and lastly, an American name. My relatives came to the USA from war-torn Poland, believing that no wrong could ever touch them again. Thus, they were newcomers, “Griene” in Yiddish, or “Green”, as fresh as a budding Spring. Therefore I also consider myself green, or a novice, being a first generation American. Okay, a freshman.