I Am Israeli
by Roselyn N Kachuck
Friday, March 23, 2007
Not rated by the Author.
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Growing up in New York,
All the children were more than Americans.
The Irish had never been to Ireland.
The Italians hadnít been to Italy.
Not my friends.
Sat on front porches speaking in tongues.
I was very young.
Each sounded like a melody,
Reminding us of where we came from.
All of us could travel to the lands of our fathers,
Through our grandmothers,
As I could to Russia -
The shtetle on an open plain,
A meandering stream bordering the woods
Where Baba Yar waited for the unsuspecting child
And Bubbha cooked the soup.
Here, in New York, my grandmother,
My Bubbha made the soup.
She spoke the language of her youth.
She called us kinderle, bubbale, tatale, and little mumzers.
And little devils we were.
According to law, Iím Jewish when my mother is.
All my mothers are,
As far back as Sarah, Rivkah, Leah, and Raquel.
They were the Grand Mothers of Israel.
Then I am not only American.
I am not only Russian.
More than that, I am my Mothersí Child.
A child of Israel.
I am Israeli.
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|Reviewed by Lois Christensen
|So mighty a story and such faith in yourself and you ancestors. Welcome to the den and we are all one family in this world, race does not matter in God's eyes. All are going the same way in the end. Good write, keep it up.|
|Reviewed by Gwen Dickerson
|Rich, warm, and beautifully expressed! Welcome to the Den!|
|Reviewed by Larry Lounsbury
|Reviewed by Kate Clifford
|This is the beauty of America........we can be what we are, while being proud of where we have come from :-)|
|Reviewed by J M
|A beautiful heritage you have and I loved this poem! It was delightful to reflect more of you to the reader.
|Reviewed by Jeff Mason
|Well done. We should be proud of our heritage. -- Jeff|