Growing up in New York,
All the children were more than Americans.
The Irish had never been to Ireland.
The Italians hadn’t been to Italy.
Not my friends.

Their grandmothers
Sat on front porches speaking in tongues.
I was very young.
Each sounded like a melody,
A song,
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, I’m 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 Mothers’ Child.
A child of Israel.

I am Israeli.