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View Diary: My father's naturalization document (227 comments)

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  •  since we are ALL immigrants (0+ / 0-)

    we all have a story, its just a matter of when(native americans being the first), thanks to all of you who shared your story,
    mine starts back in the early 1800's when the first of my ancestor's(on my dad's side) washed ashore here fleeing conscription from napoleon's army(he had served once and had been wounded), and finished with the arrival of my grandfather whose parents fled the pogroms of russia in the late 1800's when he was only 4, and the following is about a story my mom once told me about him,

    the story of me

    new york city circa early 1900’s

    the hustle, the bustle, sidewalks cluttered with a chorus of international melody, immigrants, the world gathering, mingling, learning, how to live with one another,

    a boy of ten, in cold wandering through the crowd, the smells of life cooking, babies crying, the elderly, the old sighing, the wind chill with hopes and dreams, electric  with the absorption off life the makes his way, home, a brick brownstone apartment, house, with a big glass door atop a portico of steps and trash cans, iron gates and iron grills, steam rising from steamy places deep down, the door closes, separating the growing catalyst and sanctuary,

    a hallway to his apartment, the cold lingering, stinging with the fresh memories of his recent passage through a tumultuous parade of comedy and tragic episodes, he enters, stepping inside, the still cold event of life, awaiting his arrival, greeted with a smile piercing in its eternal love, and with long auburn hair beckoning him forth, warmth, wrapped around his hands, they share, they care, this moment, mother and child infusion,

    now this is not a story of my own, but one of my mother, when she told me how my great grandmother used to warm the hands of my grandfather when he came in from the cold, and that its only the story of me in all that i hold precious,

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