What’s Right with this Picture?

AUGUST 27TH AT GREENWICH VILLAGE EVENT

My birthday week in New York City began today, a Sunday morning on the Upper West Side.

In years gone by, the highlight of the weekend was the Sunday Times delivered at dawn, or picked up at the news stand before breakfast. Now it’s digital, absent the weekend ritual of sharing the coveted sections between family members, waiting turns but enjoying fresh coffee and bagels with lox and cream cheese in the interim.

Today, my daughter woke me up with fresh take-out coffee from Maison Kayser and choice of brioche or spinach quiche. “Mom, we’re getting on the subway in thirty minutes for the birthday party” (not mine, but my grandson’s four-year old friend).

We arrived on time at the enclosed grassy area in Greenwich Village, essentially an urban “rent-a-park” on the NYU campus. Living in small towns north of Boston, I’ve never had to think of renting a private patch of land for a family event, but in the city this is what they do.

My daughter’s friend J. is Brazilian, her Russian husband M. previously lived in Israel, now both are Americans. Their son, the birthday boy, speaks three of their four combined languages fluently. Thus, the guests sang “Happy Birthday” to him four times!

I’m pretty sure I was the only guest not conversant in at least two languages, as the many young friends and families were predominantly Russian or Ukrainian-American. I wandered around the gated park and through the clusters of guests, taking in the absolutely beautiful weather and the general warmth and camaraderie of the occasion.

J’s father, a small-framed Brazilian gentleman in my age range, came up to me and introduced himself most cordially in English. Somehow, my “aura” clearly did not project Russian or Portuguese bilingual. I spent time with my grandson at the children’s arts and crafts table until he decided to join the boys running on the grass.

The various young parents chatted amiably, while keeping an eye on their children ranging in age from six months to six years. My two-year old grandson is learning Russian from both his dad (trilingual from living in Moscow as a child, then growing up in Israel), and also from his Russian grandparents when he spends weeks at a time with them in language immersion and their loving presence.

My grandson was playing with two little boys and I asked my daughter if they were speaking Russian with each other. “No mom, those boys are Ukrainian, so they’d all be speaking English.

After enjoying two hours of purchased outdoor time and space, we all headed to the host’s apartment for yet more food and celebration. Being one of only four seniors in the dominant group of young families, it occurred to me that I was also separated by the langauge barrier of “young parentese.”

Even so, I was content to be in their company, knowing that I had spoken and understood that language in my own time but didn’t need to participate now. The growing families had much to share and discover on their own terms.

Then, a young father came over to me with his six month old little girl, telling me about her nap schedule and favorite new foods (rice and sweet potatoes); by his language and the way he held her, I saw how utterly beloved she was to him.

I was a bit tired, having traveled from Boston the day before, so I curled up on a seat in the corner of the living room. The high-spirited activities of the children and the many cross-currents of conversations between the adults created a mesmerizing background noise. When I opened my eyes — was it a few minutes later, or more? — a five-year old girl with blonde braids came up to me and asked, “Can you speak Russian with me?”

I replied that I could not, but could she please speak English with me? She answered, “I tried to teach my grandmother to speak Russian.” I asked her how that went. “Not very good, she couldn’t copy me, and she couldn’t remember anyway, so I stopped.”

This reminded me that my Israeli granddaughters had tried patiently to teach me Hebrew each time I visited but that didn’t work either—and how much I related to the blonde girl’s American grandmother.

We grandparents are part of the glue that keeps our families together even with our language deficits. But children, please keep trying, we love you for your aspirations for us and then for your straightforward honesty.

I enjoyed my anonymity and the chance to take in the world of languages, cultures, and generations that surrounded me today, in the park and then in the city streets. Scenes of inclusion and joyful affirmation like these surely play out under the radar as a matter of course; it is a way of life between young people in the diverse communities they have created and commit to, one child, one family, one friendship at a time.

For the start of my birthday week, I don’t think I could have done much better than this.