What it Means to Me…Pasadena

I used to wonder why I liked ‘old’ things so much; old houses, old books and maps, old stories and especially – old people. It crossed my mind from time to time, but never really came home too roost until I started to get…well, older! That confused me since I grew up with absolutely everything – new. In fact, I could even put the idea out there, that my parents had some sort of disdain for anything old. How could we be so opposite?

I was the first person of our family (who survived Stalin’s atrocities and genocide against humanity) to be born in America. Everyone related to me was murdered by starvation, torture, imprisonment and the ‘complications of war.’ My father and grandfather were the only two who had survived. My birth was a celebration not only for my family – but for my community. I was a sign that life would continue for them all and that there really was goodness to be had by everyone who managed to live through the war. To top it off, I was born on Easter Sunday morning and somehow, it too meant something special.

As I walked through my life, I never saw a single person who resembled me – not even in my own family. I was a ‘floater.’ My grandfather seemed to sense this and when I was about 12 he took me aside and said, “you know, you look just like the women on my side of the family.’ It did bring me comfort, and it was also the first realization for me that I did not have any roots. Mine were like those of a rose bush, planted on a mound – (we lived on top of a hill in Silverlake and owned another hill in Las Posas) strong enough to survive tough conditions, and like a rose - my family, was putting beauty into the world.

My pilgrims - my grandparents, wore (what American’s call babushka’s but are really called…) kasinka’s and homemade clothing, lived in a huge old house and drove older cars. Their house was filled with old things that I could not even identify unless I saw them in use. Their plates were old and their silverware matched in age, and I loved it…and I was comforted by it.

My parents drove beautiful cars and my mother always had new clothing and shoes and bags to match. Our house was new. Our house was new even after we lived in it for a dozen years…it looked like nobody had ever cooked there, or walked on the carpets, or sat on the furniture. New was an obsession, an understandable and necessary reminder that you lived…you breathed anew and you have sunshine on this day that is new. You have a chance at a new life. So it goes…

I like old houses that are flanked by old trees that make up long established neighborhoods maintained to near perfection. And while I love a new luxury car – there is nothing like a vintage car or wooden boat – maintained as if it were new! There isn’t a place in America that is what Pasadena is to me. It is my home and the place of my history - and my family’s future. It is where I integrate the old with the new and feel a part of being the American that I am.