Once upon a time in Jersey City ... (07/04/99)

Once upon a time in Jersey City ...

by DMZ

I was sad to see Svoboda, The Ukrainian Weekly and their parent institution, the Ukrainian National Association, move from Jersey City, N.J. It was the passing of an era. The old Ukrainian institution was part of my Jersey City experience.

Aside from the magnificent view of the Statue of Liberty from my window and the view of Manhattan by night, both of which were good enough for The National Geographic, the rest of Jersey City had a far less admirable description. But it was "home" for me during the my teenage years in the 1950s. We were little DPs just off the boat, learning English and speaking it with an accent. There was the rough Waterfront nearby and one even got to see gangsters on the street. Yet, ignorance was bliss. They were special years, indeed, and I remember them fondly.

In fact, I feel sorry for the youngsters of my present-day affluent suburbs, when I see the shallowness of their material lives. In comparison, I think of the simple riches that my contemporaries and I had.

In the 1950s we actually had a social strata as teenage members of the Jersey City Ukrainian community. Everyone knew each other; we felt no isolation. Our life followed a set routine since all of our parents had to work. TV was an extravagance no one had, an automobile a great luxury. Our families huddled together in very reasonably priced railroad-car-style apartments with meager conveniences.

Yet there always was a grandmother or some other relative to greet you when you got home from school. In those households where there was no one to help, parents would work different shifts, mothers worked during the day, fathers worked evenings or vice-versa to ensure that the children were never alone. We were not encouraged to get teenage jobs because youth was considered a precious time in life, and our parents wanted us to have that time. How generous they were!

Long before the Saturday schools were organized into Ukrainian language and culture school (Ridna Shkola) in Jersey City, a childless couple, Mr. and Mrs. Kots, gathered the young ones together and opened for us an enormous treasure chest of all that was Ukrainian. We discovered such things as the Trypillian culture and read "The Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors." This chiseled in our minds the richness of our ethnic heritage. So, as we evolved into Americans, we did not feel poor and ignorant, but like a group that had something to offer our new country.

A youth organization based on the ideals of scouting called Plast came with us from the old country and it became our "gang." We hung out in storefronts rented and paid for by our parents' donations. From a storefront on Essex Street, which was our first Plast den, to a storefront on Varick Street, which had particularly special memories, our gatherings - and there were many - were always constructive and well-guided. A large range of activities included everything from making traditional Easter eggs (pysanky) to dance and etiquette lessons. Hikes were organized, and so were trips to summer camp.

All was paid for by our parents out of their minimum-wage jobs. For, in their wisdom, their budgets had priorities, their housekeeping was frugal, their personal needs were minimal, and their obligation to their children great. This gift of time and attention paid better dividends than any fancy material resources. In return, we respected our elders, and we had no desire to rebel. Life was fair. How this happened so smoothly seems strange now - but it did.

On Sundays there was service in one of the oldest Ukrainian churches in America. It was a warm and beautiful church, as Byzantine-style churches often are. Our church, as I remember it, was burgundy and gold with little red lanterns flickering about, beckoning to come and pray awhile. There were great holiday celebrations when the church was full of people and the sound of a great choir would proclaim glory to God.

I cannot help but feel such great disappointment now, when I think that old church was sold to the big sudsy Colgate Co., and in turn got torn down along with it. Had there been the vision not to sell the church, it would have been a landmark right on the bank of the old Hudson River, where the Colgate Co. has now made room for a beautiful promenade.

Not too far from the old Ss. Peter and Paul Ukrainian Catholic Church was 81-83 Grand St., the headquarters of Ukrainian National Association. Its publication Svoboda was the longest-running Ukrainian daily newspaper in print. That was clout in those days. Even before you entered the building you could hear the linotypes clicking away in the basement. One was greeted with the smell of printers' ink and large rolls of paper parked in the hall.

On the first floor to the right was the holy of holies: the office of the editor-in-chief. Or so I thought, for I had visited that office on occasion, accompanying my father. I remember it cluttered with several yearbooks of the broadsheet newspaper, mixed together with books and papers that told so much about our existence in this hemisphere.

The Cold War was raging then, and a free Ukraine was a dream with little hope of ever coming true. Yet, in this little two-story building on Grand Street, a sample of our Ukrainian DNA was being stored and carefully protected. My friends and I were privy to this.

But the most remarkable aspect of our lives in Jersey City was the fact that Manhattan was just a dime away. A 20-minute train ride inside a giant tube under the Hudson River took you to the downtown of America. New York City was ours for the walking, exploring, sightseeing and window shopping. We stayed in tune with the world through the Big Apple. And it wasn't just the music and the styles and the pizza for us, it was the molding of an attitude based on proven foundations.

All that touched my life during those years was nothing short of amazing. I left Jersey City when I married, so much has changed since. Our "gang" is all over now. Some are rich and famous, some are just like me. We run into each other in places we never dreamed of meeting, like Kyiv or Lviv. Sometimes we meet in South Bound Brook. We all look a bit different now. We're older - the blondes are gray, the brunets are blond.

And when we meet and introduce each other to our families, we say: "Oh! This is so and so, who grew up with me in Jersey City!"

The article above is an entry from "the diary of a Ukrainian housewife," who writes under the pen name "DMZ."

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