Living the Dream

This past winter, I visited Eretz Yisrael with my husband and children for the first time in 18 years. I am an only child. Besides my parents, the rest of my small family lives in Israel. It was impossible to truly catch up. There’s so much to say, so much to learn from each other about life — and actually, quite a bit to mourn as you introduce your children, some of whom are young adults, to this house full of people they’ve never known.

One observation my cousin shared with me made a profound impression. My cousins are South African and moved to the States as adults before making aliyah. I, however, was born and raised in America.

“You are your parents’ American Dream,” my cousin reflected.

To see yourself as others see you can be enlightening. With this one line, everything made sense, but I had never thought of myself that way. My parents came to this country to live the American Dream (if you read “Got Any Gum, Chum?” in the Pesach issue, that’s my dad) and I was their one child, their one chance to pass it on. I was born in Manhattan but raised in idyllic Atlanta, Georgia. I went to summer camps, took piano lessons, got braces, and graduated from college. In the middle of that trajectory, we joined the Orthodox community. My cousin was right: I was raised living the American Dream without even knowing it.