The Teacup

Sometimes it takes us years to understand simple gestures from other people. A few Christmases after I married his only son, my father-in-law gave me a gift. It was a teacup. This confused me, because I don't drink tea: I drink coffee. I was also confused because the cup was beautifully decorated in traditional Swedish folk art: I'm not Swedish, I'm German-Italian. The teacup was very pretty, but I had no idea why he gave me such a thing. My mother-in-law explained that Joe usually gave people gifts that were things that he wanted them to have, not necessarily anything that they particularly wanted to receive, which over the years eventually made more and more sense to me.

Joe's parents were both members of the refugee community of Jews from the Ukraine who migrated to Detroit. They were victims of the Czar's pogroms. The synagogues were burned; according to grandma Anna, Chinese soldiers (mercenary Mongolians?) were everywhere. The only prized possession they carried with them was their samovar. They treasured this incredibly large, elaborate, and beautiful samovar that they carried for family picnics, and used to serve the tea they traditionally served to guests. Tea had a special place in his childhood home, and Joe and his wife always enjoyed their cups of hot tea in their own home. The samovar, while still in their home, has never been used in all the years that I have known them.

Joe grew up in a period where anti-Semitism was prevalent, and he seemed to me to go out of his way to adopt a secularist viewpoint and to purge Jewish influences from his life. His mother was particularly devout, but he was more affected by his dad, who never quite got over the fact that the Jews at the Detroit synagogue called their Slavic kin 'the wrong sort of Jew' and subjected them to mild indignities. (My husband says grandpa Morris used to sneak him out for a deli ham sandwich every time he was brought to Detroit.) Similarly, Joe seemed to think that he was Irish. He wore a lot of Irish-styled clothing, like sweaters and caps, and went to a lot of Irish festivals in and around Chicago when I first met him.

One can only imagine the tears shed by his devout Jewish mother when she found a picture of a platinum blonde Swede under his pillow! My Swedish mother-in-law still carries a trace of bitterness when she talks about her early married life. The little dark-haired woman truly mourned, as her son's choice in marriage was a complete rejection of his heritage. But then, as I said, Joe had decided that he was Irish, and both he and his chemist wife were secular in outlook and orientation.

I found it terribly interesting that I garnered the same sort of reaction when my husband -- their only son-- brought me to meet the two of them. I was apparently the vision of Joe's mother: short, dark-haired, and devout. They were shocked and appalled that their son should 'totally reject their values' and choose instead a traditional Roman Catholic. Their daughter, in the meantime, was dating (and later married) an observant Jew...but they expected her to be eccentric. What they didn't realize was that their son and their daughter followed exactly in their footsteps, rejecting their parents' heritage and embracing what appears to be the opposite.

In time, he did understand. And that teacup was a symbol.

I wasn't Swedish--he's wasn't Irish. As the years went by, though, we both learned to love and respect each other. This became easier when the blatant and unashamed sentimentality that both of shared became pronounced during the struggles we endured as a family in health problems, first his stroke and the the cancer that claimed my husband before him.

And I'm so glad that he was able to enjoy the 'little monster' who bears 'Joseph' as a middle name and his little 'Irish' grandson in his twilight years. He would be so proud to see the fine young men they have become. May the perpetual light shine upon him.