Second Day of Hanukkah in Harlem
December 26, Harlem. The wind was sharp, the kind that carves itself into your skin and makes you question why you ever left home. My children and I stood outside what seemed to be a charter school, its sign promising opportunity to local kids. But we weren’t supposed to be there. My phone’s navigator insisted we had arrived at our friends’ apartment, but the address led us here, to this schoolyard. The children, cold and fidgeting, looked at me for answers. It turned out I had mistyped the address—just one wrong number, a small mistake that felt monumental in the biting wind.
As I tried to figure it out, my phone rang.
“This is the new school nurse,” came the voice on the other end, sharp and unrelenting. She wasted no time on pleasantries, launching straight into her reason for calling: my son, Alexander, would be expelled from school unless I immediately sent proof of his flu shot.
“But I already sent it,” I said, my voice trembling more from frustration than the cold. I distinctly remembered dropping off the envelope in October.
“Well, I don’t have it,” she snapped. “And if I don’t receive it by email today, he won’t be allowed back after the holidays.”
Her tone was more than unhelpful—it was cruel. There was no acknowledgment of the timing, no understanding of the impossibility of her demand. Just the repeated threat: “He will be expelled.”
The absurdity of it all hit me. I don’t have a private doctor on speed dial. As an immigrant, I take my children to a community health center, where nothing happens “immediately.” The idea that I could fix this during the holiday break, with no warning, was laughable.
But the nurse didn’t care. She kept repeating her ultimatum, as if my son’s education were nothing more than a paper she could discard.
Something inside me snapped.
“You lost it!” I shouted, my voice rising over the city’s noise. “Do your job and find it yourself. Don’t call me in the middle of the holidays to fix your mistake!” I hung up, shaking with anger.
The Warmth of Friendship
Eventually, we found the right address—a cozy apartment where my friend Katya and her son Theo welcomed us with open arms. Inside, the air was warm, and the kids immediately dove into their games while Katya and I exchanged stories.
As the sun set, Katya brought out a menorah—a gift from her friends. For the second day of Hanukkah, she decided to light the candles for the first time in her life. As she lit the shamash, she shared something extraordinary: both of our families once carried the same Jewish last name—Shenker.
In Soviet times, both of our families were forced to “lose” this name to escape discrimination. My mother, for instance, had to change her first, middle, and last name when she applied to the physics-mathematics faculty at Moscow State University. Back then, Jewish students were subjected to quotas, and her name was deemed “too Jewish.” Only by erasing her identity was she allowed to pursue her education.
Katya and I don’t know if we’re related, but in that moment, as she lit the candles, it felt significant. A shared history, hidden yet persistent.
Mistakes in the Light
As Katya lit the menorah, she suddenly paused. “Oh no, I think I’ve done it wrong,” she said, laughing nervously. She had accidentally turned the menorah the wrong way. Quickly, she corrected it and suggested we retake the photos.
But later, as I reviewed the images of the “mistake,” I saw something unexpectedly beautiful. The light was still there, flickering and alive. The moment, imperfect as it was, felt honest and real. I decided to keep those photos. Mistakes, I realized, don’t erase meaning—they’re part of the story. What matters is the intention, the light we try to bring into the world, even when we get things wrong.
A City of Small Moments
On our way home, my daughter Petra spotted a discarded Christmas tree on the sidewalk. She insisted we take it home. When I explained that carrying an entire tree was impossible, we compromised—she broke off a small branch and held it like a treasure.
We walked from Harlem to 59th Street before catching the subway. On the train, Petra sat across from me, her face painted from the party, her branch clutched tightly in her hands. She was exhausted but glowing with happiness. I took out my camera and snapped a quick shot. She moved just as I clicked, and the result reminded me of a scene from Joker—a fleeting, cinematic moment that captured the chaos and beauty of the day.
Against the Darkness
As I looked at Petra’s painted face, I couldn’t ignore the weight I carried. Since 2022, I’ve felt a deep grief for the war crimes committed by Russia, my home country. In the last year, that grief expanded to include the genocide of Palestinians. These are crimes committed by people who share my blood, and it is a guilt I cannot shed.
Watching Katya light the menorah, I thought of the light it cast against the darkening world. I was raised to hide my Jewish roots, to erase parts of myself to survive. But here we were, reclaiming that light, even if imperfectly.
On the subway, as the train rocked us back toward home, I thought about power—how easily it is given to people without empathy, to bureaucrats who decide who gets an education, who gets food, who gets to live. Systems designed to dehumanize, to strip away dignity and agency.
Not in my name.
That was the refrain in my head as I held Petra’s hand and felt the weight of her small treasure. And in the small light of Hanukkah candles, in the mistakes, in the branch she clutched so tightly, I found a way forward: to resist erasure, to remember, and to create beauty from the chaos.
