I live on Liberty Street, in a house that dates back to 1787, to the origins of our democracy, and it has taken many centuries to get me here. My husband and I moved into this house, which everyone in our village calls ​“the round house,” sixteen years ago. I was attracted to the street sign, Liberty, first, before I saw the house. Filled with meaning, that street sign is the reason my parents came to this country in 1921 during the Russian Revolution. They fled Rozan, Poland, where my father’s family had a flour mill and my mother’s family were bakers. With fits and starts, my parents, a young, just married couple, traveled across Europe, leaving their families behind. I have often wondered about how they all felt — my parents who left and their loved one who stayed, knowing that they would probably never see each other again. 

My parents lost a lot leaving their homes. Their decision to leave was painful, and both of them were close mouthed about what they witnessed in Poland. My mother’s ghosts lived with us, prompting her mournful cries of grief in the night. In spite of all that, they saw in this country, America, hope. It was a future for their children. They came here not just because they wanted to escape their suffering, but they wanted a better future for the next generation, a future that held possibility. And they knew they were safer here. Safety was not on the radar in Eastern Europe.

My parents were so happy to be here and loved this country. They smiled whenever they spoke about ​“my America.” My father never stopped helping others to escape oppression. He did what he needed to do to bring over some family and a number of friends. My sisters and I benefitted from, ​“life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Liberty lived inside both my mother and father, a moral compass, DNA passed along to their children. It is their gift and our responsibility. With liberty comes freedom. We get to choose all the little things as well as the big dreams.