A reminiscence: the early years at New York's "Shkola Ukrainoznavstva" (10/24/99)

A reminiscence: the early years at New York's "Shkola Ukrainoznavstva"

by Marta Baczynsky

In a tribute to her alma mater on the occasion of its 50th anniversary in 1999, the author, member of the class of 1955, reminisces about her early years in New York City and in the New York School of Ukrainian Studies.

This article is excerpted from the newly released book "Zolota Knyha Shkoly Ukrainoznavstva, OUA Samopomich u Niu Iorku, 1949-1999" (The Golden Book of the School of Ukrainian Studies, Self-Reliance Association in New York, 1949-1999). The book was released on the eve of the school's 50th anniversary celebration on October 2.

Marta (née Zownir) Baczynsky is a grant writer at The Ukrainian Museum in New York. She served on the editorial board of "Zolota Knyha."

To defray the considerable publication costs of the 368-page commemorative book, which is dedicated to the 178 teachers who taught at the school in the past half century, donations from former students and friends of the school are being accepted. Tax-deductible contributions may be made to Self Reliance Association Parents' Committee, c/o Oksana Andersen, 66046 Gray St., Middle Village, NY 11379; telephone, (718) 326-4319.

The greatest gift I received from the Ukrainian Saturday School was a sense of belonging, a sense of community at a very uncertain time in my life, to say the least.

This was not something I was consciously aware of while I was a student in the school. Actually, it came to me during the process of remembering and examining my recollections of those school years so long ago.

My family - my mother, father and I - were newly arrived immigrants in New York City in 1949. One more uprooting, one more time to become accustomed to new surroundings, a new environment. One more, in a series of many such experiences in my young life.

When I think back to those first days, weeks and months in this great city, myriad scenes come to mind; scenes that vibrate with excitement, their novelty so crisp I can still taste, hear and feel their substance. There was a long and turbulent ocean crossing, then the wonder and majesty of New York - in shocking contrast to our small DP camp in Regensburg, Germany, which, for almost three years, I considered home. To a child these experiences, though thrilling, were overwhelming.

I remember that I enjoyed this most exciting time, but, more often than not, I clung to my parents as the only solid, stable and reliable stronghold of my existence. Outside of their reach there was uncharted territory.

We were an island, the three of us, in a sea of the unfamiliar in Brooklyn, where we lived. Our only link with those like us, and there were many, were Sunday afternoons, after liturgy in front of St. George Ukrainian Catholic Church on Seventh Street in Manhattan. In the late 1940s and early 1950s it was a place to reconnect with friends, a marketplace for valuable information about apartments, jobs, opportunities in the new world. For us kids, it was a chance once a week to renew friendships that had begun on the other side of the Atlantic.

Then it was back to Brooklyn for me - an island in the unfamiliar. Again, the string was broken, waiting to be mended the following Sunday.

I was sent to school, Public School No. 8 in Brooklyn Heights. Here I was a stranger among the Irish and Italians. It was, I remember, a friendly place with friendly people helping me to learn the English language and adjust quickly. In those times and in that school I was the odd one, the only non-English speaking student among 300 others. I was helped and encouraged, but I was not embraced.

Then, some months later, my mother enrolled me in the School of Ukrainian Studies. For both of us, since she had to bring me there, it was a serious trek from Brooklyn to Ninth Street and Avenue C, where in a rented school building classes were held for immigrant Ukrainian children. It was a long subway ride and a long walk from the train, a journey that we repeated three times a week. (Classes in those days were held three times per week.)

After my first session I was most eager to return. In this school the familiar subjects came sharply into focus: Ukrainian history, geography, literature. And, the sense of continuity that had begun in Grade 1 and was disrupted for a while re-established itself.

The best, of course, were the other children. There were some I knew, familiar faces, friends. I didn't have to learn a new language there, for we all spoke the same one. We behaved in a similar fashion, and our values were similar. We knew the story of our past, and it was ours. We had re-established our community. I belonged.

There are many poignant images that come to mind when I think about my experience in the Ukrainian school. I remember the individuals who taught there - many were university professors, people whose professional achievements warranted large lecture halls and post-graduate audiences. Yet, with great decorum and dedication, laced with an enormous amount of patience, they shared their know-how with 10-year-olds. For them, too, this place provided a link with what had been lost.

After a few years I graduated from the School of Ukrainian Studies, a member of the first class claiming that distinction. In time I joined other organizations where the sense of community continued to be reinforced, yet the "Shkola Ukrainoznavstva" was the initial open door through which I stepped into a dear and familiar environment.

The gift of community, which I took from the school from the very first day gave me a great sense of security and allowed courage to take root. I was able to build on that foundation.

| Home Page |