Immigrant Grandparents: the OG Reduce, Reuse, Recyclers

Hoards of glass jars litter grandmother’s cabinets and rarely collect dust. The smell of Goo Gone, a self-explanatory label remover with a strong chemical orange scent, reminds me of my childhood. During the summer, while many kids played aimlessly outside, I spent my days collecting summer fruits and juicing them into worn-out plastic containers that would sit at the bottom of a 30-year-old deep freezer for months until needed. At the time, I didn’t understand my grandmother’s insistence on saving every item she encountered, from glass jars and plastic bags, to Cool Whip containers and scraps of vegetables. Don’t most people simply throw these things in the trash?

I am about as iron curtain as they come, with Slavic genes running deep on both sides of the family. My grandmother’s family immigrated to a farm in Michigan alongside many other Eastern European immigrants in the early 1900s. My grandfather’s side, I don’t know much about, but the story as I am aware is very similar. I was raised by my grandparents for most of my young life as I have a single mom, which ironically is another telltale stereotype of Eastern Europeans. She worked across the country teaching maternal fetal medicine and for your sake and my own, I will not explain her field of expertise. 

Alongside the onions and root vegetables sits a collection of jars used to collect cooked-off fat and for pickling. Photo by Jd Preslicka

Because of this upbringing, I had lived a very old-world life. My favorite food was canned fish, my grandmother had a vast garden that was green all year long, and most importantly there were a lot of odd customs.  

Many are quick to judge the “hoarding” nature of immigrants, whether that be on their stockpiles of food, more than enough to feed an army, or every document from the last 10 years sitting in the corner of the kitchen bar. Even my mother had a hard time with this clutter growing up, and as a result has now become minimalist with character. However, although she stopped collecting fine china, a cabinet still stands in the corner of the living room housing her precious porcelain.

People often forget what life was like for immigrants in their homeland. In the United States, everyday goods are easily accessible, but this isn’t the case around the world. My elders come from a cold climate plagued with food scarcity, and because they were a part of the working class, a myriad of food wasn't something they saw all year round. Because of these circumstances and the 14 siblings my grandmother had growing up, it’s not a surprise that she believes everything can be repurposed. 

For children who grow up in immigrant households, it’s our nature to be resourceful; to share a plentiful harvest with neighbors, to give a lending hand, to pick fruit hanging over the sides of neighborhood walls, and to understand that besides fruit, many things in life do not grow on trees. Why spend five dollars on a mason jar when a used pasta sauce jar is free? Our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents had to be more creative than that. Scarcity leads to creativity and the generations before us did this far before we were born. 

A rain bucket sits in my grandmother’s backyard all year round. Instead of using the hose she repurposes rainwater to water her plants. Photo by Jd Preslicka

American life puts immigrants between a rock and a hard place, and for their American-raised children, an even more difficult one. If you’re like me and have lacked an Eastern European community your whole life, all you have is family. So, when cultural habits are judged, you take it quite personally. Assimilation into a consumerist way of life is something that you are against by nature, but it doesn’t make the judgment of others any easier.

Although I’ve never resented my family for the way I was raised, I did question why we were so different from other families. I remember going to school hungry for days because I had told my grandfather I didn’t want to eat yogurt for breakfast. My mother had heard me through the phone and yelled at me for not respecting my grandfather. I still haven’t felt guilt that strong, and never wish to ever again. But in our culture, disrespect – and denial of any food for that matter – is of the utmost punishment. So, I went to school hungry and the other kids teased me. 

Culture is something that remains unchallenged within your own home, so when learning how others navigate their daily lives you may question their practices. For example, I recently learned that keeping the window open when you sleep at night does NOT make you sick. A Balkan friend of mine dorms at a fancy school atop a hill that doesn't have air conditioning. He had mentioned to me that he always kept the windows open, even at night. Upon hearing this, I anxiously replied, “How have you not gotten sick yet?” His girlfriend looked at me very confused before he turned to her and stated, “It’s an Eastern European belief, and no, it does not actually make you sick.”

Why should a juice container go to waste? It’s a perfect quick vessel to water smaller fruits in the garden so the leaves don’t burn in the sun. Photo by Jd Preslicka

This interaction had me questioning my other cultural differences from that point on. I began to examine how I had grown up and looked back on times where others have given me a puzzling look over my daily practices, including my grandmother’s habits. Single-use Chinese takeout containers? That can store leftovers. Food scraps? That can be used as compost for the garden. Used spray bottles? Add a vinegar-water solution and you have an all-purpose cleaner. These habits have been passed down as if they were sacred knowledge, even if it doesn’t make sense to others.

As I’ve gotten older and have been able to distinguish between my background and others, I have learned to judge my family less for their habits. In reality, they are far more environmentally conscious than most people. Also, it’s a disservice to myself to not carry on these traditions. It’s how I’ve been socialized, just not in a typical American way. If others find that odd, it doesn’t affect me, no matter how strange it may seem.

Now, when I wash my used pickle jar and place it in my cabinet, not only am I saving myself five dollars, but I’m also carrying on tradition. No matter how miniscule as it may seem, they too will never collect dust and most likely be used to pickle some root vegetables that my mother grew in her garden.