Mom: Anny Sivertsen, little bro: Roy Andersen, uncle: Reider Andersen, older bro: Charles Sivertsen, mormor (grandmother): Kristi Andersen, me: Liz Sivertsen-Klosowski. Photo courtesy of Liz Sivertsen-Klosowski
As a kid growing up in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, I knew our family was “different” from the rest of the neighborhood. For one, we were NOT Italian. Bensonhurst was predominantly Italian-Catholic back in the 50s and 60s. All the kids in the neighborhood had dark hair and brown eyes – as Norwegian kids, we stuck out like sore thumbs being blonde and blue-eyed! Mom never lost her sweet Norwegian accent, and the neighbors found it very charming. The only time I wanted to be more like the other kids on the block was when the little girls got to wear those beautiful “bride” dresses and veils when they celebrated their First Holy Communion… BOY did I wish our Norwegian Pentecostal Protestant church did that too! More on our church later.
My parents were born in Norway (in or around Bergen) and immigrated to Brooklyn after the birth of my oldest brother in the early 1950’s. My other two brothers and I were born in Brooklyn. We always kept our Norwegian traditions alive at home. We all had our own hand made woolen lusekoft with matching hat and mittens. In wintertime, those mittens always got soaked after hours of making snow angels and snowmen in the backyard!
And then there was the Norwegian food. The food in our refrigerator did NOT resemble that of our predominantly Italian neighbors. Whenever we had company for kaffetid, rather than pick up cannoli’s from the local Italian bakery, Mom would prepare homemade vafler (waffles) and lefse with fresh hot coffee – always served in dainty Norwegian coffee cups and saucers, sukkerbiter with special silver tongs, and those tiny Norwegian coffee spoons – all freshly polished. The coffee table was always set with a neatly pressed, beautifully hand embroidered tablecloth.
For dinner, rather than spaghetti and meatballs with gravy (we called it tomato sauce) there was kjøttkaker (meat paddies) , fiskekaker (fish cakes), fiskeboller (fish balls), pølse (sausage) and other traditional Norwegian meals – always served with potatoes. Dinner (middag) was normally served in the evenings Monday through Saturday; but on Sunday, we usually had “middag” served early afternoon, right after church.
Our fridge was stocked with a variety of Norwegian cheeses: nokkelost, gjestost, primula and, of course, gammelost… ah, gammelost. Mom used to pack our lunches for school and we usually had some kind of Norwegian sandwich with us. One day, during our lunch break in class, I grabbed a brown bag lunch from the shelf, and was pleasantly surprised to see it was an “American” sandwich – tuna salad and a fresh pear! I was so excited until a classmate came over to my desk with tears streaming down her face crying, “I think you took my sandwich!” She sadly showed me the gammelost sandwich that was actually mine. I had mistakenly taken her lunch, and boy – she was not happy!
When I was about 7 or 8 years old, my Bestemor (mormor) in Norway made me a beautiful Hardangerbunad which I proudly wore to the annual Syttende mai parade on 8th Avenue in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. I also wore it to school every 17th of May (while it still fit) and was my own living “show-and-tell” for the day, displaying my Norwegian heritage to several other classes. To this day, I’m a little bit unclear as to whether I actually said anything about my bunad… I was painfully shy back then and can’t imagine I actually spoke a word. I’m wondering whether I just showed up, stood in front of the class and kept my mouth shut! However, if the teacher asked me a question, I’m sure I would have answered her – I was way too polite not to respond. Always the dutiful little Norwegian girl.
As kids, Christmastime always meant being part of a special Sunday School program at church. We grew up at Salem Gospel Tabernacle on 4th Avenue and 54th Street in Brooklyn. It was a small Norwegian Pentecostal church, although services were spoken in English. I remember most of the grownups had strong Norwegian accents. We Sunday School kids had special Bible verses to memorize and recite for the annual Christmas program. It was so scary to be standing up on the platform (along with the rest of the class), then walk up to the microphone and nervously recite the verse that you had worked so hard to memorize – and hopefully, you remembered it as your voice boomed throughout the sanctuary, completely packed on that special Christmas service morning. In addition to reciting my Bible verses, I was usually asked to sing a solo as part of the program. “Away in a Manger” was one of my favorites. Perhaps the funniest memory was when my baby brother’s class was set to do their program. When it came his turn to step up to the microphone, his little voice could be heard throughout the sanctuary declaring, “The words are stuck in me…!” Well, the church roared with laughter! I can’t remember whether I felt mortified, proud, or just sorry for him. After the Christmas program was over, we each received a small box of chocolates. Chocolates… YUM! That made it all worth the hard work!
Our family was also different from the rest of the neighborhood when it came to the holidays. On Christmas Eve, it was only our immediate family seated at the dinner table. Our Bestemor, Bestefar, many aunts, uncles, cousins – all lived in Norway (near or in Bergen). But back at our home on Bay 10th Street, we were all adorned in our Sunday best; the silver had been freshly polished; the finest, hand-stitched Christmas tablecloth had been pressed, along with matching napkins, and placed lovingly on the dining room table, along with the best china. The candles in the centerpiece were lit. All this special Christmas finery was just for us – no special company this time – just us. I felt special and loved.
During the weeks leading up to Christmas, Mom was busy baking a variety of delicious traditional Norwegian Christmas cookies such as hjortebakkels, serinerkake, krumkake and sandbakkelser. But for me, the best part was snacking on chunks of the cookie dough Mom had put in the refrigerator to allow to chill. By the time Mom was ready to bake, half the cookie dough was gone!
. Sometimes Mom would serve risengrynsgrøt (rice porridge) and would put one almond into the pot. Whoever got the almond in their bowl would “win” a small marzipan pig. But my favorite part of the meal was the dessert – Riskrem med rød bærsaus – YUM!!! And, as always, we were never to leave the table before saying, “takk for maten” and having Mom respond with “værsågod.”
But for me, the best part of being “different” was the fact that we got to open our gifts right after Christmas Eve dinner was finished – but NOT before the kitchen was completely clean and everything put away… the hardest wait EVER!! Meanwhile, the rest of my friends in the neighborhood had to wait until Christmas morning to open their gifts.
The role of Santa was never a big deal in our home. Although we played around with the idea of Santa… and “Santa” may have made a visit now and then… it was never a big deal. We all knew it was just fun and never expected Santa to arrive with his reindeer, sneak through the chimney and place gifts under the tree.
As for the true meaning of Christmas – it was always made clear that we were celebrating the fact that Jesus was sent to us from God. He was God’s own Son who came as a baby, born in a manager to humble parents who loved God and were chosen because their hearts were right with God. He was sent as God’s gift to us – to redeem us from sin – to pay the price for our salvation and purchase our right to an eternal home in Heaven.
Yes, we were “different” from the rest of our Brooklyn neighbors; but I’m thankful for my loving upbringing and for being raised with a strong foundation of Christian faith.
Submitted by Liz Sivertsen Klosowski
Green Brook, New Jersey