Intergenerational Naches

In Yiddish, the word naches means a soulful kind of pride—a joy that wells up when witnessing the accomplishments of one’s children or grandchildren. On the day I received my master’s degree from the Emil A. and Jenny Fish Center for Holocaust and Genocide Studies at Yeshiva University, I experienced naches in its purest form—because I wasn’t the only graduate in my family. Two of my grandsons, Adam and Josh, were graduating from Yeshiva University as well, from the Sy Syms School of Business.

My class walked first in the procession. As I walked toward the stage, my husband spotted me and stepped into the line beside me. He embraced me in the biggest hug, and with a choked, emotional voice whispered, “You did it.”

When my name was called, it was spoken in full—including my maiden name, which I had chosen to use as my middle name. It was my quiet tribute to my parents, Holocaust survivors who never had the opportunity to pursue higher education. Speaking their name aloud in that sacred moment was a way of bringing them with me onto the stage.

As I was walking to the stage, I had an epiphany. What if I asked Rabbi Dr. Ari Berman, president of Yeshiva University, if I could accompany my two graduating grandsons?

When I reached the stage, Rabbi Dr. Ari Berman and other dignitaries were there to greet the graduates. I leaned in and asked Rabbi Berman, “Would it be all right if I walked again—with my grandsons?” He smiled warmly and replied without hesitation, “Of course.”

And so, later in the ceremony, when my grandsons were called, the three of us came on stage together. As we stood there side by side, Rabbi Berman had us turn to face the photographer. He wanted the moment captured: a grandmother and her two grandsons, united across generations by family, memory, and learning.

Together, we walked across the stage—three degrees, one legacy.

I was almost certainly the oldest graduate among all the schools represented that day. But in that moment, I felt timeless. I was buoyed by applause, mazal tovs, and knowing smiles from all around. The day happened to be my 78th birthday, but that was merely a lovely coincidence. The real celebration—the real gift—was standing between my grandsons, and sharing a moment we would never forget.

As I walked between them, I thought of where it all began—Zeilsheim, the Displaced Persons camp outside Frankfurt where my parents met and married after the Holocaust. It was where I was born. They had arrived there with nothing but their grief and resilience. Their dream had been simple: to survive. Their hope was for their children to thrive. They couldn’t have imagined this moment, but I carried it out in their name.

This degree was not mine alone. It was an offering to their memory—a symbol of how far their strength had carried us. To receive it on the same day, and on the same stage, as my grandsons was more than I ever dreamed. It felt like something larger than a graduation. It felt like a blessing.

The next day, as I flew home, TSA flagged my suitcase. A female agent opened it, spotted the neatly folded cap and gown, and looked up at me. “Are you the graduate?” she asked. When I nodded, her face broke into a smile. “Really? What did you get your degree in?”

So there I stood, barefoot at a checkpoint, telling a stranger I had just received my master’s from the Emil A. and Jenny Fish Center for Holocaust and Genocide Studies—and that I had walked across the stage with my grandsons.

She congratulated me with sincere joy. And in that quiet, unexpected moment, I felt one last ripple of naches—unspoken, but deeply understood. A simple exchange that reminded me: we carry our history not only in ceremony, but in conversation, in memory, and in the small, beautiful moments that follow us home.