“Yes, gimme two scrambled eggs, very - and I mean very - well done. Burn ‘em! And I’ll take a nice rye toast with some butta on the side” answered Grandma as the the waitress frantically attempted to record her demands. “You know something? I read the most horrible thing in the paypa this morning.”

“Oh yeah? What happened?” asked my mother apathetically.

“Well, there was a story about this girl who was running in the city, and outta nowhere she was robbed. I don’t know if I like my grandchildren living in Manhattan, just too much crime.” This was her daily warning to us about living in the city. She spoke about it like we were thinking of enlisting in the Marines or going skydiving, both of which would not have gone over well.

“Mom, that was one person who probably went out on their own late at night. I’m sure your grandchildren are smart enough not to do that,” argued Mom.

“Of course they’re smart! I was just telling Maxine across the street about Jordan’s new job. And that’s exactly why I don’t like them living on that island of crime.”

“Grandma, it’s the Upper West Side of Manhattan, not Compton. Calm down a little bit,” I pleaded as she continued to shake her head in fear. She had grown up in Brooklyn, but couldn’t even fathom her grandchildren moving into Manhattan. This was the kind of fear only Jewish grandparents could have. A fear that their precious offspring would live in conditions that aren't totally safe or glamorous. It is a loving and caring fear, but one that can stunt progression and achievement.