My Dad vetoed setting up a household in Marquette Park. He announced that he'd lived in a DP camp long enough, and he did not want to duplicate that experience.
My Parents instead chose to live in a small suburb about nine miles outside of the loop. There was a nest of Lithuanian families in that suburb. Despite their presence, those of us who grew up outside of Marquette Park never were immersed fully in the motherland's culture. It's true that I didn't speak English until I started Kindergarten. But many of the Marquette Park kids continued to speak English with a Lithuanian accent into adulthood. Although the Marquette Parkers could go around the corner and get a plate of Kugelis whenever they had a craving for it, I don't think many of them met a non-Lithuanian—or a non-Catholic—until they started college. Many of those first-generation children seemed themselves displaced, not quite assimilated into American culture.
We sometimes visited the "Lithuanian core." Dad occasionally exhibited photos at the Lithuanian Youth Center, and, during the holidays, we shopped at the Lithuanian delis that carried the foods served at Kūčios. We never, however, were knitted into the social fabric of Marquette Park.
The suburbanites ensured that their children connected with their Lithuanian culture. We attended Lithuanian Saturday school. There, we learned to read, write, recite poetry, and folk dance. In the autumn, our Lithuanians hosted a formal dinner dance. In the summer, they organized picnics at which we ate Lithuanian food and played Lithuanian games.
Finally, the Lithuanian families in our suburb took turns hosting the annual New Year's Eve party and Christmas Day dinners.
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The suburban Lithuanians did a good job. I married Mr. Irene—who grew up in the same suburb—and we still speak Lithuanian at home.
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