The Melting Pot of Health: When Culture Meets Science
How my Brooklyn Jewish upbringing shaped my approach to public health messaging
Let me share a bit about my family and upbringing (I hope that why I am sharing this will become apparent by the end of this article).
My mother, a first-generation American, was the daughter of Holocaust survivors who fled Nazi-occupied Poland and settled in Brooklyn, NY. They were the sole survivors of their families—everyone else met brutal ends, either shot into graves they were forced to dig or perished in concentration camps. My grandparents fled on foot through the woods of Eastern Europe, losing two children along the way—one murdered moments after birth and the other given to a non-Jewish family. After a stop in Italy (where they had my Uncle Phil), my grandparents eventually reached the U.S., where my mother (Dorothy) was born. Despite the unimaginable horrors they had endured, my grandparents clung to the European traditions that brought them joy—indulging in rich foods and strong drinks not just for sustenance, but as a way to celebrate life and perhaps dull the edges of their painful memories. They settled in Brooklyn, NY– which is where my parents met and my story begins.
My father, Jeff, was a second-generation American and the son of Bob, a produce farmer and avid gambler (from whom my father inherited the habit) and Esther (a strong woman and spitfire who happened to be a three-pack-a-day smoker). Dad was a self-described "streety guy" without any higher education, who often dismissed information that seemed too academic or "ivory tower." This skepticism meant that warnings about the dangers of smoking often fell on deaf ears. By the time the health risks of smoking became mainstream knowledge, he was already deeply addicted – a habit that undoubtedly contributed to his eventual emphysema and bladder cancer (from which he died in December 2019). I spent weekends in Atlantic City's smoke-filled casinos, surrounded by slot machines and alcohol, or tagging along to racetracks and OTB parlors. In the car rides there and back, my father and grandfather chain-smoked with the windows shut—a smoky, gritty environment– that my husband, Ethan (raised in an all-American household to a teacher mother and park ranger father in southern California) still can't fathom. He'd enjoy daily home cooked meals – always with a protein, some kind of grain/starch, and always with a healthy side of salad or some kind of vegetable. I remember the day that Ethan's mother taught me what a salad spinner was– a foreign concept to me! Across the country, my dad and I would go on father-daughter-dates to Edelman's Jewish Deli eating pastrami sandwiches loaded up with coleslaw and Russian dressing and latkes (potato pancakes) fresh out of the fryer. Always with both apple sauce and sour cream. Everything was loaded up with salt (partially because my father’s tastebuds were so warped from decades of smoking) and we’d wash it down with Dr. Brown’s cream soda.
I grew up in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn—also known as Little Odessa by the sea—a neighborhood full of Eastern European refugees from Russia and Ukraine. The stores and restaurants displayed Cyrillic signs, and while I wasn't Russian, I grew up speaking, understanding, and reading much of the language, immersed in a culture quite different from mainstream America.
Lunches with my grandmother Olga were filled with joy despite the hardships she had survived. We would sit for hours eating pierogi (or vareniki), buttery potato dumplings topped with fried onions. My favorite dish was chicken Kiev—a chicken breast stuffed with a generous pad of butter and then deep-fried until golden brown. Cutting into it, the butter would spill out, creating a rich, indulgent meal. My second favorite dish was schnitzel– essentially a fried chicken cutlet– with a fried egg on top. Dessert was usually crepes slathered in fruit preserves and sour cream, or pastries filled with sour cherries. We were always surrounded by people—toughened by life—drinking vodka like water and chain-smoking cigarettes. It felt like we had a direct line to the old country. Food was intrinsically linked to my family's traditions and history.
With both of my parents working long hours, meals often consisted of heavy restaurant dishes or Swanson TV dinners—I can still taste the Salisbury steak and those overcooked brownies! My social life was also influenced by diverse cultures, as I spent weekends at hookah bars with friends, puffing on water pipes filled with flavored tobacco and dancing to lively Middle Eastern music. This was my life and upbringing in south Brooklyn. Rich with cultural influences– many of which aren't exactly making the list of health recommendations!
Is this what you'd expect from a public health scientist?
Probably not. But this was my reality– and my upbringing shaped me and who I am today. I look back fondly on those memories and cultural experiences– as unhealthy as many of them were. And every culture has their own version of this– foods and traditions that might not meet the definitions of "healthy" that many of us have come to accept.
But it's not just about food. Our family histories and cultural backgrounds shape how we interact with all aspects of health and wellness. Many of the Russians I grew up with have an inherent mistrust of the government based on their experiences from their home countries, which they often fled due to political or religious persecution. This mistrust can extend to public health initiatives and medical recommendations.
I've had conversations with members of the Black community who have cited historical injustices like the unconscionable Tuskegee experiment as reasons for vaccine hesitancy. I’ve also come to learn that, in many cultures, seeking mental healthcare is stigmatized as a sign of weakness. Moreover, cultural barriers often create significant obstacles to seeking mental health care. In many communities, mental health issues are heavily stigmatized, seen as a sign of weakness or personal failure rather than a medical condition requiring treatment. This stigma can prevent individuals from seeking the help they need, leading to untreated mental health issues and potentially exacerbating other health problems.
These experiences have profoundly shaped my approach as a public health scientist and communicator. During my scientific training, I was taught to view health behaviors through a binary lens of "good" and "bad," based on clear data showing the risks associated with excess sugar, salt, and alcohol consumption. I became almost militant in my views, armed with statistics and studies.
However, as I ventured into science communication, I realized that data, while crucial, tells only part of the story. Just as in data science, where we strive to include all relevant variables in our models to increase their accuracy and predictive power, I came to understand that cultural background, family history, and personal experiences are essential variables in the complex equation of human health behaviors.
I learned that dismissing these practices outright was not only ineffective but could also be harmful, potentially alienating the very people I was trying to help.
Instead of categorizing behaviors as strictly "good" or "bad," I now focus on promoting balance, understanding, and overall well-being. Rather than dismissing traditional practices, I encourage adaptations that honor cultural heritage while promoting health.
This shift in perspective has led me to develop a more nuanced approach:
I strive to understand the cultural context before making recommendations, appreciating the importance of certain practices and beliefs.
I avoid moralizing behaviors, instead using language that promotes balance and understanding.
I incorporate positive messaging, focusing on what can be added to improve health rather than what must be removed.
I collaborate with community leaders and cultural insiders whenever possible to frame health recommendations in ways that resonate with cultural values.
As a public health scientist with deep roots in a culture rich with practices that don't always align with modern health guidelines, I've learned to navigate this complex terrain. I cherish the memories and traditions of my upbringing, while also understanding the importance of balance and adapting for better health. I've come to realize it's not about abandoning our cultural heritage, but about finding ways to honor it while taking care of our health. Our cultural identity and our well-being are both integral parts of who we are, and they don't have to be in conflict.
In the end, recognizing the diverse experiences that shape people's health beliefs and behaviors has become as crucial to my work as analyzing data. It allows me to approach public health with empathy, understanding, and respect. Just as in data science, where a more comprehensive model leads to better predictions, this inclusive approach to health communication leads to more effective and impactful public health initiatives.
As we say in Yiddish, zei gezunt (“be well“)!
xo,
Jess