What Freedom Means to Me: An Independence Day Reflection
- Mickey Miller
- Jul 4, 2025
- 4 min read
This morning, as fireworks begin to crackle and flags wave on every porch, I find myself sitting in deep thought rather than celebration. Today isn’t about hot dogs and sparklers for me. It’s about history—my history. And it’s about truth.
What pains me is how many people now celebrate hate, racism, and wealth—while ignoring the suffering around them. How the word “freedom” is often twisted to fit only a select few. How so many wrap themselves in the flag while forgetting what it was supposed to stand for.
My great-grandmother, Sheindel Bromberg—known to me as Grandma Sonia—was just a teenager when she left Odessa, Ukraine (what was considered Russia at the time). She and her twin sister boarded a boat in Hamburg, Germany in 1913 and made their way to New York. Sheindel became Sophie Sonia Bromberg. She spoke Yiddish and Russian fluently. She was a proud Jewish girl fleeing persecution for the dream of a better life.
And she didn’t just survive—she thrived. After settling in New York, she became a nurse, a profession that reflected who she was: nurturing, strong, and endlessly giving. She met Lawerence Schwartzman, a Polish Jew and fellow immigrant, and they built a family together. But tragedy struck early—Lawerence passed away when their son, my grandfather Victor, was just 18.
Grandma Sonia never remarried. She worked hard, raised two boys on her own, and later helped raise their children, too. Her strength wasn’t just quiet—it was powerful. She was the backbone of our family.
And I remember her vividly.
She was loving, caring, and full of life. She was short, chubby, always walking with a cane. If my brother or I did something wrong, she’d lift that cane in the air and yell at us in a mix of Yiddish and Russian—we never really understood what she was saying, but we got the message loud and clear! That cane was her warning signal, and somehow even that felt like love. That memory lives in me.
I started learning pieces of this history in my late 30s, but it all became real—undeniable—in 2022, when my oldest son gifted us all 23andMe kits. A few months before my mom passed, I got the results. My mom never got to see hers, but I did. She was almost 99% Ashkenazi Jewish, with a trace of Iranian and Indian ancestry. I wish she’d known. I wish she’d had that moment of connection.
My results came back 50% Ashkenazi Jewish and 50% German. Suddenly, I understood who I was on a deeper level.
That sent me down the rabbit hole. I learned that my great-grandparents, Aaron and Sadie Manber, are buried in a famous Jewish cemetery in New York City. I learned about the Russian pogroms—violent massacres of Jews—that were happening around the time Grandma Sonia fled. And from my aunt, I learned the most heartbreaking detail: Sonia never saw her parents again. They were murdered in a pogrom simply for being Jewish.
That history hit me like a punch to the chest.
Her son, my grandfather Victor, changed his last name from Schwartzman to Shaw—maybe to hide that Jewish identity. That’s heavy to think about. But Grandpa Shaw never stopped standing for what mattered. He was arrested for protesting, and later pardoned by the President under the condition he train war dogs. He taught me that protesting is not just a right—it’s a duty. That if you believe in something, you stand up, even if it’s uncomfortable.
As a child, I was quiet and shy. But his words stayed with me. And now? You all know—I speak my mind. That strength came from him.
I didn’t get to know much of the Manber side of my family, but I did meet my Uncle Abe—a millionaire who lived simply, dressed in jeans and t-shirts, and gave freely to those in need. He once offered my mom a house in Boca Raton, Florida, in a gated community. As a teenager, I begged her to take it. But she said no. She was raised to work hard for what you have, and that’s exactly how she raised us. I understand now.
On my father’s side, more immigrant roots. His mother was from Canada. She came to the U.S., never became a citizen—even after marrying my American grandfather. His parents had also come over by boat from Germany.
So yeah—immigrants built me. Jews, Germans, Canadians. Survivors. Fighters. Dreamers. Builders.
And that’s what I want people to understand today:
I wouldn’t even be an American citizen if not for my immigrant family.
I carry them with me—every day. Their resilience. Their fear. Their hope. Their loss. Their dreams. That’s what I’m honoring today—not fireworks, not flags, but them. Their belief that this country could be something better.
So while others celebrate “freedom,” I’m sitting with the truth. Real freedom isn’t reserved for the loudest, richest, or whitest. Real freedom is something we keep fighting for—for everyone.
To my great-grandparents, my grandparents, and every ancestor who risked it all: I see you. I remember you. I am you.
This is my story.
And this, whether people like it or not, is America’s story too.
Peace, Love and Loud Music,
Mickey
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