Late afternoon at the grocery store. My Tato is watching his wnuczki while I run to the store and buy some milk, bread, frozen lasagna, and some ready-made salads for my lunches.
I'm waiting in line behind a Hispanic couple. The woman has a child on her hip, thumb in her little mouth, less than 1 year old. There are two other children in the plastic red car shaped shopping cart. None are old enough to be in school yet.
They have a gallon of milk and bread for their purchase. That's all.
The man is trying to pay for the food with a WIC check. He's confused. The woman is quiet and looking on, you can see she is stressed. Their clothing is mismatched, stretched, the way clothing looks when you are given final hand-me-downs. The woman doesn't have makeup on and you can tell she tried to do the best she could with her hair with an extremely limiting budget. They only speak Spanish.
The check is old, it expired a couple of days ago. They flip through their WIC folder with the cashier. There are no new checks.
I feel uncomfortable. I'm not sure how I understand the conversation. Body language, Dora the Explorer, an insane amount of curiosity (or am I too proud to say that I'm nosey?).
They pull to the side and start talking to one another in whispers. The cashier starts to ring me up while another worker goes to put their items back.
"Stop. I'll buy their milk and bread."
The workers pause, look at me as if I have three heads. I blush. I gesture to the family and tell the cashier, "I don't speak Spanish. Could you please tell them not to leave? I need to buy their bread and milk."
I mean it. I need to.
What is $5? Perhaps dinner for that family. A family that lives in my community. A family with three small children and two parents who are obviously just trying.
I'm still blushing. I toss a smile on my face because I know the last thing that family needs is a look of pity and I'm not sure what my face is communicating. I don't feel pity. Pity means you can't relate to the person but still feel sorrow for them.
And I can relate. That mother and father, they are in the same position as my parents were years ago. And nobody gave a shit when my parents were at the store and unable to buy something as simple as bread and milk for my brother and I.
The cashier walks over to the mother, talks to her in Spanish, gestures to me, and I put my hands together, almost in prayer.
My thoughts...
Please, just let me. It's only milk. I need this as much as you do. Please.
The mother looks at her husband, he glances, shrugs his shoulders in a way that men are so capable of doing. He looks down at his feet, turns slightly so that his shoulder is pointing at me.
His body language says it all...
I'm embarrassed. I can't provide for my family. But we need this. Don't make eye contact with me, don't see the look on my face.
But he knows as much as I do, children come before pride.
I'm mentally kicking myself. I just embarrassed them. It wasn't my intention. But I needed to help.
The mother walks up, nods her head at me, takes the milk the cashier hands her. She refuses the bread. I understand. That would be too much pride lost.
It's just a gallon of milk. But it's infinitely more.
They walk away. I take a deep breathe. I say a mental prayer. For them, for me, for everyone and everything. God, give us strength to give help and to accept help.
Na razie...
A Mama born in Poland with "Gypsy Blood" living on the American Prairie with her daughters, two future Miss Poland and Nobel Peace prize recipients :: Food, Travel, Life...
Showing posts with label Immigrant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Immigrant. Show all posts
17 September 2012
08 May 2012
The Holes in the Walls
I realize more and more how differently I am changing as a person as I grow older and lose more and more pieces of my ancestry, my nation's and family's history. How little I know and understand.
I'll probably never know because the chance to move back to Poland fades away further and further with each day and with each piece of this beautiful yet tragedy filled heritage that I am losing.
When I was pregnant the first time, I went to Poland to visit my family and attend the wedding of one of my dear cousins.
My cousins, their husbands, and I went out one night for a few beers together. I only drank mineral water with fruit syrup in it but toasted with them just the same, since I was pregnant.
We went to the Rynek in Wroclaw and sat at a table in one of the very narrow outdoor corridors of the Cloth Hall. We sat for a few hours, laughing about everything and just enjoying the company of young family.
After a while, we had to leave because a resident above the corridor complained that we were being too loud. We were truthfully not being very loud. However, a group of loud drunk German tourists had just walked by singing German songs with all their might.
As we walked back to our place, I saw some holes in the walls of a few buildings right off of the Rynek. I had never noticed them before.
It looked as though 1 inch circular chunks had been knocked out in an odd pattern at the height of a person's head.
They had been painted over many times in a green color.
It didn't dawn on me what they were. I have not lived for a long time around history. And with history, comes the death of those who passed before us.
I asked my oldest cousin why they had not been fixed, perhaps plastered over.
She gave me an odd look, not a look of disgust or irritation, perhaps more of confusion that it wasn't apparent to me what they were. She said "Kasiu, that's where people were killed by the Nazis."
I immediately apologized and realized what they were.
Bullet holes.
Either they hit the target or passed through it. The target, the victim, most likely a Pole.
In the near darkness, suddenly the holes became clearer to me and I saw many many more around us.
It dawned on me that I had seen many many more in my travels through Poland and had just never realized what they were. Because where I live now, where my parents brought me, the biggest reminder of war is on the news in lands far far away from me.
We kept walking by the holes in the walls.
Na razie...
Related Posts:
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Wordless Wednesday
A Love Letter to My Home Town, Wroclaw
I'll probably never know because the chance to move back to Poland fades away further and further with each day and with each piece of this beautiful yet tragedy filled heritage that I am losing.
When I was pregnant the first time, I went to Poland to visit my family and attend the wedding of one of my dear cousins.
My cousins, their husbands, and I went out one night for a few beers together. I only drank mineral water with fruit syrup in it but toasted with them just the same, since I was pregnant.
We went to the Rynek in Wroclaw and sat at a table in one of the very narrow outdoor corridors of the Cloth Hall. We sat for a few hours, laughing about everything and just enjoying the company of young family.
After a while, we had to leave because a resident above the corridor complained that we were being too loud. We were truthfully not being very loud. However, a group of loud drunk German tourists had just walked by singing German songs with all their might.
As we walked back to our place, I saw some holes in the walls of a few buildings right off of the Rynek. I had never noticed them before.
It looked as though 1 inch circular chunks had been knocked out in an odd pattern at the height of a person's head.
They had been painted over many times in a green color.
It didn't dawn on me what they were. I have not lived for a long time around history. And with history, comes the death of those who passed before us.
I asked my oldest cousin why they had not been fixed, perhaps plastered over.
She gave me an odd look, not a look of disgust or irritation, perhaps more of confusion that it wasn't apparent to me what they were. She said "Kasiu, that's where people were killed by the Nazis."
I immediately apologized and realized what they were.
Bullet holes.
Either they hit the target or passed through it. The target, the victim, most likely a Pole.
In the near darkness, suddenly the holes became clearer to me and I saw many many more around us.
It dawned on me that I had seen many many more in my travels through Poland and had just never realized what they were. Because where I live now, where my parents brought me, the biggest reminder of war is on the news in lands far far away from me.
We kept walking by the holes in the walls.
Na razie...
Related Posts:
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Wordless Wednesday
A Love Letter to My Home Town, Wroclaw
08 February 2012
Word(y) Wednesday: We Learned English
I'm sentimental. I keep objects around me that remind me, give me strength.
These are the books I remember my parents pouring over at the dining room table, pencil and small notepads in hand. Copying down words, sounding them out, writing them in sentences, erasing, rewriting.
Asking me if I knew a word once I was in school.
Writing and rewriting on small pieces of paper, checkered with blue lines. The typical paper on which letters were written and mailed back and forth between family in Poland. Letters that took one month to arrive to the USA, another month for the reply to be delivered in Poland.
My Tato (father) took a few English language classes for free after we came here. My mother didn't. Both poured themselves into Amerikan television, repeating sentences. Reading books borrowed from the library, found at yard sales, anywhere we could get them.
Stumbling over computer programming books written in English when computers first came out, because my Tato said that it "is the future"-even when others laughed at such a silly idea as computers.
Playing Rolling Stone songs and singing along. Trying and trying and trying again.
To learn English because we came to Amerika. We wanted to success, to be able to eat better food than boiled white rice, one extremely cheap piece of chicken or hot dog per person, a can of vegetables split between a family of four.
We wanted a hard earned piece of the Amerikan Dream. And the Amerikan Dream didn't involve anyone learning Polish for our benefit. It involved us learning English. Or else living in poverty forever with no future at all.
I look at those books and remember struggle. Persistence. Tears of frustration. Stumbled words. Trying and trying again.
Accents that I didn't hear because to me, they weren't accents. It's how we spoke.
I look at those books and I know all we lost and all we gained.
I would look up at Church and read the PNCC motto "With Truth, Work, and Struggle, We Will Succeed" and feel it deep in my heart because I knew it was true.
I know we are strong.
Na razie...
Related Posts:
My Feet in Two Worlds, The Brutally Honest Truth of It
Bigger Picture Moments: Soft Boiled Eggs and a Reminder of a World of Love
Another Immigrant Family
Our Life Changing Anniversary
My husband says I'm a pack rat. But I use these items. They aren't clutter that sit collecting dust, having no value to anyone at all.
One of the things I love to collect are books. I have 4 full sized bookcases filled with books.
Some of the books I have a special place for are the books that remind me of our coming to Amerika.
These are the books I remember my parents pouring over at the dining room table, pencil and small notepads in hand. Copying down words, sounding them out, writing them in sentences, erasing, rewriting.
Asking me if I knew a word once I was in school.
Writing and rewriting on small pieces of paper, checkered with blue lines. The typical paper on which letters were written and mailed back and forth between family in Poland. Letters that took one month to arrive to the USA, another month for the reply to be delivered in Poland.
My Tato (father) took a few English language classes for free after we came here. My mother didn't. Both poured themselves into Amerikan television, repeating sentences. Reading books borrowed from the library, found at yard sales, anywhere we could get them.
Stumbling over computer programming books written in English when computers first came out, because my Tato said that it "is the future"-even when others laughed at such a silly idea as computers.
Playing Rolling Stone songs and singing along. Trying and trying and trying again.
To learn English because we came to Amerika. We wanted to success, to be able to eat better food than boiled white rice, one extremely cheap piece of chicken or hot dog per person, a can of vegetables split between a family of four.
We wanted a hard earned piece of the Amerikan Dream. And the Amerikan Dream didn't involve anyone learning Polish for our benefit. It involved us learning English. Or else living in poverty forever with no future at all.
I look at those books and remember struggle. Persistence. Tears of frustration. Stumbled words. Trying and trying again.
Accents that I didn't hear because to me, they weren't accents. It's how we spoke.
I look at those books and I know all we lost and all we gained.
I would look up at Church and read the PNCC motto "With Truth, Work, and Struggle, We Will Succeed" and feel it deep in my heart because I knew it was true.
I know we are strong.
Na razie...
Related Posts:
My Feet in Two Worlds, The Brutally Honest Truth of It
Bigger Picture Moments: Soft Boiled Eggs and a Reminder of a World of Love
Another Immigrant Family
Our Life Changing Anniversary
28 December 2011
Wordless Wednesday: The Wigilia Feast
Wigilia has ended but I thought I would share a photo of our table. We have been snacking on ham, stuffed eggs, kielbasa, bigos and other goodies the past few days as well.
The red candle in the center is from our first Wigilia in the USA. We still use it and light it. To remember.
Na razie...
The red candle in the center is from our first Wigilia in the USA. We still use it and light it. To remember.
Na razie...
30 November 2011
Wordless Wednesday: Wodka from a Polish Wedding
I was thinking of my cousins lately and missing them. This is why I hate the holidays silently.
In moods like this, I take out whatever I have to look at and hold that reminds me of them and I silently reflect on our times together and how amazing my cousins really are.
I decided to pull out the Wodka bottle from her wedding. I know, I know, in English, it's Vodka. But since Wodka came from Poland, Russia, or other countries in that area, depending on where you came from (we all want to claim the wonder that is Wodka for our own, but really, it came from Poland), and we all spell it as Wodka, then the real name for it is Wodka.
Back to the Wodka bottle.
On the front was a sticker that my family had stuck to each of, possibly, hundreds of bottles.
Poles don't actually drink heavily throughout the year. But it is a tradition and for good luck that Poles drink Wodka, and a lot of it, at weddings.
There are measurements on the sticker (from top to bottom):
I don't know the exact meaning of some of these. They are phrases that make sense in Polish and don't translate well in English. But each is a line that marks a toast. If I recall correctly, there were special songs involved as well.
In moods like this, I take out whatever I have to look at and hold that reminds me of them and I silently reflect on our times together and how amazing my cousins really are.
I decided to pull out the Wodka bottle from her wedding. I know, I know, in English, it's Vodka. But since Wodka came from Poland, Russia, or other countries in that area, depending on where you came from (we all want to claim the wonder that is Wodka for our own, but really, it came from Poland), and we all spell it as Wodka, then the real name for it is Wodka.
Back to the Wodka bottle.
On the front was a sticker that my family had stuck to each of, possibly, hundreds of bottles.
Poles don't actually drink heavily throughout the year. But it is a tradition and for good luck that Poles drink Wodka, and a lot of it, at weddings.
There are measurements on the sticker (from top to bottom):
- To the health of the couple
- On the second leg
- Viva! Viva! To the Couple!
- time for "Sto Lat!"
- And one more time
- Bitter Wodka, Bitter Wodka, We will not drink!
- To Our Host, you give us Wodka!
I don't know the exact meaning of some of these. They are phrases that make sense in Polish and don't translate well in English. But each is a line that marks a toast. If I recall correctly, there were special songs involved as well.
Of course, my memory of the different toasts is not blurry because of the Wodka. Actually, I was pregnant at the time and had flown in to Poland the day before the wedding.
And Polish weddings last all night long.
Have you ever been to a wedding in another country or even in the USA but tailored to a different country's customs?
Na razie...
Related Posts:
10 November 2011
Our Life Changing Anniversary
It was evening. The children were fed, bathed and playing together by me as I sat on my bed sorting paperwork.
My Tato came in. He never really comes into my room. My house is always open to him because that is just how Polish children are, their house is always open to their parents.
I looked at him, knowing he was going to say something important.
"Gęś*, do you know what Eleven ten eleven is?" with a smile that I know very well. A smile that means "Guess, maybe you know, this is something very special to me."
I raked my mind. It is noone's birthday as far as I can remember. It isn't our anniversary coming to Amerika.
"I don't know, Tato. I know it's the day before Veteran's Day and the day before Poland's Independence Day and before eleven eleven eleven."
"On November 10, 2011, it will be 30 years ago we left Poland."
My Tato rarely talks about Poland and our departure. I have begged him for years to share with me but I have been lucky to get slivers.
I paused and bit the bullet. I asked questions. Cautiously, because I know he might shut down his wall that he keeps to protect himself. I can understand that feeling, even though my feelings are from a different perspective and most likely not as strong and full of memories as his and my Mamas.
"Tato, how did we leave?"
"You were just a little thing (stress on little). You was not even 1 1/2 year old. I drove us in a car to Austria."
I knew this much. I wanted more.
"But how? Did we sneak over in the night (like on those old spy movies)? How did we get through the border?"
"No, we said we were going on vacation." More gentle prying and I hear, "We each got passports to go separately when we apply to go to Austria for vacation. You Dziadek went with us to take car back. We just did not return."
We left on different pretenses than what we told the government. In my mind, I think now about people who overstay their visas and wonder if they were in the same situation and if it is so wrong what they did. And that people who judge them without ever having traveled anywhere have no idea, no clue.
My Tato continued to tell me how little I was and that we lived in Warth.
I asked him if he regretted it. Because I am ashamed to think (but would never tell him) that in some ways, I do. He told me that in some ways he regrets it but in many ways no. I knew I hit a nerve. This was hard to him to talk about.
I cannot imagine being in a situation where no matter how hard you work, there is no food in the stores to feed your baby, there is no future that you can see for your child. Having to hug your parents goodbye, cross yourself and sneak away to another country. And hope beyond hope that you don't get sent back home, that you and your family are given a chance to try to make a life for yourselves in another country far far away with a different language, culture, government, values, food with no family to be your support there.
I cannot imagine how my parents found the strength to leave their Poland.
30 years ago today, my parents made the biggest decision of their lives and mine.
They hugged their friends and family, said goodbye, not knowing if they would see them again. My parents wrapped me in a green blanket and my mother sat with me in the backseat of a maluszek that had no heat on a cold November day. My Dziadek sat in the passengar seat. And my Tato drove.
For our future. To our future.
This weekend, besides celebrating Veterans Day and Poland's Independence Day, I will be showing my children photos from my family, calling my Babcia, and telling my children our story.
I wonder what will be, to my children, the biggest decision in their lives that my husband and I will make. Will it be, as I see it something as small and trivial, as moving to Illinois from Maryland? Or will it be something just as big?
Na razie...
* Gęś (pronounced Gensh and meaning "goose" in Polish, my father's nickname for me)
Related Posts: Writing Me: Where I'm From
The Other Side of The Immigrant Question
My Tato came in. He never really comes into my room. My house is always open to him because that is just how Polish children are, their house is always open to their parents.
I looked at him, knowing he was going to say something important.
"Gęś*, do you know what Eleven ten eleven is?" with a smile that I know very well. A smile that means "Guess, maybe you know, this is something very special to me."
I raked my mind. It is noone's birthday as far as I can remember. It isn't our anniversary coming to Amerika.
"I don't know, Tato. I know it's the day before Veteran's Day and the day before Poland's Independence Day and before eleven eleven eleven."
"On November 10, 2011, it will be 30 years ago we left Poland."
My Tato rarely talks about Poland and our departure. I have begged him for years to share with me but I have been lucky to get slivers.
I paused and bit the bullet. I asked questions. Cautiously, because I know he might shut down his wall that he keeps to protect himself. I can understand that feeling, even though my feelings are from a different perspective and most likely not as strong and full of memories as his and my Mamas.
"Tato, how did we leave?"
"You were just a little thing (stress on little). You was not even 1 1/2 year old. I drove us in a car to Austria."
I knew this much. I wanted more.
"But how? Did we sneak over in the night (like on those old spy movies)? How did we get through the border?"
"No, we said we were going on vacation." More gentle prying and I hear, "We each got passports to go separately when we apply to go to Austria for vacation. You Dziadek went with us to take car back. We just did not return."
We left on different pretenses than what we told the government. In my mind, I think now about people who overstay their visas and wonder if they were in the same situation and if it is so wrong what they did. And that people who judge them without ever having traveled anywhere have no idea, no clue.
My Tato continued to tell me how little I was and that we lived in Warth.
I asked him if he regretted it. Because I am ashamed to think (but would never tell him) that in some ways, I do. He told me that in some ways he regrets it but in many ways no. I knew I hit a nerve. This was hard to him to talk about.
I cannot imagine being in a situation where no matter how hard you work, there is no food in the stores to feed your baby, there is no future that you can see for your child. Having to hug your parents goodbye, cross yourself and sneak away to another country. And hope beyond hope that you don't get sent back home, that you and your family are given a chance to try to make a life for yourselves in another country far far away with a different language, culture, government, values, food with no family to be your support there.
I cannot imagine how my parents found the strength to leave their Poland.
30 years ago today, my parents made the biggest decision of their lives and mine.
They hugged their friends and family, said goodbye, not knowing if they would see them again. My parents wrapped me in a green blanket and my mother sat with me in the backseat of a maluszek that had no heat on a cold November day. My Dziadek sat in the passengar seat. And my Tato drove.
For our future. To our future.
This weekend, besides celebrating Veterans Day and Poland's Independence Day, I will be showing my children photos from my family, calling my Babcia, and telling my children our story.
I wonder what will be, to my children, the biggest decision in their lives that my husband and I will make. Will it be, as I see it something as small and trivial, as moving to Illinois from Maryland? Or will it be something just as big?
Na razie...
* Gęś (pronounced Gensh and meaning "goose" in Polish, my father's nickname for me)
Related Posts: Writing Me: Where I'm From
The Other Side of The Immigrant Question
01 November 2011
It Isn't Just Another Day, It's All Saints Day
Being Polish, the day after Halloween always held something special. Not something festive. Something once again, as all Polish holidays are, ancient, deep rooted, symbolic, important.
In Poland, today is filled with people either taking off work or making a personal priority for this day. Today is filled with cemeteries being visited, gravestones swept, washed and scrubbed, flowers and plants around each resting place tended.
Today is a day of Mass. My older daughter goes to Catholic school and the toddler and myself attended Mass today along with the entire school and other community members.
At the entrance, an elderly lady told the school children who were entering the church, "If you pray for me, I'll pray for you" and beamed when the children in chorus replied "Yes, Ma'am." I silently beamed as well, knowing that my older daughter was somewhere in that group acknowledging an elderly person and replying with respect to them.
I held the door open with my toddlers help for some elderly people to enter the church and they gushed at how precious my little one was as she pushed the door and called "I do it! I big!"
While my toddler wiggled around and looked at a pretty colored piece of folded paper with the Mass Responses, I kept one eye on her and the other on the service.
The school children's voices rose with the various songs and responses. There was a quiet hush as several hundred children listened quietly without talking or moving around as Father delivered his sermon about the various Saints and as several school children presented short prayers to various Saints.
The prayers that stood out to me were to Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini, the patron saint of immigrants. The child's voice presenting her struck me "Pray for the immigrants that they may live a happy and fulfilling life".
The other prayer which was a prayer uttered every Mass in every Catholic church, no matter the day, "that our country's leaders may protect us and lead us to a world of greater justice and peace".
When it was time to offer up our prayers, I prayed for the strength and wisdom to be a good mother to my children and find and keep my patience. That my two Dziadki and my Babcia who had passed away will rest in peace. That my husband's Busia may rest in peace and that his Grandpop may as well. And that I, selfishly, may have more time to see my Babcia before she passes away. And I send an apology to my departed grandparents that I am sorry we didn't get to spend time together in life.
After school, I plan on taking my two daughters to a local cemetery. We will tend to a few abandoned graves and light candles on them. We will say prayers that they may rest in peace. And that some one out there is tending the graves of our own beloved who had passed away. My husband's family buried in Maryland and my own buried throughout Poland.
In Maryland, we would go to Mass at our local Polish Catholic Church, Holy Cross. A part of that Mass involved visiting the church's cemetery, special services and tending the graves and lighting the candles.
I am out here in Illinois now. There will not be anyone out there at the cemetery, I'm sure. Definitely nobody I know. So, I will have to do it on my own, holding my children's hands and hoping that they grow up carrying on this tradition.
I know one of my cousins is tending today to the graves of my grandparents on my father's side. And I will send up a prayer to God thanking him for that. And hoping that they all know how much I love them and miss them every single day.
Today is a day of mourning.
It isn't the anticlimactic end to Halloween. It isn't a day of candy and goodies. And it isn't for us, the Day of the Dead, full of festivities and food and celebration. It's a day of prayer and of letting out all the feelings I hold inside of missing my family. And not being able to be with them.
One day, I pray that I can tend their graves and light candles over them. And that they know I love them.
I leave you with some videos that capture the spirit of today.
A Brit's explanation...
And if you speak Polish...
I will share pictures of our lit candles either later today or tomorrow...
What do you do today?
Na razie...
Note: Traditional Polish lanterns for use on All Saints' Day can be purchased at dom itp.
Disclaimer: An affiliate sale link is used in this post for those looking to purchase lanterns as is traditionally used on this holiday.
You might find interesting:
General Prayer and Reflection for Catholics
An Explanation of All Saints Day and All Souls Day in Poland
From Transparent Language's Polish Blog Święto Pamięci Zmarłych – All Saints’ Day, All Souls’ Day
In Poland, today is filled with people either taking off work or making a personal priority for this day. Today is filled with cemeteries being visited, gravestones swept, washed and scrubbed, flowers and plants around each resting place tended.
Today is a day of Mass. My older daughter goes to Catholic school and the toddler and myself attended Mass today along with the entire school and other community members.
At the entrance, an elderly lady told the school children who were entering the church, "If you pray for me, I'll pray for you" and beamed when the children in chorus replied "Yes, Ma'am." I silently beamed as well, knowing that my older daughter was somewhere in that group acknowledging an elderly person and replying with respect to them.
I held the door open with my toddlers help for some elderly people to enter the church and they gushed at how precious my little one was as she pushed the door and called "I do it! I big!"
While my toddler wiggled around and looked at a pretty colored piece of folded paper with the Mass Responses, I kept one eye on her and the other on the service.
The school children's voices rose with the various songs and responses. There was a quiet hush as several hundred children listened quietly without talking or moving around as Father delivered his sermon about the various Saints and as several school children presented short prayers to various Saints.
The prayers that stood out to me were to Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini, the patron saint of immigrants. The child's voice presenting her struck me "Pray for the immigrants that they may live a happy and fulfilling life".
The other prayer which was a prayer uttered every Mass in every Catholic church, no matter the day, "that our country's leaders may protect us and lead us to a world of greater justice and peace".
When it was time to offer up our prayers, I prayed for the strength and wisdom to be a good mother to my children and find and keep my patience. That my two Dziadki and my Babcia who had passed away will rest in peace. That my husband's Busia may rest in peace and that his Grandpop may as well. And that I, selfishly, may have more time to see my Babcia before she passes away. And I send an apology to my departed grandparents that I am sorry we didn't get to spend time together in life.
After school, I plan on taking my two daughters to a local cemetery. We will tend to a few abandoned graves and light candles on them. We will say prayers that they may rest in peace. And that some one out there is tending the graves of our own beloved who had passed away. My husband's family buried in Maryland and my own buried throughout Poland.
In Maryland, we would go to Mass at our local Polish Catholic Church, Holy Cross. A part of that Mass involved visiting the church's cemetery, special services and tending the graves and lighting the candles.
I am out here in Illinois now. There will not be anyone out there at the cemetery, I'm sure. Definitely nobody I know. So, I will have to do it on my own, holding my children's hands and hoping that they grow up carrying on this tradition.
I know one of my cousins is tending today to the graves of my grandparents on my father's side. And I will send up a prayer to God thanking him for that. And hoping that they all know how much I love them and miss them every single day.
Today is a day of mourning.
It isn't the anticlimactic end to Halloween. It isn't a day of candy and goodies. And it isn't for us, the Day of the Dead, full of festivities and food and celebration. It's a day of prayer and of letting out all the feelings I hold inside of missing my family. And not being able to be with them.
One day, I pray that I can tend their graves and light candles over them. And that they know I love them.
I leave you with some videos that capture the spirit of today.
A Brit's explanation...
And if you speak Polish...
I will share pictures of our lit candles either later today or tomorrow...
What do you do today?
Na razie...
Note: Traditional Polish lanterns for use on All Saints' Day can be purchased at dom itp.
Disclaimer: An affiliate sale link is used in this post for those looking to purchase lanterns as is traditionally used on this holiday.
You might find interesting:
General Prayer and Reflection for Catholics
An Explanation of All Saints Day and All Souls Day in Poland
From Transparent Language's Polish Blog Święto Pamięci Zmarłych – All Saints’ Day, All Souls’ Day
13 October 2011
Another Immigrant Family
Sometimes, I forget how good I actually do have it. How hard it was for us when I was a child. How hungry we were and how little clothing and toys we had.
I remembered this photo of me when we had just come to this country a few months prior.
I'll tell you about the burn on my left hand another time. Do you see that sofa? Hideous. Those gigantic slippers that didn't fit me? My clothes. This is the picture of an immigrant child. And I'm proud of it. Because it reminds me that we are a strong family.
Sometimes, I look at it and remember how good we have it.
This time, I cleared out half of my clothes in my closet and half of the hand-me-downs going to my toddler from the older daughter. I also packed away a large trash bag worth of toys from each child.
And contacted Catholic Charities of Lake County, IL. As far as I've evereavesdropped heard, they had sponsored us to come from our refugee home in Austria to the USA.
I asked if it was possible to donate clothes and toys to an immigrant family and explained why. They were more than willing to help me do this for someone else.
I took my daughters with me to make the donation. I wanted them to see where our things were going, to what ended up being two separate new immigrant families in Lake County, IL. That Mama had once been one in Baltimore. That they should never forget that they, like all Americans, have immigrant roots and should treat those people with respect.
I hope those two families find inspiration from our gifts. I hope that their case workers tell them "This came from a fellow immigrant and her family and she wants you to know she believes in you and that you can do amazing things, just keep trying hard."
I don't know if that is what they will be told. But I do know that after dropping off the donations, we said a prayer in our car that the families who receive our gifts find strength and courage to try hard. And that they know they aren't alone.
Na razie...
Note: You can donate to Catholic Charities as well.
I remembered this photo of me when we had just come to this country a few months prior.
I'll tell you about the burn on my left hand another time. Do you see that sofa? Hideous. Those gigantic slippers that didn't fit me? My clothes. This is the picture of an immigrant child. And I'm proud of it. Because it reminds me that we are a strong family.
Sometimes, I look at it and remember how good we have it.
This time, I cleared out half of my clothes in my closet and half of the hand-me-downs going to my toddler from the older daughter. I also packed away a large trash bag worth of toys from each child.
And contacted Catholic Charities of Lake County, IL. As far as I've ever
I asked if it was possible to donate clothes and toys to an immigrant family and explained why. They were more than willing to help me do this for someone else.
I took my daughters with me to make the donation. I wanted them to see where our things were going, to what ended up being two separate new immigrant families in Lake County, IL. That Mama had once been one in Baltimore. That they should never forget that they, like all Americans, have immigrant roots and should treat those people with respect.
I hope those two families find inspiration from our gifts. I hope that their case workers tell them "This came from a fellow immigrant and her family and she wants you to know she believes in you and that you can do amazing things, just keep trying hard."
I don't know if that is what they will be told. But I do know that after dropping off the donations, we said a prayer in our car that the families who receive our gifts find strength and courage to try hard. And that they know they aren't alone.
Na razie...
Note: You can donate to Catholic Charities as well.
02 September 2011
English is Stupid, Remembering ESL Class
I am a 7 year old child, sitting in front of a dark brown desk in a small room next to the school library. Hovered over by a native born American ESL teacher.
Wrestling mentally with the reason why there is a "k" in "knife". Why?!
Because it's just there, it's silent, don't worry about it, it's the exception to the rule about "k".
But why is there an exception to the rule? Why can't I just not write it?
Because you have to. Because it's there.
I start running through the "rules" of the English language in my head and every single rule has an exception. Every single one.
Overwhelmed.
Leaning back in my chair, crossing my arms, screaming "ENGLISH IS STUPID!!!!!" and meaning it with every inch of my being. The ESL teacher at first looking angry and shocked at my outburst and opens her mouth to say something, I see it.
She stops, changes her expression, takes a deep breathe and tells me not to worry about the "k" because it's silent, it's just there, now, let's move on to elephant.
I hate her at that moment. I know what she is thinking. Exactly what some of my classmates say "Don't come to America if you don't know English!", "English isn't hard, are you retarded or something? Stupid Polack!"
English is stupid, I kept telling myself. I tune her out for a moment, just sitting silently and hating hating hating this new language, sobbing inside how unfair this all was. I go back to trying again.
I am going to prove to her that I wasn't stupid, it wasn't me, it was this stupid language, her native language, the only one she ever knew, and my third.
She pats my shoulder and tells me, "I know it's hard for you. This is the only language I know, so of course, the rules are easy for me to remember. But you can do this. I can tell you are very smart. Come on, let's color in this picture of an elephant, that's fun."
I tell her I am sorry. She has no idea how much I mean that.
I color in the elephant.
And we talk about why there are two ways to spell Gray. And I feel my frustration rising again.
I can do this. I'm not stupid. It's the English language that is.
*********
I finished the ESL program a few months later, on average a couple of years earlier than most.
I also get straight "A's" in Spelling, Reading and English classes.
At the school award ceremony that year, I receive a Citizenship Award. I still have it on a shelf in my bedroom. Every once in a while, I look at it and remember. And tell myself, I've done that, I can do anything.
And when I trip over a word while speaking Polish on the phone with my Babcia, I remember what I am capable of and keep trying.
No razie...
Wrestling mentally with the reason why there is a "k" in "knife". Why?!
Because it's just there, it's silent, don't worry about it, it's the exception to the rule about "k".
But why is there an exception to the rule? Why can't I just not write it?
Because you have to. Because it's there.
I start running through the "rules" of the English language in my head and every single rule has an exception. Every single one.
Overwhelmed.
Leaning back in my chair, crossing my arms, screaming "ENGLISH IS STUPID!!!!!" and meaning it with every inch of my being. The ESL teacher at first looking angry and shocked at my outburst and opens her mouth to say something, I see it.
She stops, changes her expression, takes a deep breathe and tells me not to worry about the "k" because it's silent, it's just there, now, let's move on to elephant.
I hate her at that moment. I know what she is thinking. Exactly what some of my classmates say "Don't come to America if you don't know English!", "English isn't hard, are you retarded or something? Stupid Polack!"
English is stupid, I kept telling myself. I tune her out for a moment, just sitting silently and hating hating hating this new language, sobbing inside how unfair this all was. I go back to trying again.
I am going to prove to her that I wasn't stupid, it wasn't me, it was this stupid language, her native language, the only one she ever knew, and my third.
She pats my shoulder and tells me, "I know it's hard for you. This is the only language I know, so of course, the rules are easy for me to remember. But you can do this. I can tell you are very smart. Come on, let's color in this picture of an elephant, that's fun."
I tell her I am sorry. She has no idea how much I mean that.
I color in the elephant.
And we talk about why there are two ways to spell Gray. And I feel my frustration rising again.
I can do this. I'm not stupid. It's the English language that is.
*********
I finished the ESL program a few months later, on average a couple of years earlier than most.
I also get straight "A's" in Spelling, Reading and English classes.
At the school award ceremony that year, I receive a Citizenship Award. I still have it on a shelf in my bedroom. Every once in a while, I look at it and remember. And tell myself, I've done that, I can do anything.
And when I trip over a word while speaking Polish on the phone with my Babcia, I remember what I am capable of and keep trying.
No razie...
09 August 2011
The Other Side of the Immigrant Question
When I talk to many Americans about Immigration, "Foreigners", and all the news and issues surrounding them, the reactions are extremely varied.
Some feel that foreigners just don't belong here. Others, that they can come if they first learn the English language. Then, there are others who feel that these immigrants should be allowed to live here, legally or illegally, without any consequences to their immigration status and without having to ever learn the English language.
My husband falls in the second category, like many. Learn the language, then come here, they say.
I fall into a different category. I have been there, done that. I am an immigrant.
I follow the issue, I know the process my family had to do to come over here, how small the chance was that we could even come over, how long it took to become a US citizen, how hard it was to learn a different language, to try and try so hard and hope. And always be a "foreigner", no matter what.
When I heard about the story of Tony and Janina, I wasn't sure how I felt. These were fellow Poles. Janina was a solidarity activist. They learned English, loved America, and tried. And were separated as a family by immigration laws.
Tony and Janina, along with their son, have since been reunited but what their future holds, I do not know.
Their story can be found here: Tony and Janina's American Wedding
I cannot imagine what they went through the past few years. I can only find some similarities in their story and my own, and some differences.
When my family came over, almost 29 years ago, we were living in Austria on a prayer and potato soup for a few months after leaving in the middle of the night, the possibility of being caught by the Soviets and facing who knows what consequences being very real at that time.
We were sponsored by the Catholic Church and given the option of Australia or the US. One of my parents wanted America, the other Australia. We decided on America and came over.
US Citizenship was applied for and we were accepted. Yes, we are legal citizens of the United States of America. We are not illegal, we never were. But we were one of the lucky ones.
The details of our application for citizenship, I don't know. I just know it was a lot of money and we had to pay every penny back. Nothing was free. Nothing was guaranteed.
My parents don't talk to me about a lot of our early years here. I know it was hard. I know we were hungry a lot. That we lived only off what my father could earn, working very hard. There were no hand outs. No welfare.
Nobody gave us work, my father had to apply for it like everyone else. He was turned down much more than the average American because the employers were not interested in his Masters Degree in Poland, his work skills from another country. All they heard was an accent.
We earned every penny we had.
We did not receive "Amnesty" as we came over in 1982, the year after the cut off.
I remember when I was 14 and we were planning a trip back to Poland, with a stay in France for a month during that summer. My US Citizenship was examined and I needed a passport.
In order to receive a passport, I had to swear myself as an American citizen. The Naturalization Oath of Allegiance to the USA.
My husband and friends never had to swear this. It's just assumed for them. Same for my daughters. But I did.
I remember my parents stressing that I needed to dress very nicely for this event. We drove into the city and went up an elevator in a very tall government building, my stomach in knots. Sitting in dark gray or navy plastic chairs.
Waiting.
My mother and father discussing with me the seriousness of this. As if I couldn't see already. Nobody in the whole building was smiling. Nobody.
My brother sat happily in the chair, quietly gloating over being born a US Citizen.
I remember standing, holding up my hand, repeating the oath.
Still, nobody smiled. In the whole building. Gray walls. Dark uniformed government workers. The only color was the US flag.
I am a grown woman now. Whenever I need to do anything legal, my birth certificate means nothing. I have to show my passport, proof of my US Citizenship.
And I still get questioned by people who have no clue what we went through. People who's grandparents were there for every school event and holiday. Who possibly complain about their family while mine is so far away. While I grew up barely knowing mine.
People who think I have no right to be here because I was not born here. Or because I am not from a country they deam worthy, such as Germany, Britain, France, or Canada. Yes, I have met such people.
Immigrants come over to the US knowing something that only immigrants can understand. That this is a gamble. A true gamble. Not, a "Well, if it doesn't work out, I have a fall back" sort of gamble.
A hope that by coming to a foreign country which does not share the same language, laws, social normalities, foods, culture, dress, as their birth country, that their children's lives will be better than theirs.
And a knowledge that there is no safety net. There is no family that will buy you groceries if you fall short. That if someone needs to go to the hospital, there is no family or childhood friends who will babysit for you or drive you. That if this does not work out, there is nothing else.
That if you want to eat, work, live, have friends, go anywhere, you have to learn a new language.
This is it.
All of us as Americans have someone in their family who at some point took this gamble. It is the reason we are all here. Every single one of us. So, to show a lack of basic human respect for immigrants, for foreigners, is to show a lack of respect for that person in your family history who took this gamble.
This, the ultimate life gamble.
That family member of yours who stood up in a gray, unsmiling room, looking at the bright red, white and blue of the American flag, raised their hand, and swore with every ounce in their heart "I hereby declare, on oath..."
Who say, as my father does, "America did not ask me to come here. I asked America to let me come here."
Immigration is not a cost issue. It's not a codes or laws issue. Immigration is a human issue.
I am hoping tomorrow to be able to delve deeper into the details of Tony and Janina and discuss our current immigration policy. Na razie...
Some feel that foreigners just don't belong here. Others, that they can come if they first learn the English language. Then, there are others who feel that these immigrants should be allowed to live here, legally or illegally, without any consequences to their immigration status and without having to ever learn the English language.
My husband falls in the second category, like many. Learn the language, then come here, they say.
I fall into a different category. I have been there, done that. I am an immigrant.
I follow the issue, I know the process my family had to do to come over here, how small the chance was that we could even come over, how long it took to become a US citizen, how hard it was to learn a different language, to try and try so hard and hope. And always be a "foreigner", no matter what.
When I heard about the story of Tony and Janina, I wasn't sure how I felt. These were fellow Poles. Janina was a solidarity activist. They learned English, loved America, and tried. And were separated as a family by immigration laws.
Tony and Janina, along with their son, have since been reunited but what their future holds, I do not know.
Their story can be found here: Tony and Janina's American Wedding
I cannot imagine what they went through the past few years. I can only find some similarities in their story and my own, and some differences.
When my family came over, almost 29 years ago, we were living in Austria on a prayer and potato soup for a few months after leaving in the middle of the night, the possibility of being caught by the Soviets and facing who knows what consequences being very real at that time.
We were sponsored by the Catholic Church and given the option of Australia or the US. One of my parents wanted America, the other Australia. We decided on America and came over.
US Citizenship was applied for and we were accepted. Yes, we are legal citizens of the United States of America. We are not illegal, we never were. But we were one of the lucky ones.
The details of our application for citizenship, I don't know. I just know it was a lot of money and we had to pay every penny back. Nothing was free. Nothing was guaranteed.
My parents don't talk to me about a lot of our early years here. I know it was hard. I know we were hungry a lot. That we lived only off what my father could earn, working very hard. There were no hand outs. No welfare.
Nobody gave us work, my father had to apply for it like everyone else. He was turned down much more than the average American because the employers were not interested in his Masters Degree in Poland, his work skills from another country. All they heard was an accent.
We earned every penny we had.
We did not receive "Amnesty" as we came over in 1982, the year after the cut off.
I remember when I was 14 and we were planning a trip back to Poland, with a stay in France for a month during that summer. My US Citizenship was examined and I needed a passport.
In order to receive a passport, I had to swear myself as an American citizen. The Naturalization Oath of Allegiance to the USA.
"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen;
that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic;
that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same;
that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law;
that I will perform noncombatant service in the armed forces of the United States when required by the law;
that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law;
and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion;
so help me God."
My husband and friends never had to swear this. It's just assumed for them. Same for my daughters. But I did.
I remember my parents stressing that I needed to dress very nicely for this event. We drove into the city and went up an elevator in a very tall government building, my stomach in knots. Sitting in dark gray or navy plastic chairs.
Waiting.
My mother and father discussing with me the seriousness of this. As if I couldn't see already. Nobody in the whole building was smiling. Nobody.
My brother sat happily in the chair, quietly gloating over being born a US Citizen.
I remember standing, holding up my hand, repeating the oath.
Still, nobody smiled. In the whole building. Gray walls. Dark uniformed government workers. The only color was the US flag.
I am a grown woman now. Whenever I need to do anything legal, my birth certificate means nothing. I have to show my passport, proof of my US Citizenship.
And I still get questioned by people who have no clue what we went through. People who's grandparents were there for every school event and holiday. Who possibly complain about their family while mine is so far away. While I grew up barely knowing mine.
People who think I have no right to be here because I was not born here. Or because I am not from a country they deam worthy, such as Germany, Britain, France, or Canada. Yes, I have met such people.
Immigrants come over to the US knowing something that only immigrants can understand. That this is a gamble. A true gamble. Not, a "Well, if it doesn't work out, I have a fall back" sort of gamble.
A hope that by coming to a foreign country which does not share the same language, laws, social normalities, foods, culture, dress, as their birth country, that their children's lives will be better than theirs.
And a knowledge that there is no safety net. There is no family that will buy you groceries if you fall short. That if someone needs to go to the hospital, there is no family or childhood friends who will babysit for you or drive you. That if this does not work out, there is nothing else.
That if you want to eat, work, live, have friends, go anywhere, you have to learn a new language.
This is it.
All of us as Americans have someone in their family who at some point took this gamble. It is the reason we are all here. Every single one of us. So, to show a lack of basic human respect for immigrants, for foreigners, is to show a lack of respect for that person in your family history who took this gamble.
This, the ultimate life gamble.
That family member of yours who stood up in a gray, unsmiling room, looking at the bright red, white and blue of the American flag, raised their hand, and swore with every ounce in their heart "I hereby declare, on oath..."
Who say, as my father does, "America did not ask me to come here. I asked America to let me come here."
Immigration is not a cost issue. It's not a codes or laws issue. Immigration is a human issue.
I am hoping tomorrow to be able to delve deeper into the details of Tony and Janina and discuss our current immigration policy. Na razie...
05 August 2011
My Pacifier and Why I Didn't Give One to My Children
When I was a little girl, I loved my pipek, my pacifier. And why wouldn't I have? At only 1 1/2, I had already lived through Communism and snuck over the Polish border (with the potentially penalty of death) into Austria, leaving all our family and belongings, including all my toys, behind.
In Austria, we waited for American paperwork and my mother became pregnant with my brother.
To say I had a stressful first few years of life is accurate. But, all in all, I was still a very happy child.
I did, after all, have pipek.
One day, in the Austrian countryside, when I was a little over 2 years old, my parents convinced me to throw my beloved pipek to the chickens. After all, I was a "big girl".
I threw it willingly and the chickens celebrated this new treat by fighting over it and trying to figure out how to use it themselves, as they had no lips.
Little did my parents know that in the middle of the night I would have a toddler conniption fit which would bring my father out into the night looking and hunting for a replacement pipek throughout the village we stayed and even visiting another village near us until he found one.
He has told me since that I not only wanted my pipek but a blue one with a flower. Yes, I was specific. And chic.
I went on to use my beloved pipek until I was about 3 1/2 years old, when my parents made me give it up against my will. At the time, we were living in the US in a townhouse with my new brother, having had my hand severly burned by accident and learning my third language by then.
Later on, my pipek caused my father to have to get me braces as a teenager.
So, when my children were born, I offered them each 5 different styles of pipeks a total of 3 times each. They refused them and I celebrated that we wouldn't have to go through anything like what my parents did.
I got quite a bit of grief from some friends and a pediatric nurse for not allowing them to have a pipek.
But, guess what? My children didn't cry or whine anymore than children who did use pacifiers. When they wanted to suck on something, I nursed them. And they grew.
To each their own.
I'll try to find a picture of myself as a small child with my beloved pipek.
Na razie...
In Austria, we waited for American paperwork and my mother became pregnant with my brother.
To say I had a stressful first few years of life is accurate. But, all in all, I was still a very happy child.
I did, after all, have pipek.
One day, in the Austrian countryside, when I was a little over 2 years old, my parents convinced me to throw my beloved pipek to the chickens. After all, I was a "big girl".
I threw it willingly and the chickens celebrated this new treat by fighting over it and trying to figure out how to use it themselves, as they had no lips.
Little did my parents know that in the middle of the night I would have a toddler conniption fit which would bring my father out into the night looking and hunting for a replacement pipek throughout the village we stayed and even visiting another village near us until he found one.
He has told me since that I not only wanted my pipek but a blue one with a flower. Yes, I was specific. And chic.
I went on to use my beloved pipek until I was about 3 1/2 years old, when my parents made me give it up against my will. At the time, we were living in the US in a townhouse with my new brother, having had my hand severly burned by accident and learning my third language by then.
Later on, my pipek caused my father to have to get me braces as a teenager.
So, when my children were born, I offered them each 5 different styles of pipeks a total of 3 times each. They refused them and I celebrated that we wouldn't have to go through anything like what my parents did.
I got quite a bit of grief from some friends and a pediatric nurse for not allowing them to have a pipek.
But, guess what? My children didn't cry or whine anymore than children who did use pacifiers. When they wanted to suck on something, I nursed them. And they grew.
To each their own.
I'll try to find a picture of myself as a small child with my beloved pipek.
Na razie...
13 July 2011
Wordless Wednesday: The Dolls I Left Behind
On my last trip back to Poland to bury my Dziadek, my Babcia gave me something that struck me more than anything else about my childhood and also our exodus from Poland.
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The two dolls I left behind when we left Poland.
These were my most beloved toys and we didn't even have enough room to take them with us when we left so my Babcia had kept them all these years for me.
I don't think many people understand what it was to be an immigrant the way we were.
I don't know that most people would understand what it must have been like to have to leave everything in the middle of the night, even your most beloved toys.
I didn't remember them in details, but when I held them in my hands, they felt "right".
They were still in one piece but my older daughter picked up the smaller doll and barely bent the leg to play with it and the legs fell off. I had just finished telling her about the significance of these dolls so she was in tears telling me she had broken it. I couldn't be upset. They were over 29 years old at the time. I just kissed her and told her they would only be for looking at and reminding our family what we went through, our family history.
I couldn't help but laugh a bit that they were obviously "choking hazards", yet, I had never choked on them. It could be because I didn't have a lot of toys, my parents watched me carefully 24/7, and they taught me (as I taught my own children, to the confusion of some friends) to not put things in my mouth by the age of 6 months old.
Of course, I was also potty trained at 6 months old. Not conventionally potty trained, my parents used cloth diapers and "Elimination Communication" before it had such a catchy clinical name.
Do you have anything in your family to remember your family's arrival to the USA like this?
The two dolls I left behind when we left Poland.
These were my most beloved toys and we didn't even have enough room to take them with us when we left so my Babcia had kept them all these years for me.
I don't think many people understand what it was to be an immigrant the way we were.
I don't know that most people would understand what it must have been like to have to leave everything in the middle of the night, even your most beloved toys.
I didn't remember them in details, but when I held them in my hands, they felt "right".
They were still in one piece but my older daughter picked up the smaller doll and barely bent the leg to play with it and the legs fell off. I had just finished telling her about the significance of these dolls so she was in tears telling me she had broken it. I couldn't be upset. They were over 29 years old at the time. I just kissed her and told her they would only be for looking at and reminding our family what we went through, our family history.
I couldn't help but laugh a bit that they were obviously "choking hazards", yet, I had never choked on them. It could be because I didn't have a lot of toys, my parents watched me carefully 24/7, and they taught me (as I taught my own children, to the confusion of some friends) to not put things in my mouth by the age of 6 months old.
Of course, I was also potty trained at 6 months old. Not conventionally potty trained, my parents used cloth diapers and "Elimination Communication" before it had such a catchy clinical name.
Do you have anything in your family to remember your family's arrival to the USA like this?
22 June 2011
Wordless Wednesday: World Refugee Day & My Home in Austria
June 20th was the 10th Annual International World Refugee Day.
I have been wanting to share this photo for a couple of weeks now after I found it. I thought this week was perfect.
When I was digging through old photos, postcards from my family in Poland when I was young, slides of Wroclaw, and other mementos they had sent us to remember where we had come from, I found this photo and held my breathe.
Staring at it, I had found something I had been searching for years.
Where had I stayed as a Citizen of the World, a refugee fleeing the Soviet crackdowns against Poland and her people as they rose in Solidarity against oppression. Fleeing tanks crouched on the borders, ready to come in and do who-knows-what.
I ran to my husband and showed him. "Look! Look! This is where I stayed in Austria when we fled Poland and while I was waiting to come to the US (in my mind, where maybe I was meant to meet you). He glanced at it for a second, smiled briefly and said "That's cool." That's cool. That was it? Like I had shown him just another book or something else equally unimportant.
"You will never understand." I say, walking away, choking back tears and words filled with anger at his lack of interest. Lack of understanding.
I know he wasn't trying to be unkind, that he just didn't grasp the full idea of what I was talking about. That he never would. He was born here in the USA, where his family for who knows how many generations had their freedoms and rights just handed to them with no worries of them being ripped away.
I show my daughters. They glance at it, my older daughter asks a couple of simple questions, as though this was just another cool looking town to live in, then they walk away.
I'm left holding a picture that means nothing to anyone other than myself.
To everyone around me, it's just a postcard. A photo of some far off place. But it's something much much bigger to me.
It is where I lived as a political refugee, 2 years old, having left the country I was born in, having left with my parents away from my family, away from my birth language, not knowing where I was going to live for the rest of my life.
In limbo. Living on kindness and a prayer. Eating Potato Soup.
My mother's belly growing with the baby brother who would be my closest friend forever.
And growing stronger because of all of it...
I have been wanting to share this photo for a couple of weeks now after I found it. I thought this week was perfect.
When I was digging through old photos, postcards from my family in Poland when I was young, slides of Wroclaw, and other mementos they had sent us to remember where we had come from, I found this photo and held my breathe.
Staring at it, I had found something I had been searching for years.
Where had I stayed as a Citizen of the World, a refugee fleeing the Soviet crackdowns against Poland and her people as they rose in Solidarity against oppression. Fleeing tanks crouched on the borders, ready to come in and do who-knows-what.
I ran to my husband and showed him. "Look! Look! This is where I stayed in Austria when we fled Poland and while I was waiting to come to the US (in my mind, where maybe I was meant to meet you). He glanced at it for a second, smiled briefly and said "That's cool." That's cool. That was it? Like I had shown him just another book or something else equally unimportant.
"You will never understand." I say, walking away, choking back tears and words filled with anger at his lack of interest. Lack of understanding.
I know he wasn't trying to be unkind, that he just didn't grasp the full idea of what I was talking about. That he never would. He was born here in the USA, where his family for who knows how many generations had their freedoms and rights just handed to them with no worries of them being ripped away.
I show my daughters. They glance at it, my older daughter asks a couple of simple questions, as though this was just another cool looking town to live in, then they walk away.
I'm left holding a picture that means nothing to anyone other than myself.
To everyone around me, it's just a postcard. A photo of some far off place. But it's something much much bigger to me.
It is where I lived as a political refugee, 2 years old, having left the country I was born in, having left with my parents away from my family, away from my birth language, not knowing where I was going to live for the rest of my life.
In limbo. Living on kindness and a prayer. Eating Potato Soup.
My mother's belly growing with the baby brother who would be my closest friend forever.
And growing stronger because of all of it...
29 May 2011
"Warsaw Hearts New York" But Does America Heart Warsaw?
I really have never read an article before and decided to write about it until today. Actually, the article itself I had no issues with. It was short, informative, and accurate. Decent reporting. I am referring to the article by Fox News (shared by a friend) called Warsaw Hearts New York; Poles Hope for Visa Waiver to Shop Fifth Avenue.
What was called to my attention and which frankly disturbed me was the comments. Such as:
OK, there is just so much wrong in this statement and I am going to conclude that it stems from a lack of education and an upbringing filled with racism and NO interest in facts. But, I'll try to tackle it with class.
First, the US was founded on "foreigners". You, sir, are a Xenophobe.
Second, they don't all drain the system. They keep the system going. Again, country founded on "foreigners".
Third, maybe there are some that do. I won't argue that. But most don't. My father worked over 80 hour work weeks when I was young just to barely feed us and we never went for assistance. I would say, perhaps the issue of the system being abused should be taken up with the crackheads, drug addicts, parents who don't care for their children, gang members and criminals. Now, I've never met a "foreigner" who was any of those things. Just saying.
Fourth, the Polish tourists and others coming here to visit are doing it legally. Perhaps you have an issue with another group of "foreigners" who you feel are coming over illegally. But what you are unaware of, is that people from Poland must take a plane to fly over to the USA and without doing it legally, they can't do that. There's no sneaking over. It's called the Airport. You know, TSA and Customs and Border Protection.
Fifth, your grammar and spelling are atrocious.
I am going to sum this one up with "Apparently, VERY apparently, you have never travelled anywhere on a plane before and certainly never to another country. Enjoy your trip to Walmart." Yes, I went there. I am very repulsed right now.
I can't even tackle this one without spending all day explaining tourism, VAT, duty, global economy, a breakdown of economic growth by country, and so on. I will just say, go get an actual education. I see you know how to use the Internet a little bit to get some facts (hence why you had to comment twice, the second time with a bit of facts), but you still have no clue. And, again, I notice the grammar and spelling really could use some working on.
Also, we former Easter Bloc country citizens are not communists. Again, know your history. After our populations were devastated by the Nazis in WWII and also by the Soviets during their "liberation" (but it's not considered a war crime because the treaty signed by good ol' Uncle Sam and England with Russia), we were handed over as consolation prizes to the USSR to with what they pleased. And they did exactly that. 25 years later, Poland's economy was the LEAST affected by the world economic crisis and in fact had positive growth.
I find it shameful that while I live in the US (coming over LEGALLY, thank you very much) on my wedding day, none of my family from Poland could be here. Not one. Because they couldn't afford to pay for the visas and wait the long period to see if maybe MAYBE nice America would let them come to see me be married.
Poland is the strongest support of America with Afghanistan and Iraqi conflicts. There is a lot going on mutually between the two countries which BENEFIT the USA.
Poland and her people are NOT your issues with illegal immigrants. Trust me. You have an open border just south of you and are not able to monitor it and if you find someone who is here illegally from you-know-where it is discrimination. Open your eyes.
Since Poland is not a threat but rather an ally of the USA, there is no reason for the Visas. Trust me, my family in Poland does NOT want to come here to live. It's too expensive and there is nothing to do but work and come home and sit around the house or spend money. The lifestyle over there is much easier for travel, entertainment, family, etc. They just want to come over and pump their money into our economy by being tourists.
Trust me, they DON'T want to live here. Poland has a really good thing going on right now. So, take your racism and narrow mindedness and go yell at a tree for being a tree instead. Or hey, I have an idea, get educated and learn who is taking advantage of your welfare programs here or who is staying illegally and get rid of them instead. You know, the people you actually have a problem with but you can't figure out who to blame because of your racism.
But then, why should I be surprised at some bigoted comments? After all, I have heard it all my life. Even from my own in-laws, who are grandchildren of immigrants and making comments about how "foreigners" are ruining this country. No, the thing that will ruin this country will be racism and a lack of proper education and global perspective.
If this doesn't make things clearer, I suggest listening to a country song by Brad Paisley called "American Saturday Night". It's about as American as you can get.
My last comment on this is that I love this country. I mean, I live here. So, let me share with you what the Statue of Liberty reads:
What was called to my attention and which frankly disturbed me was the comments. Such as:
 | chunkyscratch  16 hours ago |
OK, there is just so much wrong in this statement and I am going to conclude that it stems from a lack of education and an upbringing filled with racism and NO interest in facts. But, I'll try to tackle it with class.
First, the US was founded on "foreigners". You, sir, are a Xenophobe.
Second, they don't all drain the system. They keep the system going. Again, country founded on "foreigners".
Third, maybe there are some that do. I won't argue that. But most don't. My father worked over 80 hour work weeks when I was young just to barely feed us and we never went for assistance. I would say, perhaps the issue of the system being abused should be taken up with the crackheads, drug addicts, parents who don't care for their children, gang members and criminals. Now, I've never met a "foreigner" who was any of those things. Just saying.
Fourth, the Polish tourists and others coming here to visit are doing it legally. Perhaps you have an issue with another group of "foreigners" who you feel are coming over illegally. But what you are unaware of, is that people from Poland must take a plane to fly over to the USA and without doing it legally, they can't do that. There's no sneaking over. It's called the Airport. You know, TSA and Customs and Border Protection.
Fifth, your grammar and spelling are atrocious.
I am going to sum this one up with "Apparently, VERY apparently, you have never travelled anywhere on a plane before and certainly never to another country. Enjoy your trip to Walmart." Yes, I went there. I am very repulsed right now.
I can't even tackle this one without spending all day explaining tourism, VAT, duty, global economy, a breakdown of economic growth by country, and so on. I will just say, go get an actual education. I see you know how to use the Internet a little bit to get some facts (hence why you had to comment twice, the second time with a bit of facts), but you still have no clue. And, again, I notice the grammar and spelling really could use some working on.
I'm really surprised at some of the comments on this story. Before you comment, please know your facts. The Euro is destined to fail without the "Former Eastern Bloc" countries finally taking up that currency, in fact, that is a huge controversy in Europe right now. Those who know want Poland and other countries to finally start using the Euro.
Also, we former Easter Bloc country citizens are not communists. Again, know your history. After our populations were devastated by the Nazis in WWII and also by the Soviets during their "liberation" (but it's not considered a war crime because the treaty signed by good ol' Uncle Sam and England with Russia), we were handed over as consolation prizes to the USSR to with what they pleased. And they did exactly that. 25 years later, Poland's economy was the LEAST affected by the world economic crisis and in fact had positive growth.
I find it shameful that while I live in the US (coming over LEGALLY, thank you very much) on my wedding day, none of my family from Poland could be here. Not one. Because they couldn't afford to pay for the visas and wait the long period to see if maybe MAYBE nice America would let them come to see me be married.
Poland is the strongest support of America with Afghanistan and Iraqi conflicts. There is a lot going on mutually between the two countries which BENEFIT the USA.
Poland and her people are NOT your issues with illegal immigrants. Trust me. You have an open border just south of you and are not able to monitor it and if you find someone who is here illegally from you-know-where it is discrimination. Open your eyes.
Since Poland is not a threat but rather an ally of the USA, there is no reason for the Visas. Trust me, my family in Poland does NOT want to come here to live. It's too expensive and there is nothing to do but work and come home and sit around the house or spend money. The lifestyle over there is much easier for travel, entertainment, family, etc. They just want to come over and pump their money into our economy by being tourists.
Trust me, they DON'T want to live here. Poland has a really good thing going on right now. So, take your racism and narrow mindedness and go yell at a tree for being a tree instead. Or hey, I have an idea, get educated and learn who is taking advantage of your welfare programs here or who is staying illegally and get rid of them instead. You know, the people you actually have a problem with but you can't figure out who to blame because of your racism.
But then, why should I be surprised at some bigoted comments? After all, I have heard it all my life. Even from my own in-laws, who are grandchildren of immigrants and making comments about how "foreigners" are ruining this country. No, the thing that will ruin this country will be racism and a lack of proper education and global perspective.
If this doesn't make things clearer, I suggest listening to a country song by Brad Paisley called "American Saturday Night". It's about as American as you can get.
My last comment on this is that I love this country. I mean, I live here. So, let me share with you what the Statue of Liberty reads:
"...Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Happy Memorial Day to you and may God Bless America and the other countries of the world. Because America is the commingling of all the countries and cultures of the world.
Writers Edit: I found this article after writing the above and find it very interesting. The Polish Tiger "With its newfound economic and political clout, Poland is increasingly leaving the United States out in the cold."
19 May 2011
"L" in Salmon, "R" in Wash
My favorite argument with my husband is word pronounciation.
Husband: "What's for dinner?"
Me: "Salmon (with the "L" pronounced)."
Husband: "Sa-min. Say it with me, Sa-min."
Me: "Like Caramel? There are two a's and an e in Caramel. So you pronounce them."
Husband: "No, you don't. It's Caramel (he pronounces it as Carmul, I have no idea why)."
Me: "Whatever. You say it the wrong way, I say it the way it's spelled."
More discussion about how to pronounce the word "Salmon", including my stating that Worcestershire sauce can be pronounced with all the letters since we do not spell British English but American English.
Finally, I throw up my hands and tell him to pronounce "Wash".
Husband: "It's Wash. (pronounced Warsh)"
Sometimes, to prove the point further, I ask him to say the word "Water".
Husband: "It's Water (pronounced Warter)! What's your point?"
I walk away, knowing I win my argument.
These are the arguments we have in my bilingual, bicultural household. I have to wonder whether others have such arguments.
Husband: "What's for dinner?"
Me: "Salmon (with the "L" pronounced)."
Husband: "Sa-min. Say it with me, Sa-min."
Me: "Like Caramel? There are two a's and an e in Caramel. So you pronounce them."
Husband: "No, you don't. It's Caramel (he pronounces it as Carmul, I have no idea why)."
Me: "Whatever. You say it the wrong way, I say it the way it's spelled."
More discussion about how to pronounce the word "Salmon", including my stating that Worcestershire sauce can be pronounced with all the letters since we do not spell British English but American English.
Finally, I throw up my hands and tell him to pronounce "Wash".
Husband: "It's Wash. (pronounced Warsh)"
Sometimes, to prove the point further, I ask him to say the word "Water".
Husband: "It's Water (pronounced Warter)! What's your point?"
I walk away, knowing I win my argument.
These are the arguments we have in my bilingual, bicultural household. I have to wonder whether others have such arguments.
17 May 2011
Calling Babcia
I called my Babcia this weekend, like I do twice a week. She has told me she loves when I call her but I can tell if I call her too often that she thinks I'm worried about her and that it makes her feel bad. So, for now, I call twice a week.
My babcia has always been such a warm, caring woman. The sort of woman anyone would feel extremely lucky to have as a Babcia. She gives pearls of wisdom when you have a stomach ache, can tell you what to eat or drink or do when your teeth hurt, believes in not letting children cry themselves to sleep and affection and attention being top priority toward children. I love her.
When I called her this time, she was complaining about how the weather in Poland was not great for First Communions. I told her we had rainy cold weather here as well for the First Communions of the 8 year olds in our Catholic school.
She told me that she remembered on her First Communion, her mother was holding an umbrella over her head because it was raining. The priest looked at them and said "Don't worry, we will go inside and the weather will turn around for our children." And sure enough, it became warm and sunny outside right away.
She hoped the same would happen for the children having their First Communions this weekend.
That God looks out for those who love him.
You can't help but love her.
These are the moments I want my parents to share with me, I think.
She also told me about a woman who had recently passed away and who my family knew well. She had made it to the viewing. But somehow while waiting for the bus and making it to the funeral, she missed the group. She arrived at the cemetary, which is very large and wooded, and could not find them. So, she instead visited the graves of both her and her deceased husband's parents and also my Dziadek, her husband.
I could hear she was sad so I told her what I thought she would tell me. "Maybe God knew they were thinking of you so you were led to visit them today instead."
She cheered up and started talking about how she thinks of them as well. Then, the dark cloud of old age settled on her and she said she would be with them soon as well.
In the conversation, I asked her to possibly give me her and my Dziadek's parents names. I had this information before our move last year but cannot locate it. My Babcia planned to write me a letter with all of the family names.
She told me that her grandparents had died before she knew them. From diseases before they could reach old age and that it was very common at the time for that.
My Babcia admitted that she would always get jealous of others when she would hear or see other children playing with their grandparents and here she was with no living grandparents in her life. My heart ached at those words. Although my grandparents (except for my mother's father) were all alive for a long time in my life, the long distance and cultural difference had always had me feeling the same as a child.
I told my Babcia that I wished we could have had much more time together in life but that no matter what, I loved her forever. I had to tell her. I don't know how much more time I have with her. And if I will have time with her being aware of what I say. Alzheimer's seems to be claiming my Babcia faster and faster every day since about two years ago.
We talked about many other things. The situation in France politically. The people suffering in Libya and Syria right now. Reminders that I am her first grandchild. My comforting her that my brother loves her and that he wants to call and talk to her but fears his Polish is less than adequate. I have to figure out how to three-way call to Poland to act as translator.
As usual, we hang up the phone with many professions of love and missing each other and warm wishes to the rest of the family and my heart praying that I have enough time to see her again. So that she can meet her second granddaughter by me. And sorrow at all the time I lost with her because I was here and she was there and time, money, and distance were our enemy.
I have to wonder whether this is something my husband and his family can understand. Whether friends can understand. Or is this what it is to be a grown Immigrant Child? And how my Babcia must have felt all these years.
My babcia has always been such a warm, caring woman. The sort of woman anyone would feel extremely lucky to have as a Babcia. She gives pearls of wisdom when you have a stomach ache, can tell you what to eat or drink or do when your teeth hurt, believes in not letting children cry themselves to sleep and affection and attention being top priority toward children. I love her.
When I called her this time, she was complaining about how the weather in Poland was not great for First Communions. I told her we had rainy cold weather here as well for the First Communions of the 8 year olds in our Catholic school.
She told me that she remembered on her First Communion, her mother was holding an umbrella over her head because it was raining. The priest looked at them and said "Don't worry, we will go inside and the weather will turn around for our children." And sure enough, it became warm and sunny outside right away.
She hoped the same would happen for the children having their First Communions this weekend.
That God looks out for those who love him.
You can't help but love her.
These are the moments I want my parents to share with me, I think.
She also told me about a woman who had recently passed away and who my family knew well. She had made it to the viewing. But somehow while waiting for the bus and making it to the funeral, she missed the group. She arrived at the cemetary, which is very large and wooded, and could not find them. So, she instead visited the graves of both her and her deceased husband's parents and also my Dziadek, her husband.
I could hear she was sad so I told her what I thought she would tell me. "Maybe God knew they were thinking of you so you were led to visit them today instead."
She cheered up and started talking about how she thinks of them as well. Then, the dark cloud of old age settled on her and she said she would be with them soon as well.
In the conversation, I asked her to possibly give me her and my Dziadek's parents names. I had this information before our move last year but cannot locate it. My Babcia planned to write me a letter with all of the family names.
She told me that her grandparents had died before she knew them. From diseases before they could reach old age and that it was very common at the time for that.
My Babcia admitted that she would always get jealous of others when she would hear or see other children playing with their grandparents and here she was with no living grandparents in her life. My heart ached at those words. Although my grandparents (except for my mother's father) were all alive for a long time in my life, the long distance and cultural difference had always had me feeling the same as a child.
I told my Babcia that I wished we could have had much more time together in life but that no matter what, I loved her forever. I had to tell her. I don't know how much more time I have with her. And if I will have time with her being aware of what I say. Alzheimer's seems to be claiming my Babcia faster and faster every day since about two years ago.
We talked about many other things. The situation in France politically. The people suffering in Libya and Syria right now. Reminders that I am her first grandchild. My comforting her that my brother loves her and that he wants to call and talk to her but fears his Polish is less than adequate. I have to figure out how to three-way call to Poland to act as translator.
As usual, we hang up the phone with many professions of love and missing each other and warm wishes to the rest of the family and my heart praying that I have enough time to see her again. So that she can meet her second granddaughter by me. And sorrow at all the time I lost with her because I was here and she was there and time, money, and distance were our enemy.
I have to wonder whether this is something my husband and his family can understand. Whether friends can understand. Or is this what it is to be a grown Immigrant Child? And how my Babcia must have felt all these years.
09 May 2011
Tato, Tell Me About Our Story...
I have been begging my father as long as I remember to tell me our story. Who my parents were as children. What they liked to do. What I liked to do. About my Dziadkowi (grandparents). My father's Dziadkowi. Where different people were born or lived. About his cousins, his aunts, anyone. Why we left Poland.
The same answer hits me every time.
My father smiles at me, loses eye contact after a moment, and says "Not today, maybe tomorrow."
30 years of tomorrows have gone by and I have begun pieces our story together myself. And there are gigantic holes. The sort of holes that leave me feeling like maybe there is a giant monster eating it all, figuratively.
It took me this long to realize my father's character completely. My brother thinks my father pushes people away, shuts himself off from the world. My mother felt the same way. They aren't wrong.
But it goes deeper than that. My father isn't cold. He is very loving. Not the sort of loving like in the movies. But the sort of loving where I could tell him any sort of thought I had, no matter how preposterous it was and he would help me nurture it into knowledge. Questions I would have regarding politics, history, religion, social behaviour... What? You never had these sorts of conversations with your parents? Well, my father would ask me questions back, give me books to read, tell me about what he knew, and I gobbled it all up. It was knowledge. What I would never learn in school.
That monster eating it all away was the culmination of all our story was filled with. Death, loss, separation, sorrow, more death, hunger. There is a word for it but I won't utter it because I won't allow it to win.
What do you do to deal with that? I can tell you what my father has done. What my brother does. What I have always done. Thrown ourselves headfirst into work. Not one of us has ever worked less than a 45 hour work week. More likely 50-70 hours. Without thought. I worked a bit less but I had housework to throw myself into as well. Meals to cook, corners to scrub on my hands and knees because the mop doesn't do the trick on drowning out that monster.
Now I have kids to care for, writing to be done, research to do to claim my children's Polish citizenships, volunteer hours at the school, baking for the nursing home, story times, and it goes on and on and on.
When I would talk to my father about WWII, he always told me he didn't want me to hate others. Not to judge others for what some monsters did.
In Wroclaw once, I wanted to take a picture of a memorial of some students who were killed by the Soviets while protesting against the Communist government and he blocked my camera. He shook his head and said, "No, it's too sad." He began to walk away very quickly. My Wujek was around all these memories daily, living in Poland. My father, in the USA. Where the saddest memory was of a favorite store closing or some other event that affects nothing in life.
Yesterday, I asked my father again. "Tato, I need your parents places of birth."
He didn't answer like always before. Instead, he said "I don't remember."
"Daddy! Then, what are your grandparents names?"
"I don't remember."
I start to lecture him on this and what it means to me.
He interrupts me, "Ges (Goose), it's been so long, I just don't remember. Sorry."
He doesn't have Alzheimer's or anything. Time has passed. It's been too long.
Now I know why we left Poland. So that someone would not have to remember. It's not the people, it's the memories and the emotions along with it all. He needed to let it all go.
I am now alone in this. I don't want to forget. But I have less to remember.
The same answer hits me every time.
My father smiles at me, loses eye contact after a moment, and says "Not today, maybe tomorrow."
30 years of tomorrows have gone by and I have begun pieces our story together myself. And there are gigantic holes. The sort of holes that leave me feeling like maybe there is a giant monster eating it all, figuratively.
It took me this long to realize my father's character completely. My brother thinks my father pushes people away, shuts himself off from the world. My mother felt the same way. They aren't wrong.
But it goes deeper than that. My father isn't cold. He is very loving. Not the sort of loving like in the movies. But the sort of loving where I could tell him any sort of thought I had, no matter how preposterous it was and he would help me nurture it into knowledge. Questions I would have regarding politics, history, religion, social behaviour... What? You never had these sorts of conversations with your parents? Well, my father would ask me questions back, give me books to read, tell me about what he knew, and I gobbled it all up. It was knowledge. What I would never learn in school.
That monster eating it all away was the culmination of all our story was filled with. Death, loss, separation, sorrow, more death, hunger. There is a word for it but I won't utter it because I won't allow it to win.
What do you do to deal with that? I can tell you what my father has done. What my brother does. What I have always done. Thrown ourselves headfirst into work. Not one of us has ever worked less than a 45 hour work week. More likely 50-70 hours. Without thought. I worked a bit less but I had housework to throw myself into as well. Meals to cook, corners to scrub on my hands and knees because the mop doesn't do the trick on drowning out that monster.
Now I have kids to care for, writing to be done, research to do to claim my children's Polish citizenships, volunteer hours at the school, baking for the nursing home, story times, and it goes on and on and on.
When I would talk to my father about WWII, he always told me he didn't want me to hate others. Not to judge others for what some monsters did.
In Wroclaw once, I wanted to take a picture of a memorial of some students who were killed by the Soviets while protesting against the Communist government and he blocked my camera. He shook his head and said, "No, it's too sad." He began to walk away very quickly. My Wujek was around all these memories daily, living in Poland. My father, in the USA. Where the saddest memory was of a favorite store closing or some other event that affects nothing in life.
Yesterday, I asked my father again. "Tato, I need your parents places of birth."
He didn't answer like always before. Instead, he said "I don't remember."
"Daddy! Then, what are your grandparents names?"
"I don't remember."
I start to lecture him on this and what it means to me.
He interrupts me, "Ges (Goose), it's been so long, I just don't remember. Sorry."
He doesn't have Alzheimer's or anything. Time has passed. It's been too long.
Now I know why we left Poland. So that someone would not have to remember. It's not the people, it's the memories and the emotions along with it all. He needed to let it all go.
I am now alone in this. I don't want to forget. But I have less to remember.
05 May 2011
Nice to Meet You
I think it's about time a face was put to my writing....
I am 2 years old sitting on the stairs of the hotel we had been living in for a few months at this point.
I am currently a refugee fleeing Communism. Leaving behind friends and family to go into the wide world with my parents only.
I am living in Austria in a small village. We are waiting on possibly moving to either Australia or the USA. Waiting to hear whether all the legal paperwork is approved. And praying.
This smile is always on my face to this day...
Related Posts:
Wordless Wednesday: A Toy Train
Writing Me: Where I'm From
I am 2 years old sitting on the stairs of the hotel we had been living in for a few months at this point.
I am currently a refugee fleeing Communism. Leaving behind friends and family to go into the wide world with my parents only.
I am living in Austria in a small village. We are waiting on possibly moving to either Australia or the USA. Waiting to hear whether all the legal paperwork is approved. And praying.
This smile is always on my face to this day...
Related Posts:
Wordless Wednesday: A Toy Train
Writing Me: Where I'm From
04 May 2011
May Crowning, Finding Other Poles, and It Could Have Been My Father
I start to leave my older daughter's classroom. My husband is home today and has decided he wants to take the younger daughter with him for some errands and Father Daughter bonding time. As I start to leave, I hear the teacher mention that the May Crowning would follow immediately after Mass.
My feet stop. May Crowning.
I walk outside, breathe the air and focus on the signs around me. The leaves are just now finally coming out of trees now in small amounts. The air is comfortable but the wind is still carrying a chill. The sky is a flawless blue and the sun shines on me. It is Spring here.
I don't know whether you know this about me, but until last year, I lived in Maryland. The weather here is taking a lot to get used to. I keep thinking to myself, "I should be barefoot for the past 2 months now". But that is life. It keeps changing.
So, I celebrate traditions instead of focusing on getting frustrated with change. Because that's all I can do with a life full of change.
Down the path, toward the Church.
"Hello, Sister! How are you today?" I greet the Sister at our Church and we exchange pleasantries. She asks if I am coming to Mass. I confirm this and continue to walk around the corner to drop off tuition at the Rectory. On the way, I see other parents and teachers who point at the Church doors and say "See you inside for Mass?" I nod yes.
For a split second, I am in Poland. Because my feet are crossing a patch of grass trampled by feet next to the sidewalk and a tree. There is nothing special about this tree, this patch of grass. But the deja vu feeling is there anyway. Perhaps it's the Spring that does that. Perhaps it's the recognition that this patch of trampled grass has been trampled by the faithful around this Church for over 150 years.
Perhaps I once did the same in Poland with my mother on a walk around Wroclaw before we left one day in the middle of the night....
At Mass, I join in with the rest of the Church in songs to the Virgin Mary and listen to reminders that mothers should take inspiration from her.
The children's voices fill the Church in "Alleluia" and I get goosebumps. My daughter's voice is in there singing. She will come home today singing whatever song particularly moved her.
During the petition prayers to the Virgin Mary, I am reminded that as a citizen of a developed nation I am responsible to care for those in less fortunate places....
Leaving the Church, my daughter walks down the aisle with her hands together with her classmates and sees me. "Mommy! They are going to crown the Virgin Mary statue outside! Come on!"...
Standing by my daughter's class outside, she beams at me as she stands quietly in line. The school bursts out in song as the chosen girl walks to the statue, climbs a ladder and crowns the statue. I'm sure many have seen the movie "A Polish Wedding"...
I whisper in my daughter's ear, "We will talk after school. And I can tell you about how special this is in Poland as well." She smiles at me, nods her head and whispers back "Ok, Mamu"...
Walking back to the car and someone mentions to a teacher that it would be nice to have the crown left on. I confirm that I want a picture of the Virgin Mary with her crown. This teacher tells me that at her Polish grade school, they always left the crown on. An excited conversation between her, another lady present for the ceremony and myself and we begin hugging each other and talking about our immigrant family histories. We are all Polish. In a town with what seems like immigrants from everywhere else but Poland...
In line at the grocery store, a Hispanic father with his infant daughter in her infant carrier is in line ahead of me with a WIC check. He has not picked out the items he wants to buy. He does not speak English well. But it's clear he wants formula with the WIC checks. The cashier waits on me while an employee who speaks Spanish is found to help the Hispanic father. She shakes her head at him. Perhaps because she is in a rush. Perhaps she assumes something about him.
I look at him. He could have been my father. Different complexion, facial features, height but he is human. He is an immigrant. He is a new father, nervously checking on his little precious daughter who is sound asleep at his feet. He does not have the new language mastered. By his shoes and hands, I can tell he is blue collar and basically trying to find that elusive "American Dream".
He is not sure why he is standing to the side not being helped. He looks helpless in a way, unsure what anyone is saying around him.
I am taken care of for my purchase and go up to him. Instead of speaking a slew of sentences in English, I say a couple of basic words at a time.
"I help?" He nods.
"I see?" Point to his WIC checks. He hands them to me nervously and nods "Yes, please."
"Formula? Baby? Bambino?" I don't speak Spanish. I just speak a couple of words in several different languages, besides the Polish and English I know comfortably. In my mind, I debate speaking French to him since to me, the languages are very similar. I decide against it. Not everyone seems the same language similarities.
"These checks, no." I point to some. "Later." I wave my hands in dismissal to the side. He nods.
"These checks, yes. Good now." I point to others, gesture with my fingers to the floor the international "now". I separate them, hand him the folder. Hand him the checks that are dated for this month. He says "Aaaa!" with understanding. He puts the folder in his pocket, holds the checks.
The cashier comes over, gushing at my patience, thanking me. An employee is found who speaks Spanish and they begin to tell the father how to pick out his formula. He smiles at me, nods his head in appreciation. I smile back, wave goodbye and walk away.
At church, the petition to be responsible and show compassion towards others and to remember to be like the Virgin Mary with her patience and kindness was a good reminder for today.
But really, the reason I tried to help that father?
It could have been my father.
My feet stop. May Crowning.
I walk outside, breathe the air and focus on the signs around me. The leaves are just now finally coming out of trees now in small amounts. The air is comfortable but the wind is still carrying a chill. The sky is a flawless blue and the sun shines on me. It is Spring here.
I don't know whether you know this about me, but until last year, I lived in Maryland. The weather here is taking a lot to get used to. I keep thinking to myself, "I should be barefoot for the past 2 months now". But that is life. It keeps changing.
So, I celebrate traditions instead of focusing on getting frustrated with change. Because that's all I can do with a life full of change.
Down the path, toward the Church.
"Hello, Sister! How are you today?" I greet the Sister at our Church and we exchange pleasantries. She asks if I am coming to Mass. I confirm this and continue to walk around the corner to drop off tuition at the Rectory. On the way, I see other parents and teachers who point at the Church doors and say "See you inside for Mass?" I nod yes.
For a split second, I am in Poland. Because my feet are crossing a patch of grass trampled by feet next to the sidewalk and a tree. There is nothing special about this tree, this patch of grass. But the deja vu feeling is there anyway. Perhaps it's the Spring that does that. Perhaps it's the recognition that this patch of trampled grass has been trampled by the faithful around this Church for over 150 years.
Perhaps I once did the same in Poland with my mother on a walk around Wroclaw before we left one day in the middle of the night....
At Mass, I join in with the rest of the Church in songs to the Virgin Mary and listen to reminders that mothers should take inspiration from her.
The children's voices fill the Church in "Alleluia" and I get goosebumps. My daughter's voice is in there singing. She will come home today singing whatever song particularly moved her.
During the petition prayers to the Virgin Mary, I am reminded that as a citizen of a developed nation I am responsible to care for those in less fortunate places....
Leaving the Church, my daughter walks down the aisle with her hands together with her classmates and sees me. "Mommy! They are going to crown the Virgin Mary statue outside! Come on!"...
Standing by my daughter's class outside, she beams at me as she stands quietly in line. The school bursts out in song as the chosen girl walks to the statue, climbs a ladder and crowns the statue. I'm sure many have seen the movie "A Polish Wedding"...
I whisper in my daughter's ear, "We will talk after school. And I can tell you about how special this is in Poland as well." She smiles at me, nods her head and whispers back "Ok, Mamu"...
Walking back to the car and someone mentions to a teacher that it would be nice to have the crown left on. I confirm that I want a picture of the Virgin Mary with her crown. This teacher tells me that at her Polish grade school, they always left the crown on. An excited conversation between her, another lady present for the ceremony and myself and we begin hugging each other and talking about our immigrant family histories. We are all Polish. In a town with what seems like immigrants from everywhere else but Poland...
In line at the grocery store, a Hispanic father with his infant daughter in her infant carrier is in line ahead of me with a WIC check. He has not picked out the items he wants to buy. He does not speak English well. But it's clear he wants formula with the WIC checks. The cashier waits on me while an employee who speaks Spanish is found to help the Hispanic father. She shakes her head at him. Perhaps because she is in a rush. Perhaps she assumes something about him.
I look at him. He could have been my father. Different complexion, facial features, height but he is human. He is an immigrant. He is a new father, nervously checking on his little precious daughter who is sound asleep at his feet. He does not have the new language mastered. By his shoes and hands, I can tell he is blue collar and basically trying to find that elusive "American Dream".
He is not sure why he is standing to the side not being helped. He looks helpless in a way, unsure what anyone is saying around him.
I am taken care of for my purchase and go up to him. Instead of speaking a slew of sentences in English, I say a couple of basic words at a time.
"I help?" He nods.
"I see?" Point to his WIC checks. He hands them to me nervously and nods "Yes, please."
"Formula? Baby? Bambino?" I don't speak Spanish. I just speak a couple of words in several different languages, besides the Polish and English I know comfortably. In my mind, I debate speaking French to him since to me, the languages are very similar. I decide against it. Not everyone seems the same language similarities.
"These checks, no." I point to some. "Later." I wave my hands in dismissal to the side. He nods.
"These checks, yes. Good now." I point to others, gesture with my fingers to the floor the international "now". I separate them, hand him the folder. Hand him the checks that are dated for this month. He says "Aaaa!" with understanding. He puts the folder in his pocket, holds the checks.
The cashier comes over, gushing at my patience, thanking me. An employee is found who speaks Spanish and they begin to tell the father how to pick out his formula. He smiles at me, nods his head in appreciation. I smile back, wave goodbye and walk away.
At church, the petition to be responsible and show compassion towards others and to remember to be like the Virgin Mary with her patience and kindness was a good reminder for today.
But really, the reason I tried to help that father?
It could have been my father.
03 May 2011
Guest Post: Ewa Kuc on Potato Pancakes and Being Polish in America
I have been following a fellow blogger for a few months now, Mom Photographer. She is a fellow Polish immigrant who came to the US just a few short years ago and takes amazing photos. I love her perspective because so many times I can either relate or learn from her. And her daughter looks remarkably like my younger daughter as well.
So, I asked her to do a guest post on my blog on whatever she wanted and here it is:
After I was asked if I want to write a guest post for Polish Mama I’d been thinking about the topic. I thought I’ll write something about being Polish in US (because I’m Polish as well), about dealing with everyday consciousness that I’m different.
Wherever I go, whatever I say the first thing people ask me is:
“Hm ... where are you from?”
“Hm... I’m from Poland”
“Oh ... from Holland, NICE”
“No, NOT HOLLAND. POLAND. I’m from POLAND” and I see the confusion in people eyes. Yes, just a few of them knew where Poland is, and no, it’s not in Africa. Why everybody knows where Holland is but they have such a big problem with Poland! That’s amazes me.
Anyway, I thought that I better write something about cooking. Much easier. I like to cook; I like to take pictures of what I cook; I like to share recipes and I wouldn’t have to write a lot because I’m not very good at that. Not in English at least.
I consider English as my SECOND language. Still. Polish is what I’ve been using since I was born, long time ago. English is what I’ve been using along with Polish for the last 3.5 years. It’s really hard to teach an old dog new tricks (don’t get me wrong I’m not THAT old).
I read and talk in English for most of my days. I’ve limited my Polish to minimum. Not because I don’t want to talk in Polish anymore, but because I wish I could speak English fluently. I’m getting tired of using very simple vocabulary when it comes to very serious conversations. I’m tired of people saying that I sound cute, when I want to sound and to be treat serious. It was cute at the beginning. Right now is frustrating. Right now I prefer to abandon the discussion than make myself look (or sound) even more silly and childish.
These days I feel like I’m in a middle of a transition between English and Polish and it frustrates me even more. Every time I talk with my parents or Polish friends I find myself looking for the right Polish words, and it happens that I can’t find them (I have to go around).
At the same time I don’t want my family or friends to think: Oh, she’s been living there for only 3.5 years and she already forgot Polish [sigh]. How is she gonna teach our granddaughter to speak Polish? Then when I speak with my husband or I try to write a post for my blog (in English) I find it very hard to find the right words to describe something. I feel like I’m loosing something instead of gaining. I’m losing my Polish, but I’m not actually gaining much English, either. I know I know, I should just take the dictionary and start memorizing words. Yeah, right! My laziness is calling ;)
Somedays I think how much easier it would be to just go back to Poland, where everybody speaks your language, where you’re familiar with the food, and customs. Where going grocery shopping I won’t be asked “Where are you from?” or ...“HOW DID YOU GET HERE?” (based on true story!). I ran and swam to here in case if you want to know ;-)
Where french fries are made from potatoes and not from potato like substance. Where cherry, apple, plum, pear trees grow wild. Where you won’t see a single waisted fruit under those wild trees. That thought came to my mind while looking at all those rotten oranges, grapefruits, lemons, pomegranates in our neighborhood. Why would you want to have so much that you can’t even digest?! I go for walks and think that if I had those trees on my front/back yard I would be making all bunch of different jams, juices, fruit cakes and smoothies. If it’s still too many I would be giving it away to people.
In Poland if you have to much you share it with your friends, family, neighbors. I remember when I was a kid when we had bunch of plums and cherries from our summer garden I would go visit my friend and take with me bucket or two of those cherries or plums. The next day while visiting my friend again (she lived next door) I would get a piece of a fresh baked plum cake. If somebody was visiting us they wouldn’t leave without a basket of fresh picked fruits.
I know that there is many different opportunities here (in US), but sometimes I think: is it worth it. I know many Polish people that really don’t care about those kind of things, they would laugh at those silly questions at the store or simply snap back with an answer that is as silly as the question was. I’m not one of them. For me it was cute and funny two years ago but today it’s annoying. I really want to get my grocery and go home, and I do not need anybody to reminds me that I’m different, that I have an accent, or look original (whatever that means).
One more thing I want to talk about (did I say that I’m not good at talking about myself in English... hm... lol). When I left Poland I didn’t really expect how much I’ll be missing Polish food. Not all of it. Just particular dishes that reminds me of my childhood, that I call my comfort food.
It is even more difficult because my husband doesn’t like Polish food. He likes pierogi, but who doesn’t?! He doesn’t like cabbage and many Polish dishes that I like have cabbage in it. For example bigos, or cabbage rolls, or boiled cabbage with apples. He can’t stand the smell of boiling cabbage. So, I try to cook it once in a blue moon. Read: Never! That’s how good wife I am! :)
I love barszcz, he doesn’t. I love żurek, he doesn’t know what that is, and actually doesn’t want to know. I love potato pancakes, he definitely does not want to eat them, and so on! I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, but I wish he was a little bit more open to new food.
Today if I want something Polish I need to cook it myself rather than find it in a store or restaurant, and it’s a cooking 3 dishes for three people: Something different for my husband, something different for our Little One (thanks god she is getting to that age that she can eat what her dad or mom eats.. uff...), and something Polish for me.
So you can imagine how often I’m willing to cook something Polish for myself. I rather skip this part that stay in the kitchen for extra hour. My laziness again ;). If I want to go out to eat it’s hard to find a good Polish restaurant if any.
So when this day comes and I really feel like I can’t put my craving away anymore I like to make something what’s very easy and fast to cook. Placki ziemniaczane, potatoe pancakes. That’s what I actually was planned to talk about in this blog post, and only about this. Oh well, I hope you don’t mind my previous ramblings.
So, for this recipe I use:
3 medium size potatoes (You can use whatever potatoes you have.)
1 egg
1/2 medium yellow onion
1cup all purpose flour
1/4 cup corn (optional)
1/4 cup peas (optional)
1 stick of butter, (or 1/2 cup oil)
spices - sal, peper, marjoram, complete seasoning (if I use this I don’t use salt)
Peel them and cut into small pieces. I wash it after all to wash the starch out. So those pancakes are not very starchy.
I do not have food processor so I use blender. I have much easier that my parents anyway. When I was a kid I remember my parents grating the potatoes one by one using the old school shredder. When me and my siblings got older they would use us to do “if you want to help me cooking” part.
Move the batter to the bowl and mix in egg, chopped into really small pieces onion, and spices
Add all purpose flour. I remember my parents used to mix it half and half (potato starch and all purpose flour). I do not use the starch, because I like those pancakes not so starchy, and heavy.
Add corn and peas. This is optional. My parents would never do that, but I try to smuggle as many veggies to my cooking as it’s possible. I try not to overdo it, though. So sometimes I would grade one or two carrots, and use it instead of corn and peas, or in addition.
Heat oil in a large skiller over medium heat. Spoon the mixture into skillet. Fry, turning once, until golden brown. Transfer to paper towel to drain.
Eat
In Poland people eat it with sour cream, sugar, mushroom sauce or so called gypsy sauce. I eat it with ketchup! :)
So, I asked her to do a guest post on my blog on whatever she wanted and here it is:
After I was asked if I want to write a guest post for Polish Mama I’d been thinking about the topic. I thought I’ll write something about being Polish in US (because I’m Polish as well), about dealing with everyday consciousness that I’m different.
Wherever I go, whatever I say the first thing people ask me is:
“Hm ... where are you from?”
“Hm... I’m from Poland”
“Oh ... from Holland, NICE”
“No, NOT HOLLAND. POLAND. I’m from POLAND” and I see the confusion in people eyes. Yes, just a few of them knew where Poland is, and no, it’s not in Africa. Why everybody knows where Holland is but they have such a big problem with Poland! That’s amazes me.
Anyway, I thought that I better write something about cooking. Much easier. I like to cook; I like to take pictures of what I cook; I like to share recipes and I wouldn’t have to write a lot because I’m not very good at that. Not in English at least.
I consider English as my SECOND language. Still. Polish is what I’ve been using since I was born, long time ago. English is what I’ve been using along with Polish for the last 3.5 years. It’s really hard to teach an old dog new tricks (don’t get me wrong I’m not THAT old).
I read and talk in English for most of my days. I’ve limited my Polish to minimum. Not because I don’t want to talk in Polish anymore, but because I wish I could speak English fluently. I’m getting tired of using very simple vocabulary when it comes to very serious conversations. I’m tired of people saying that I sound cute, when I want to sound and to be treat serious. It was cute at the beginning. Right now is frustrating. Right now I prefer to abandon the discussion than make myself look (or sound) even more silly and childish.
These days I feel like I’m in a middle of a transition between English and Polish and it frustrates me even more. Every time I talk with my parents or Polish friends I find myself looking for the right Polish words, and it happens that I can’t find them (I have to go around).
At the same time I don’t want my family or friends to think: Oh, she’s been living there for only 3.5 years and she already forgot Polish [sigh]. How is she gonna teach our granddaughter to speak Polish? Then when I speak with my husband or I try to write a post for my blog (in English) I find it very hard to find the right words to describe something. I feel like I’m loosing something instead of gaining. I’m losing my Polish, but I’m not actually gaining much English, either. I know I know, I should just take the dictionary and start memorizing words. Yeah, right! My laziness is calling ;)
Somedays I think how much easier it would be to just go back to Poland, where everybody speaks your language, where you’re familiar with the food, and customs. Where going grocery shopping I won’t be asked “Where are you from?” or ...“HOW DID YOU GET HERE?” (based on true story!). I ran and swam to here in case if you want to know ;-)
Where french fries are made from potatoes and not from potato like substance. Where cherry, apple, plum, pear trees grow wild. Where you won’t see a single waisted fruit under those wild trees. That thought came to my mind while looking at all those rotten oranges, grapefruits, lemons, pomegranates in our neighborhood. Why would you want to have so much that you can’t even digest?! I go for walks and think that if I had those trees on my front/back yard I would be making all bunch of different jams, juices, fruit cakes and smoothies. If it’s still too many I would be giving it away to people.
In Poland if you have to much you share it with your friends, family, neighbors. I remember when I was a kid when we had bunch of plums and cherries from our summer garden I would go visit my friend and take with me bucket or two of those cherries or plums. The next day while visiting my friend again (she lived next door) I would get a piece of a fresh baked plum cake. If somebody was visiting us they wouldn’t leave without a basket of fresh picked fruits.
I know that there is many different opportunities here (in US), but sometimes I think: is it worth it. I know many Polish people that really don’t care about those kind of things, they would laugh at those silly questions at the store or simply snap back with an answer that is as silly as the question was. I’m not one of them. For me it was cute and funny two years ago but today it’s annoying. I really want to get my grocery and go home, and I do not need anybody to reminds me that I’m different, that I have an accent, or look original (whatever that means).
One more thing I want to talk about (did I say that I’m not good at talking about myself in English... hm... lol). When I left Poland I didn’t really expect how much I’ll be missing Polish food. Not all of it. Just particular dishes that reminds me of my childhood, that I call my comfort food.
It is even more difficult because my husband doesn’t like Polish food. He likes pierogi, but who doesn’t?! He doesn’t like cabbage and many Polish dishes that I like have cabbage in it. For example bigos, or cabbage rolls, or boiled cabbage with apples. He can’t stand the smell of boiling cabbage. So, I try to cook it once in a blue moon. Read: Never! That’s how good wife I am! :)
I love barszcz, he doesn’t. I love żurek, he doesn’t know what that is, and actually doesn’t want to know. I love potato pancakes, he definitely does not want to eat them, and so on! I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, but I wish he was a little bit more open to new food.
Today if I want something Polish I need to cook it myself rather than find it in a store or restaurant, and it’s a cooking 3 dishes for three people: Something different for my husband, something different for our Little One (thanks god she is getting to that age that she can eat what her dad or mom eats.. uff...), and something Polish for me.
So you can imagine how often I’m willing to cook something Polish for myself. I rather skip this part that stay in the kitchen for extra hour. My laziness again ;). If I want to go out to eat it’s hard to find a good Polish restaurant if any.
So when this day comes and I really feel like I can’t put my craving away anymore I like to make something what’s very easy and fast to cook. Placki ziemniaczane, potatoe pancakes. That’s what I actually was planned to talk about in this blog post, and only about this. Oh well, I hope you don’t mind my previous ramblings.
So, for this recipe I use:
3 medium size potatoes (You can use whatever potatoes you have.)
1 egg
1/2 medium yellow onion
1cup all purpose flour
1/4 cup corn (optional)
1/4 cup peas (optional)
1 stick of butter, (or 1/2 cup oil)
spices - sal, peper, marjoram, complete seasoning (if I use this I don’t use salt)
Peel them and cut into small pieces. I wash it after all to wash the starch out. So those pancakes are not very starchy.
I do not have food processor so I use blender. I have much easier that my parents anyway. When I was a kid I remember my parents grating the potatoes one by one using the old school shredder. When me and my siblings got older they would use us to do “if you want to help me cooking” part.
Move the batter to the bowl and mix in egg, chopped into really small pieces onion, and spices
Add all purpose flour. I remember my parents used to mix it half and half (potato starch and all purpose flour). I do not use the starch, because I like those pancakes not so starchy, and heavy.
Add corn and peas. This is optional. My parents would never do that, but I try to smuggle as many veggies to my cooking as it’s possible. I try not to overdo it, though. So sometimes I would grade one or two carrots, and use it instead of corn and peas, or in addition.
Heat oil in a large skiller over medium heat. Spoon the mixture into skillet. Fry, turning once, until golden brown. Transfer to paper towel to drain.
Eat
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