People Who Are Polish: A Video And Why We Share

I found this video on youtube and wanted to share it.

It's a slide show of people who are Polish or have Polish roots and who are famous.  Perhaps you might recognize a few?

I also want to explain why I share information about famous Poles and people who have Polish roots, or ancestry. 

It's not about thinking Poland or Polish peoples are better than America or American people.  Neither is better than the other, America and Poland are both amazing in their own ways.  

My children may one day feel inspired to not be ashamed of being Polish American.  I want them to be proud and not bow to Polack jokes or sneers by others. 

I don't want them to feel superior, it's not about that.  It's about celebrating who you are, whatever or whoever you are.  Whether it be Polish, Cherokee, Ethiopian, Indian, or whatever culture your family comes from.

I also want them to understand what it means to be Polish American.  That it is a culture, that we have certain foods, songs, traditions, a language, roots in a far away land where some of our family still lives and who we still have contact with because distance has nothing to do with love and family. 

It's about growing their souls as little people, making the world more understandable, helping them to become compassionate towards others, giving them the idea that the world is open to them and that they are a part of it.

I want them to also see that America is a land filled with stories like this, full of people who's ancestral ties are with countries around the world, and how wonderful that is, how unique.

I want them to grow, to be, to become, to feel inspired, to truly dream, to be kind, to know.

So, while I get a hard time by some for sharing stories about my heritage, my children's heritage, I just want to say that if you still don't understand why I share, that's not my or my children's concern.

We are here, we are living, we are celebrating who we are while respecting and celebrating who everyone else as well.

As it should be.

Na razie...

The Autumn Tree

It's an early Sunday morning.  The barest hints of Autumn have been creeping along the branches of trees.

My children are in the backseat playing with two stuffed animals, fully animated with deep voices for men and high pitched for women, laughing with complete abandon.  There isn't a single hint of worry or sorrow yet on their smooth young faces.

We turn left and find Autumn in the parking lot of a church.  The trees are bursting with yellows and oranges and a crunchy wave of color falls onto my windshield when the prairie wind blows just right. 

My kids look out the windshield and squeal that it looks like a princess's house.  This church is made of red brick, like the red brick castles and churches in Poland.  Perhaps that's what my older daughter is remembering.

Jarzębina trees are sporting their signature red berries along the walls of the church.

To my children, they're just pretty.  But...

"My Babcia's family on my mother's side had a tree like this next to their front door for good luck.  You can take the berries and put them on string with a needle and when they dry, you can wear it like a necklace for fun.  When I was little, there was a Jarzębina tree that grew near our apartment building and my Mommy, brother and I used to pick the berries for necklaces.  But you can't eat the berries unless you cook them carefully, because they are poisonous.  Maybe you can find the fairies that live in this tree."

In a fairy book we own, there is a poem about the Jarzębina. 

There is also a musical group called Jarzębina, in case you might remember them.

My little ones run around the Jarzębina, at first peering up into the branches, trying to spot a fairy or two, that might be hiding among the red berries.  After a few minutes, they revert to the timeless childhood game of "You Can't Catch Me!", holding with delicate hands onto the bark of the tree as they spin around under the Autumn Tree. 

Leaves fall down around us, the sky is blue above.  The air cool on rose petal cheeks. 

Na razie...

A Gallon of Milk

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...