An incurable sentimentalist, I can never refrain from thinking to myself “one week ago, one month ago, one year ago from today, what was I doing?” I’m not entirely sure if this habit stems merely from wanting to look back and compare my life then and now, or if it’s more an attempt to reassure myself that my life hasn’t remained static, that it’s somehow changed, for better or for worse. I suspect the latter.
So one year ago, what was I doing? Most likely dreaming of returning to Krakow. I studied here a few years ago for a semester abroad, and never was I happier than then. I’d visited here before, as my mother is Polish and most of her family still lives here, but as a child and then “tweenager,” I’d resented being dragged away from home each summer to spend time with relatives who force-fed me pickles and chlodnik (a cold soup that is the exact shade of pepto-bismol, which more or less explains, I think, my reluctance to eat it), or made me go raspberry-picking in the woods (and did nothing to alleviate my concerns that it was un-safe to eat these berries without washing them first, as a rabbit may have peed on them).
As I got older, though, I became more and more appreciative of my mother’s background. When I was little, everything that marked me as “different” from anyone else–my name, the way my family celebrated Christmas, my mother’s accent–all made me feel like a little alien. I knew many of my classmates came from “different” backgrounds, as well, but they had the comfort of numbers. In central California, there are many Hispanic families, many Asian families, but I never once encountered another Polish person my own age. I think a sort of turning-point for me was beginning high school. I went to a high school that only self-described nerds attended–music classes were mandatory, as were Latin and college science classes. Here, nobody was “normal,” and suddenly, not fitting in became “cool.”
Perhaps more than that, though, it has to do with growing up. I’d never liked my own name, and remember a mortifying day when a substitute teacher mis-read it as “Anthony.” Suddenly it didn’t seem to matter anymore, though. When I pronounced the name correctly for teachers, they always asked where it came from, and I realised that even if I didn’t like it, other people thought it was a beautiful name. I was also particularly fortunate in that I’d never lost my ability to communicate in Polish, and this became something else I realised was special.
And so I decided to study abroad in Poland. It seemed like a great way to improve my Polish further, and more importantly, become more aware of what my mother’s life may have been like. She grew up in a different region, and under Communism, and so there’s no way I’ll ever truly be able to know what her life before coming to the States was like. But there were times during that semester, like when I went to a cafe and received my tea in a glass instead of a mug (just like my grandmother and great-grandmother had always served it), or when I went to church the day before Easter to have a basket of food blessed, that I’d think, twenty years ago, my mother might have done this exact same thing. Leaving to head back to California broke my heart, for many reasons, and I was determined to come back.
I’m not sure if my determination to familiarise myself with my mother’s culture is the result of a natural curiosity in one’s parents’ history, or if it can better be explained by a perverse desire to immerse myself in that which I felt made me foreign when I was small, but either way, it was perhaps the single biggest factor in my investigating all paths which led back to Krakow.
So I suspect this time a year ago today, I was perusing pages of private language schools in Krakow to which I could write and ask if they had positions for native speakers.
Looking back, I suppose I feel both a bit bitter and a lot grateful that I’m here now. Bitter because in most ways my experiences here have not lived up to the expectations and hopes I’d had then. Admittedly, my hopes were high and unrealistic, but I can be a painfully hopeful person, and each time any of my dreams aren’t met I feel it deeply. Grateful, though, because I can’t imagine ever looking back on this year, or on any of my experiences here, with any kind of regret. From the personal to the professional, each experience has–to employ several hideous cliches–taught me something, taught me something about myself, helped me grow, helped form my ever-changing identity.
What, exactly, have I learned or experienced?
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