POL-ish

Michal Czapla

9/21/18

E-Band

POL-ish

“What’s that weird food?”

I mindlessly closed my SpiderMan lunch bag. It was a new week of Kindergarten, and I thought that I would bring one of my favorite meals for lunch that day. Polish potato dumplings, or “pierogi”, were quite literally heaven in my mouth. The soft, doughy shell enveloping a pile of toasty mashed potatoes danced on my tastebuds. I always ate it at home, as my family would always make them every now and then. It was normal to eat them. So, when a kid named Brendan pointed them out, goosebumps tingled down my skin. My mind felt hollow. All those years of chowing doing on my beloved pierogi were now shameful memories.

“I don’t know,” I replied,”My mom put it in my bag.”

I felt the sweat oozing out of my pores. Brendan, however, simply spinned around and waddled along his way.

It seemed that I always had trouble with being open about my Polish heritage. I felt like an alien around all these Americans discussing about things I didn’t grow up with. While they were talking about ‘Tom & Jerry’, all I could think of is ‘Bolek & Lolek’, a Polish show about two brothers fighting with one another and getting into trouble. Playing football was news to me, since Poland’s main sport was soccer. I practically had a ball by my feet at all times, which most didn’t understand why. No matter what, I could never fit in. So naturally, my solution to that was acting. If they saw me as on of them, they wouldn’t judge me.  

One day, everyone in my class was hyped up. The wooden desks were shoved to the corners of the room, and the big red beat box was brought out. As soon as “Teach Me How To Dougie” came on, the class went nuts. It was a flood of 6 year olds shuffling their light up sketchers all over the dusty plank floor. My mind spiraled out of control. My heart pounded from under my chest as though it would burst after every beat.

What on earth was going on?

I was so used to hearing Polish Disco: a lot of bass drops and catchy choruses. My type of dance was hopping up and down, or taking a pretty girl and twirling her around. This was nothing I had ever experienced before. Lifting up my feet felt like a dumbbell was pulling it to the ground. My legs tangled and intertwined as I tried shuffling my shoes, which turned out to look like me trying to kick the ground. My limbs were just flailing in every direction. It was almost as though I was in a different body.

The funny thing is, I probably received more weird looks trying to do the shuffle rather than suggesting my own music. I continued not to realize that, though, and I kept on shuffling. It wasn’t until one day, while we were in a reading circle, that everything changed. I had a select group of friends in my class, so anyone else who wasn’t part of it was just a stranger to me. That included the girl seated next to me. Our teacher, Ms. Gudis, assigned us as reading buddies. Naturally, as we sat down and started reading a picture book, I asked a bit about her.

“So, what’s your name?” I questioned.

“Karolina.”

My eyes widened, jaw cracked open. That sounded just like a Polish name. I had to be sure, though, so I pressed on.

“Where are you from, Karolina?”

“Oh well I was born in Philadelphia…”

Why would I get my hopes up?

“...but my family come from Poland.”

I nearly let out a screech. My slouched posture on the pillow underneath me had now turned into straight one. At that moment, I did the unthinkable: I told her about my Polish heritage. For the entire class period, we shared countless stories about how we struggled to fit into the crowd. We discussed things such as not celebrating April Fools Day, but rather Smigus Dingus, where boys would pour water over girl’s head on Easter Monday. With each story, I grew more and more excited about the topics. For once I felt proud of my culture.

I am not going to sit here and say that everyone loved my Polishness, thought I was a cool cat, and I lived happily ever after. However, school life did become more enjoyable. Everytime I opened my lunchbox, I could munch on my snacks in peace and even give a little story about them. Every now and then, I would sing a tune from a ‘Disco Polo’ song. The world didn’t end, and people simply accepted that it was me. A few kids even loved it!

The point is, you shouldn’t be ashamed of your roots. Your culture is just part of the building blocks that make you, you. Sometimes, it even spices things up. Not everyone is going to like you for it, but not everyone is life is going to like you anyways. You just have to express yourself the way you’ve always wanted to, and the positive people are the ones that will be attracted.