When I first meet someone, it’s my immediate instinct to start telling my life story. Maybe it’s because I love talking or maybe it’s because of the pride I hold for my heritage. Either way, the story usually goes like this:
I was born in Poland and grew up in a tiny village that lies in the southern part of the country called Frydman. This place is my mother’s homeland while my father grew up in an even smaller village down the road called Dursztyn. And when I say small— I mean it. Frydman has a population of 1,600 while Dursztyn has about 400 people. They’re absolutely tiny. Still, they’re filled with so much culture and pride for the ground they walk on.
Because of the fact that I spent most of my life in the United States, I am often told by my family that I’ve become very Americanized. Whether it’s the way I sometimes stutter while speaking in my native tongue or the beliefs that I hold, there is constant questioning about ‘what kind of Polak I am.’ When I was younger, these words rooted an identity crisis within me. I felt like I was too Americanized to be considered truly Polish but because of my birth place and my love for my motherland, I couldn’t truly blend in with my American peers. As I grew older, I realized that this bit of separation that I held from my roots, was never a bad thing. Unfortunately though, it did make me a generational outcast.
Maybe you, the reader, can relate on some level. It boils down to it being a love for your culture but an awareness of its flaws. For me personally, it’s the fact that Poland is a historically-rich country with beautiful architecture, delicious food, and kind people. But when you peel back it’s layers, it’s permeated with alcoholism, misogyny, and ignorance.
There’s a running joke that you can’t outdrink a Polish person. But, what if I told you that some people take this joke too far and it turns into a competition. It shifts from being 16 and ‘how many shots can you take?’ to being 40 and ‘how many pints of vodka can you buy from the corner liquor store in one day?’ The Polish have a tendency of turning a blind eye to alcoholism because of how common it is for their people. They’re too comfortable hearing that someone’s dad has a drinking problem or someone’s mom is suffering the abusive consequences of alcohol. It’s become a commonality— an everyday occurrence that just ends in a shoulder shrug. Maybe it’s rooted in the fact that there’s nothing to do in small-town Polish villages so the only thing available is weekly bonfires and alcohol. Or maybe it’s because men are taught that expressing any sort of emotion is cowardly so instead, they drown their pain in liquid poison. No matter which way you try to justify it, it always ends in a dangerous generational pattern that only some are lucky to break. And if this is a known issue, why is that when a grown adult is absolutely obliterated at an event, it’s laughed off? Or worse, gossiped about to the next person: “Can you believe they got this bad” “I heard they’re always like this.”
If you’ve noticed, I don’t use the terminology “we” when describing this habit of Polish people. It’s not because I consider myself any less Polish but because I refuse to be part of the problem anymore. Maybe living in America has given me a new perspective on the issue— somewhat of an outsider’s perspective. It’s not normal for me to see people drink while they work. It’s not normal for me to see someone drink until they become a different person. It’s not normal for me to see verbal, physical, or emotional abuse linked to alcohol. In all honesty, the nonchalant nature of it all is absolutely horrid.
Besides alcohol, the subtle misogyny gave me another reason to become the generational outcast. I don’t know if it’s a Polish “thing” or just an immigrant characteristic but there is so much hatred for women. If it’s not the constant reminders about weight, it’s the stereotyping. Women belong in the kitchen. Women clean while men work. A man has no place in taking care of the household because that’s a woman’s role. The subtle male chauvinism has become so normalized that people don’t even see it as a problem anymore. It’s yet another blind eye. Women laugh it off, put up with it, or have been so submerged within it that they don’t even see it as a problem anymore. But it is. I don’t even think it can even be described as a problem anymore but a disease. It’s sick to see how many immigrant women are constantly put down by the men in their lives because they think they hold some kind of power over them. Frankly, I want no part of it and for those who have been affected by the same thing, it’s time for you to stand up for yourself. No one has the right to comment on your appearance or your individuality, no matter how “common” it is in your culture. It’s time to break the pattern.
When I verbalize these extremely controversial opinions (imagine thinking generational alcoholism is controversial), people look at me as if I was the devil himself. I like to believe that it’s not because what I’m saying is wrong, but because people are afraid of hearing the truth. Especially for Polish people, these problems are “hush-hush.” It’s like, maybe if you don’t talk about them, they cease to exist. But we’re all aware that’s not the truth. In reality, the alcoholism, the misogyny, the trauma— it feeds off the silence. If no one talks about it, it’ll never get solved and instead, the perfect environment is created for these issues to grow and prosper.
Now, as a twenty year old woman, I stand proudly as a generational outcast. By no means am I the poster child for change but at least I know that I’m not afraid to speak out about it. In the same way, the fear I felt about my identity crisis shrinks as I grow older. Sometimes it still lingers but I know that my progressive opinions don’t change my heritage or the love I hold for my traditions. I don’t doubt my ties to my roots anymore but I’m also painfully aware that there needs to be a change.
The last thought I’ll leave you, my lovely company, with is a piece of advice. If you find yourself in the same shoes as me, an immigrant or the child of one, questioning your culture, keep doing it. It doesn’t take away your identity or cut off your roots. Instead, you’re creating a safer environment for the children of your homeland to blossom in. The pride will always be there but that doesn’t mean that the problems have to come with it too.
Love always,
Typewriter
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