Buffalo Gal

The rustling sound you hear today is the Great Celestial Brag Book.
My mother's mother is doing triple time with the news that the local Polish newspaper is profiling me as a Polish community leader. I meet the reporter today for lunch and am not yet comfortable with the idea of being the one interviewed.
But I surprise myself with being OK with the premise.
One set of grandparents were Chlebowski and Witkowski and the other Skibinski and Mohn. I won the naming derby because my paternal grandfather had the one-vowel name. Correcting pronounciation from "Mon" to "Moan" was a small price for not having all those syllables and the Polish joke stereotypes that went with them.
I grew up in an Italian neighborhood and was delighted to believe I was Italian by default. The problem wasn't the vowels, but the "Polack" jokes. The red and white oval "STP" fuel additive stickers were popular and prevalent in my childhood for their off-market "Stop Teasing Poles" interpretation.
My mother's mother was fiercely proud of her hertitage, with a small bust of Chopin on her television and stack of well-worn piano concerto records.
But when my mother, grandmother and aunt wanted to talk about anything "not for little ears" their conversation shifted seamlessly into an odd and guttural language that made no sense to me. The message was clear. This language did not belong to my generation.
We were the ones who went to college and moved to the suburbs. Our children would be fractional Poles at best, their children not at all. That seemed to be the plan.
And that was fine with me.
Dingus Day and the Pulaski parade have none of the cache of St. Patricks Day or any of the Italian feast days.
But my major holidays belong to the traditions which my great grandparents brought through Ellis Island. I've never given the matter a lot of thought. I've realized over the years that it 's not the rites and rituals I celebrate.
It's simply who I am.

Copyright 2005 Judi Griggs

Buffalo Gal Judi Griggs I'm a communications professional, writer, cynic, mother, wife and royal pain. The order depends on the day. I returned to my hometown in November 2004 after a couple of decades of heat and hurricanes. I can polish pristine copy, but not here. This is my morning exercise -- 20-minute takes without a net or spellcheck. It's easier than sit ups for me. No guarantee what it will be for you. Clicking on the subscribe link will send you an email notice when each new entry is posted.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (1) Share on Facebook		2005-02-25 7:43 AM Polonia Profile The rustling sound you hear today is the Great Celestial Brag Book. My mother's mother is doing triple time with the news that the local Polish newspaper is profiling me as a Polish community leader. I meet the reporter today for lunch and am not yet comfortable with the idea of being the one interviewed. But I surprise myself with being OK with the premise. One set of grandparents were Chlebowski and Witkowski and the other Skibinski and Mohn. I won the naming derby because my paternal grandfather had the one-vowel name. Correcting pronounciation from "Mon" to "Moan" was a small price for not having all those syllables and the Polish joke stereotypes that went with them. I grew up in an Italian neighborhood and was delighted to believe I was Italian by default. The problem wasn't the vowels, but the "Polack" jokes. The red and white oval "STP" fuel additive stickers were popular and prevalent in my childhood for their off-market "Stop Teasing Poles" interpretation. My mother's mother was fiercely proud of her hertitage, with a small bust of Chopin on her television and stack of well-worn piano concerto records. But when my mother, grandmother and aunt wanted to talk about anything "not for little ears" their conversation shifted seamlessly into an odd and guttural language that made no sense to me. The message was clear. This language did not belong to my generation. We were the ones who went to college and moved to the suburbs. Our children would be fractional Poles at best, their children not at all. That seemed to be the plan. And that was fine with me. Dingus Day and the Pulaski parade have none of the cache of St. Patricks Day or any of the Italian feast days. But my major holidays belong to the traditions which my great grandparents brought through Ellis Island. I've never given the matter a lot of thought. I've realized over the years that it 's not the rites and rituals I celebrate. It's simply who I am. Copyright 2005 Judi Griggs Read/Post Comments (1) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top