Child's
Play in South Africa new!
by Tracy Villanueva
Sendangsono
new!
by Barrie Lie-Birchall
At
the Ballet
by John Champagne
Manchester,
England Via Bury
by Mark Byers
Roma,
Cittá Aperta
by Tara Kilachand
Bali
by Barrie Lie-Birchall
Gold,
Sequins and Cigarettes
by Sarah Scroope
Cosa
Pensavo: What I Was Thinking
by Corrie Cook
A
Family Journey: a photojournal
by Cristine M. Klika
Buy A Vowel
by Catherine Skrzypinski
“Sherman”
“Here”
“Siegel”
“Present”
(silence) “Umm...”
I always dreaded the first day of school, especially when attendance was taken for the first time. As you can tell by the byline above, my last name is quite a challenge. Polish in origin, “Skrzypinski,” (pronounced “Scra-pin-ski”) roughly translated, means “violinist.” My parents found that ironic, since my sisters and I were able to carry a tune and read music at an early age. But that didn’t change the fact that I was constantly the punch line at roll call, year in, year out.
“Scri-zi-pin-skee?”
“Schur-pin-skee?”
“Wow, I’m not even going to try to pronounce this one…”
That was always my favorite attempt.
“Whoa…there are so many consonants. Catherine, you should buy a vowel! Get it?!?” (snorts of laughter at the bad Wheel of Fortune joke I’ve heard countless times.)
“Wait, I’m going to get this…don’t stop me…Scra-za-pin-skee?”
I would then smile at the flustered teacher and meekly reassure him that he nearly pronounced it correctly. Around me, my classmates and friends would snicker. “It’s ‘Scra-pin-ski.’”
“Naturally!” Mr. Flustered Teacher would exclaim. “See, it’s not so hard to say after all. So, how long did it take you to learn how to SPELL it when you were a little kid?”
* * *
With a distinctive last name like Skrzypinski, my Polish heritage was pretty prominent throughout my childhood. My grandparents lived in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, where many transplanted Poles settled in America. Grandma’s kitchen always smelled like kielbasa and sauerkraut and was presided over by the Black Madonna – which I must admit, frightened me.
|
The nun next to me was clutching her rosaries for dear life. So this is why there are more nuns and priests in Warsaw than in the Vatican, I chuckled to myself. |
Fast forward to twenty-odd years later . Poland is on the brink of entering the European Union but is still adjusting to life post-Communism. Its national identity is strong, as Poles are bound together by Catholicism and its distinctive language. The Poland of today is dramatically different from the Poland my great-grandparents emigrated from. I was to discover this on my own, as I took the first steps toward Poland. I was about to be the first in my family to return to the homeland.
Boarding my flight to Warsaw, I noted that most of the Polish passengers had a fair complexion, blond hair and bluish-grayish eyes. So much for blending in, I thought, as I subconsciously fussed over my olive complexion, brown hair and brown eyes. Next to me, a Lech Walesa look-alike excitedly talked about going home. I was excited as well. In a sense, I was going home, too.
Warsaw Okecie Airport has to be the most chaotic airport I have ever landed in. The culture shock hit me about the same time the humidity did. With my hair rapidly curling, I collected my zlotys from the kantor (currency exchange) and found myself being whisked into a cab with a nun.
The cab driver tore out of the airport onto to a tree-lined road, with billboards promoting Coke and KFC in Polish. Warsaw rush hour can be a nightmare, explained the cab driver, as he weaved in and out of lanes towards the imposing Palace of Science and Culture, Stalin’s Soviet skyscraper. The nun next to me was clutching her rosaries for dear life. So this is why there are more nuns and priests in Warsaw than in the Vatican, I chuckled to myself.
Well, we avoided the traffic and arrived in Warsaw in one piece. As I began to explore the city my relatives once called home, my own childhood memories began to creep back. Downtown Warsaw smelled exactly like my Grandmother’s kitchen. Stores sold dolls that my cousins and I played with when we were young. In my mind, Warsaw felt like Greenpoint, Brooklyn… although I knew it should be the other way around!
As I delved deeper into Poland’s capital, the juxtaposition between old and new intensified. The Soviet-style buildings contrasted with the ornate architecture of the “Old Town,” which was reduced to rubble after World War II. Thanks to the Marshall Plan, the Old Town was restored to its 18th-century appearance. Perhaps the most fascinating part of Warsaw was what lies beneath: the underground tunnels that connect the Warsaw metro stations. Warsaw was a bustling little city with a life of its own, where you could shop for pantyhose, Pepsi and pizza with ketchup at all hours.
Strolling along the Nowy Swat from the Old Town, a charming street of cafés and shops, I noticed that there was a local musical production of Skrzypek na dachu (Fiddler on the Roof). It was comforting to see a version of my last name, because all of the strange childhood flashbacks made me miss my family terribly. I was craving conversation and human contact.
My Lonely Planet guided me to a milk bar, where I could stuff myself silly on pierogies and kielbasa for the ridiculous price of 5 zloty (about $1.60). The Poles were convinced I could speak their language, until I actually opened my mouth…and Americanese tumbled out. That’s when the fun began.
“Ah, an American! Where are you from?”
“New York.”
“Really? I have an uncle in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Do you know Zygmut?”
Although I didn’t have a clue who Uncle Zygmut from Greenpoint was, I had a new Polish friend. Therefore, it was true confession time. “In fact, I am Polish-American. My last name is ‘Scra-pin-ski,’” I said, beaming.
“What?!?”
My face turned purple, matching the beet horseradish residue on my plate. “Scra-pin-ski?” as my voice went up ten octaves.
The bewildered Pole stated matter-of-factly, “I don’t understand.”
Digging through my fanny pack, I pulled out my wilted American passport. He scrutinized the passport, and then began to laugh heartily.
“You Americans say it wrong. It’s Skrish-zaaaa-peeen-skeee! Like a violinist,” as he played air violin, with a twinkle in his eye.
Well, how about that. Not only were my teachers were saying it wrong all throughout my life; so was I. As I discussed Polish culture and politics with my newfound friend, I was happy to make a connection from the “homeland.” At least he wasn’t going to tell me to buy a vowel.
Some other articles by Catherine Skrzypinski:
• Snapshots of a Scandinavian Winter
• London Calling, Backpacking and London Spotlights
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