My Polish Heart

Found this little essay I penned a couple years back-- thought I'd share. It's not particularly good, but at the time it was particularly sincere. And I feel the same, even if the words are lacking.

Even at the age of 28, the term “grown-up” feels stodgy and elusive. Look around my house, and you’ll see the meticulous eclecticism of a domesticated gypsy. My furniture, for the most part, comes from flea markets and yard sales because I am young and poor-ish, and I fain artistic sensibility. I pay my mortgage with Mr. Potato Head checks, and my toaster burns Mickey Mouse’s face into bread. I’m pleased to have maintained my childlike qualities without being childish, and there is a vibrancy in my life I hope will never go away. But on the other hand, I’ve acted 45 since I was 11, carrying a briefcase in fifth grade, announcing my political aspirations, and spouting paradigms founded on the ideals of my childhood crush Alex P. Keaton, suavely portrayed by Michael J. Fox on “Family Ties.” I am an old soul; I am a complicated woman. I am a Neil Simon character, and in some ways, I’m a Sybil.

But if there was a magical, transitionary time into adulthood, I’d guess it was the summer of 2004, when I went to Poland for a second term of study abroad. I’d just graduated from college two months before, and I gamely (eagerly?) put off the real world in favor of six weeks in the Motherland. The previous summer, I’d been terribly sick— in and out of the hospital during much of the program, and my language skills didn’t progress far beyond, “Hello. My name is Rachel. My kidney hurts. Please help. No, thank you, I don’t care for any kielbasa.”

So even though I knew the responsible, “adult” thing to do was to start looking for a job and become a productive member of society, I found myself on a laughably iconic, European jaunt before facing the real world. I was trying to take the road less-traveled, but I found myself on a path trod by numberless Bohemian spirits before me.

I was nervous. It all felt so irresponsible! Who goes away to a country to learn a language spoken by a relative few, simply because of an inexplicable love of the whimsical? No, of course it was more than that—there was the duty of honoring my beloved ancestors (though I’m only a quarter Polish, I’ve always said it’s the 25 percent of my body containing my heart—doubly appropriate because once someone told me Poland is shaped like a heart, and I’ve never pictured left- or right-ventricles since). And there was the added benefit of Andrew—a boy I’d met and revered in a literature class at BYU—and basking in the majestic glow of his aura for six weeks. In July and August of 2004, the pedestal I’d placed him on was only six floors down in our nun-run dormitory at the Catholic University of Lublin, and I could worship at the altar of his feet—my own sage and guru, or, if I’m being totally honest, my own crush.

I did feel grown up getting off the plane and helping some lovely people from South Africa exchange their rand for Polish złoty. I remember being particularly pleased with myself as I approached a taxi driver and asked, “Przepraszam, pana. Ile to kostuję pojechac do Hotel Ibis Centrum na aleją Solidarności?” The man laughed at my formality (and likely my accent), neglected to answer my question about cab fare to my hotel, and gave me a patronizing, “very good” in English before sending me out to navigate imposing Warsaw. Still, I remember being pleased with myself. For an afternoon, I was alone in a foreign city, and I was determined to be brave. I checked into my hotel without incident. I ventured out by myself to buy a phone card to call New Mexico and let my parents know I’d arrived safely. I even flirted with the toothless, yet handsome boy at the petrol station. For that exhilarating afternoon, I thrived. I lived.

My summer was blissfully magical, and the evolution from young college grad to a more-refined woman happened gradually over the next six weeks. I still embraced learning with the vigor of my undergrad days, and I saw my Polish skills progress from asking about cab fare to having an intelligent conversation about world politics. Once I went so far as to defend an unpopular position, which was a triumph not only as I spoke for an underrepresented minority, but also because I found words to communicate effectively without the crutch of others’ opinions and borrowed phrases.

Likewise, I became more adventurous. Always (and still) the responsible one, I found myself on an uncharacteristic adventure via night train to Prague with Andrew (and a Polish man sharing our compartment), trying to safely fulfill that yen for hostelling. Andrew and I ended up staying in a hotel with twin beds in a dark little room. It accommodated our modesty, propriety and virtue, even if it did make us hostel sell-outs. When recounting our travel histories, we figured no one need know, and at least we looked the part with our backpacks. Andrew carried my large, heavy one (stuffed full with every possible medication and amenity), and I took his, which I think only had a toothbrush and clean underwear. On the whole, it was a cushy way to “backpack Europe,” but I felt I’d traversed a major rite of passage.

Also that life-altering summer, I met some of the most remarkable people—folks living in apartments the size of my current living room, with nearly nothing to their names— people who were humble, healthy, and most of all, happy. On Sunday afternoons, I’d have dinner with local friends who’d open their homes and patiently listen and teach me as I tried to communicate in their language. I think the love I had for their country and culture pleased them, and our mutual love increased the surface area of my own Poland-shaped heart. My Polish friends’ examples still keep me from accumulating too much “stuff,” and their memory reminds me to care more about relationships than possessions.

That was the summer I spent my mornings studying in a gorgeous old monastery, my afternoons immersing myself in the comforting culture, and my evenings sitting on my 10th floor dorm balcony simultaneously weeping and grinning with gratitude.

“Who even gets to live this life?” I’d think over and over again. It brought me to the depths of humility to answer my own question. “I do.”

And though there were times I worried about the impending “real life” just short weeks ahead, I was determined to cherish every moment. More than growing up, I watched with bittersweet fondness as the last threads of my childhood broke away. I relished this short season of luxurious whimsy. Would I ever again have the time or money to immerse myself so whole-heartedly, so frivolously, into something for the mere satisfaction of curiosity—to do something “just because?”

On my flight home, I cried all the way to Amsterdam. I used to think it was because Andrew and I were cruelly separated in the security line, and though his Berlin-bound plane was right next to mine on the tarmac, I’d not been able to say goodbye to this funny little college student I counted as my counselor. But now, I realize it was really because I knew I’d left something familiar in Poland—my former, younger self—even my childhood. I was no longer “dziewczyna” (girl) but “Pani” (ma’am). I realize the country and the experience cemented the long-coming shift to maturity—a change that would have likely occurred even without Andrew—and each day since, I’ve been a better person for the time I spent there.

My time in Poland refined me; it made my metamorphosis complete. I learned I can be brave and lead a life less-ordinary. I learned things aren’t what make people happy—it’s relationships. I learned the love you give out is infinitely more beneficial than the love you receive, but that unselfish giving tends to lead to exponential receiving on that front. Because I blossomed in Poland, I am more gracious and grateful, kinder and more compassionate.

And what of Andrew? He’s still my friend after all this time, and we speak frequently. I called him one night, mortified after a 55-year-old man I’d met at church confessed to having a crush on me.

“Oh, it’s so awful,” I complained. “He’s only four years younger than my father! Doesn’t he know how inappropriate that is?”

Andrew just chuckled at this latest dating debacle of his virginal, little-sister type friend.

“It feels so creepy,” I rambled on. “I feel like I’m still 16!”


“Yes, Rachel,” he said. “But you’ve always been mature, so to him, there’s not the same perception of a 28-year age difference.”

And I guess that’s when I realized the world perceives me as an adult even when I don’t— Mr. Potato Head checks and all.