Polishness. (ENG ver.)

Polishness.

When I was younger, I never focused on where I came from. I knew very well that I was Polish and loved being one, but that was it. Of course, I felt attached to this country and our culture, but I never thought about it for long. It was just everyday life for me. I had lived in a Polish home since birth, surrounded by Polish people, Polish trees, Polish streets, Polish cities, Polish shops. And that was all I had ever known.

The only thing I could never understand about my family and friends was their fascination with Polish music. Music was just like music to me. I love listening to it, but I have never been passionate about it. I had my favorite hits that were always played in RMF FM radio during summer car trips to the Tricity to relax in the extremely windy and sunny Sopot and watch the Baltic Sea for hours, but I never listened to it on my own. I thought it was kind of embarrassing to listen to what my people have made. That it just wasn’t something I should be doing. I looked for other artists, even got into kpop, which I still love to this day.

I felt the same way about trips to the countryside. I loved them, but I never wanted to brag about them on Instagram or spend more than two days there—“because it’s a bit unaesthetic”, that’s how I explained it to myself.

Last September, I officially left the country and moved to France, to Paris. I wanted to start an exciting new life, meet new people. After all, it’s the West. It must be better. I was never particularly fond of this country, but I convinced myself of how many opportunities I would have, how many investors from various industries work here, and how many job offers I could find. Was I right? In a way. I agree, there are many opportunities here, many companies open their locations here, look for employees, and many people come here. You get the feeling that when it comes to career opportunities, this place has a lot to offer. However, nothing is as important as the energy you feel in a given place. At first, it was covered by excitement and the desire to explore, the drive to take action. But later, I no longer felt the same. Life is not a fairy tale. You can live like in a fairy tale, but life itself is not one. That is the difference necessary to understand what life is really about. It wasn’t going well for me at first, the first unpleasant conversations with people started, men secretly taking pictures of me, protests at the university. It wasn’t something that satisfied me in any way.

“But life also consists of hardships, you just wrote about it less than an hour ago, didn’t you?”

Yes, but it’s not just about the course of events.

Paris is incredible, full of interesting people and opportunities. But deep down, when you go beyond the surface, it’s not what fascinates me. In Poland, in Warsaw, I felt like myself. In Paris, I feel like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not, even though I’m doing it subconsciously. The people here don’t match me, energetically. This isn’t my energy, the one I resonate with. It’s simply not my place. That’s all. I feel that this is definitely a moment in my life when I’m getting to know myself again, as I do every few years. Paris has taught me a lot. To worry less but maintain discipline. To keep balance and listen to my body. But I don’t plan to stay here much longer. This isn’t my place on Earth. Even if I try to convince myself otherwise for years, my body will tell me everything on its own. It will never lie to you, but your mind will.

What I miss most in Paris are my roots—I don’t hear my people talking on the streets, complaining about the renovations in the building, or going out daily to buy flowers to put in an old vase that has survived two world wars and the times of PRL (communism in Poland in the 70s). I never paid much attention to this, sometimes, I was even irritated by the people I lived with in this country. But in the end, that’s what you love. Going out on the terrace in May to have breakfast outside under a dark green umbrella, sitting on wooden benches with the logo of a local alcohol company. Singing Christmas carols together in December and laughing with your friends while sipping dried fruit compote. The occasional arguments between parents. Exiting the “Centrum” station onto the “Patelnia”, then looking up to see the Palace of Culture and Science despite the fact that you’ve already seen it four times this week. Going to Powiśle with friends, handing out Garnier flyers in French to make it feel less silly, even though you’re already laughing at yourselves and your foolishness. Dancing in studios on Świętokrzyska street, practicing choreography in the same room where, just the night before, the biggest illegal 18th birthday party took place. Visiting grandma and grandpa in an apartment or a house filled with antiques and old furniture, all holding a piece of history. Annual trips around Poland, sunny Gdańsk, touristy Zakopane, historic Kraków, Ostrołęka, Słupsk, and the Świętokrzyskie Mountains, all dear to my heart. I love that I was able to grow up in this country. I love that despite being erased from the map for 123 years by neighboring countries, we are still here. They didn’t take away our history, our culture.

I am Polish. I am happy to be Polish. I love being Polish. I love hearing Poles on the streets. The Polish diaspora is all over the world, we are everywhere, whether because of war-time escapes or simply because of the desire to travel the world. What remains constant in us, however, is the desire to show who we are. In every country, there are our shops, our food, our drinks, our people, our culture, our music. When I was in California last year, I was walking with my parents and three aunts from the car towards Venice Beach. We were already tired but still excited enough to see what an American, touristy yet culturally rich beach looked like. As we crossed the street, another family was crossing from the other side, two adults, an elderly grandfather, and three children—two sons and a daughter. As both of our unknown groups waited for the green light, we were all grinning from ear to ear. It wasn’t until we passed each other that we heard Polish jokes coming from the other family. At that moment, we all turned around, looking at each other with wide smiles.

“Hey, where are you from?”

“From Warsaw,” we replied, and then my dad spoke up. “And you? Where are you from?”

“Near Poznań,” the grandfather answered with a smile, wishing us a pleasant stay. “Poland rules!” the kids’ father shouted, and we all laughed before going our separate ways. These are the small interactions that make me feel at home. We are on the other side of the world. In America. In California. And yet, you can hear Poles laughing, enjoying life. I had a similar experience in Paris, sitting in a small café, writing in my journal. At one point, through my music, I heard a few Polish words I wasn’t expecting at all. I looked up and saw a father and daughter discussing menu options. After five minutes of struggling through broken French with the waiter, they sat next to me. That’s when I spoke.

“Dzień dobry,” the most classic greeting.

And so, a conversation began, lasting the next half hour. We talked about everything—life in Paris, studying, what to visit. After giving them my recommendations, the girl’s father asked me.

“How do you feel here, being alone at 18?”

At that moment, I froze completely. I started thinking and then explained how much I missed my home, my parents, and conversations in my language. That was the moment I truly realized how attached I was to this country. I had never openly admitted it, but in that moment, I missed Poland terribly. I was barely after my big 18th birthday party with family and friends from Poland in Paris. Even though I never really paid attention to it, I loved Poland. I still do. I love the fact our culture is so big and broad, with which I identify a lot and can spend hours talking about.

After a while, the man has said that they leave. I thanked them for the conversation and wished them a great day. As they were about to leave, the father stepped back for a moment and told me something that has stayed with me ever since.

“Remember, we all have one heart,” he said, placing his hand over his chest with a smile, thanking me once more before leaving the café.

I love that my people are like this. Complaining, hospitable, sometimes arrogant, but in the end, they show love and understanding. I love my culture, I love my music, I love my people, I love my streets, I love the place where I grew up. Thank you, Poland, for shaping me in such way so that I can continue to share who we are.

I am proud to be Polish.

I love you, my Poland.

Amelia.

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