My grandfather taught his father how to speak English in order to get his citizenship. My grandmother was raised in a household that still spoke Polish and attended a Polish mass every Sunday.
The earliest memory I have in their house is standing on a chair in their kitchen making golabki, my little hands tenderly wrapping warm cabbage around beef and vegetables like a present to be gifted at the dinner table.
Kluski noodles and the occasional Chruściki (Angel Wings) were my favorite treats. The crunchy cookies being reduced to nothing more than crumbs and the kiss of powdered sugar on my fingertips.
But my favorite memory is the music. Every single day I was met with the welcoming hug of blaring polkas at the door; The best days were when grandpa would bring out his drums. At every wedding (for over fifty cousins, there were a lot of weddings) the polka would be played, and the floor would empty to make way for my grandfather and I to dance.
I was raised to be proud of our Polish culture and heritage. To admire the bravery of my great-grandparents who sailed an ocean for the hope of coming to America, and the grueling work in the mines they did to provide for our family. So I have always taken pride in saying that I am Polish, even shying away from describing myself as “American.” Especially after seeing the way in which immigrants are turned away from this country, and even when we are included, we are not always wanted; we are unwelcomed. I didn’t want to associate myself with the country that found amusement in giving the “dumb Polack” stereotype.
However, this perception was shifted while talking to my ninety year-old grandmother. As I confided in her about my struggles (which embody my want to make our family proud and to not forget where we came from), she reminded me to remember where we are. All of her children had the opportunity to go to college and I am studying journalism. I have rights I may not have had elsewhere. Every country may have made mistakes, but few give you the ability to do anything to make it right. I could fight for the immigrants who aren’t as lucky as us.
It occurred to me then that my great-grandfather did not die from the smoke in those West Virginian mines, learn English from his young son, or travel two weeks in a crowded boat to be told that we are not Americans. That was a title we fought for and earned, and the best way to honor my grandparents was to ensure that pride was taken in it.
My name is Cassidy Howard, the incredibly proud granddaughter of the Opalewski and Miszak family, and I am Polish-American.