Someone who comes from Poland told me today that whenever he is asked where he comes from, he answers from Eastern Europe, because he is ashamed to tell the truth. He is afraid to admit in what country he was born, because only drunkards, criminals and moneymakers come from there. At first, I felt sad, but then I became angry. If we are ashamed of our origin, no one will respect us. This shame will prove the negative opinions to be true. I am from Poland! I tried to not think about it, because I had to spend some time to figure out the riddles of Polish grammar before the children returned from school. I wanted to prepare for the next class at the university and tried to figure out why inflected nouns assume their specific forms and not another. I had pulled out all grammar books that I have, and looked for answers. For a moment I became a grammar detective.
Mr. Doroszewski gave me many answers. I also found something in professor Bralczyk’s book. At one point I grabbed a little book with torn cover, “Polish language” of Mieczysław Pęcharski. Yes, I remember it, it’s passed on in my family from generation to generation. It’s a book that my grandfather studied from. Second world war interrupted his education. He could pass his Matura exam when this nightmare ended. I continued to browse the pages. It’s funny that only now I noticed the notes made on the margins. Notes? Not really, just some records of what grandpa had to learn for the next lesson. I imagined him as a young boy, sitting with the book and learning declension. I wonder, what was he thinking? How do you think about language and how do you learn it, if you have to shoot, fight with the enemy and suffer to protect it? How do you learn a language if you pay for your knowledge with a bullet in your thigh and walk from Siberia to the motherland? How does a boy feel, who now sits with a book, when a few months ago had to walk with a rifle on his shoulder, full of hopes and fears? He was returning home, but didn’t know what to expect there. He didn’t know who is alive and who is now gone. I can’t ask him about it now. My grandpa died many years ago. He went for a walk to the forest, got tired, sat down by the tree and just left us like that. He peacefully fell asleep among the trees, on the August sun heated bedding.
Grandpa, I’ll never be ashamed that I come from a country you fought and shed blood for! For which your friends died. I’m not ashamed! I AM FROM POLAND!