“Polska jest, prosze pani. Ja jestem Polakem!” Powerful words of a powerful climax of a powerful play. Chances are they don’t mean much to you, but they meant a tremendous amount to the audience who heard me recite them on stage; and to me, whose self-esteem had been faltering because of the disease that plagued my eyes.
“Mooooom, please don’t make me go. I know Polish just fine, I can speak it perfectly, see?” It was my eighth grade year, and I had convinced myself that the saints, demons, and Greek gods of boredom had embodied themselves in the abomination of Polish School. Every Saturday morning, my mom heard the same suppliant request: “Let me stay home from Polish School today.” Every Saturday morning, I experienced the same simple response: “No.” Every Saturday morning, I had to sacrifice the new episodes of Pokemon that I held so dear to my heart. Polish School had always been a part of my life, and only recently had I decided that I was “too cool” for it.