Adam & Barbara
Adam and Barbara immediately opposed to being recorded. “We have nothing interesting to say,” she said.
Wujek mumbled in agreement. I let the conversation rest, knowing not to push them toward discomfort. Later in the evening, Ciocia laughed. “Wujek has funny voice … him telling a story … funny.” I asked her if I could turn on a recorder to document a portion of our evening, stressing I had no expectation or needs for her to say anything in particular. The resulting recording is a dinner conversation – musings about food and wine mixed with occasional stories all among the clatters of plates.
"Well, we should better finish the ice cream, because tomorrow the ice cream won't be good."
"Adam ... Michas, jeszcze? Oh ok Jeszcze is more You wanted more, stos jeszcze Tim: I understood!"
"Ahh gosh A: 7:30 ~ Polish B: Time go fast"
One constant among varied topics was a mix of English and Polish. Barbara and Adam – or Ciocia and Wujek (aunt and uncle), as my family calls them – came to the United States more than 50 years ago. They worked, bought a house, and found stability, yet stayed primarily within their Polish community. Not having children further isolated them from complete assimilation. Now as retirees, their English continues to fade.
I cherish the unique cadences and pauses that come from their mix of languages. Each tilting point carries an emblem of identity, indexing their particular brand of immigration. Over dinner, they muse about the difficulties of always switching between languages. They term it a difficulty; I value its musicality.
"You coming, it's Polish Polish Polish. Then go outside, somebody speak English. What are you talking about?"
"Adam ... Michas*, jeszcze? Oh ok Jeszcze is more You wanted more, stos jeszcze Tim: I understood!" * my brother's name
At different points, they refer to me as my dad’s name or my brother’s name (or both), before landing on mine with a laugh. Each is a term of endearment. Without children of their own, my dad – having immigrated to the US by himself – became their son, and eventually my siblings and I, their grandchildren. We are tasked with carrying on their tradition.
I feel a great shame that I don’t share their language — a dereliction of duty to honor my heritage. Yet I can change one thing by emphasizing that they do have something interesting to say. They, too, are special.