In the summer of 1998, I traveled to Poland with the Kosciuszko Foundation to teach English to high school students. No terrible yearning to return to my roots fostered that trip. It was during my return flight that I truly began to comprehend the heightened sense of completion I had just gained. What I lost was a lifetime of misconceptions about my ancestors' homeland and the people who inhabit it.
Though I didn't hear one polka, I did discover the music of Latino singing sensation Ricky Martin long before his poster hung on any American teen-ager's bedroom wall. The only pierogi I ate were called "Russian pierogi" and even those were hard to come by. I traversed through city and countryside, but saw not one pink flamingo adorning anyone's front lawn. The only lines for food I waited in were at Pizza Hut and McDonalds. And if young women wore babushkas on their heads, I never noticed; I was too busy admiring their trendy European shoe styles.
Like many Buffalo natives, I am of Polish descent. For the first 25 years of my life, I was reticent to admit this. I grew up hearing "dem dair" Polish jokes. I heard the derogatory comments about residing in "Cheektowarsaw" and fought the "intellectually challenged" stereotype of not only being blond, but Polish, too. Like many, I had visions of Poland being dark and dismal, a place where "working in your field" had a much more literal connotation.
From majestic mountains and castles to moving monuments that recall Poland's days of oppression, the sights of this country often left me breathless. Krakow, one of Poland's only major cities never seriously damaged by wartime, teems with hanging flower baskets and cozy cafes, all against the backdrop of spectacular original Baroque architecture. Medieval dungeons have been transformed into trendy dance clubs. Charming horse-drawn carriages clip-clop through the largest medieval marketsquare in Europe. Rubble just 60 years ago, Warsaw is now a booming metropolis often referred to as the Paris of Eastern Europe. Designer stores, skyscrapers and fine restaurants line the streets. Amid this contemporary landscape lies, "Old Town" a section restored - almost identically - to its original form after the city was destroyed. This is just one manifestation of the amazing resilience the Polish people have historically exhibited. I now understand how one small country no bigger than the state of New Mexico overthrew an entire communist regime.
I encountered people with an unbelievable sense of pride. They are people who sweep the tiny porches of their modest homes each night. They are teen-agers who put their American teachers to shame with their knowledge of politics, history, art, languages and music. They consider learning a privilege, not a burden. Grim recollections of martial law allow them to take little for granted.
I encountered young and old with a tenacious faith, people who kneel on concrete in the driving rain, attending Mass outside because there is not even standing room in the church. With rapid westernization, one hopes the depth and substance of the Polish way of life will remain.
I was only in Poland for two weeks but it was long enough to form lasting bonds with some of the brightest, most endearing people I have ever met. Long enough to visit distant relatives who told me of my family history. Long enough to become enchanted with the beauty of this inspiring land. And long enough to return home completely proud to be Polish.
(GWEN DERKOVITZ lives in Lancaster, works at PBS affiliate WNED-TV in Buffalo and serves on the Board of Directors of the Western New York Chapter of the Kosciuszko Foundation.)