The MutherLand

So I have always been a little jealous of people who have a definite ethnic heritage. Maybe it’s from watching too many movies like “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”, where ones family becomes a sitcom of supporting characters each complete with their idiosyncrasies and quirks; but I’ve always thought it’d be cool to have a huge Italian or Spanish or Persian family to identify myself with; a place where you find yourself centered, grounded, and authentic; where the food and dress and language make you at home in this world. The truth is, I’ve got almost no family. Sure, I’ve got my moms and pops, but they were divorced and so I kinda got 2 half families; which is certainly not the same as one hole one. I’ve got grandparents and 2 cousins who I hardly know, but they are mostly dead or live 3K miles away, so they don’t seem to count much either. There are no uncles to teach me how to be a man, no big brothers to teach me how to get girls, and no aunties and grandmaws to teach me what a good woman is and how she acts towards the man she loves. I’ve always had to figure that shit out on my own; and some of it, I probably never will. So in the end, if I am to have a big ol’ family that eats together every Sunday or gathers round for the Holidays, it will have to be one that I build for myself. I’ll have to become the fat ol grandpa that all the chilluns look up to and admire because he spoils the shit out of them and tells them off color jokes when their parents aren’t around. In will all have to start with me, and once I find the right girl…I truly hope it does.

But as with all people, I have to come from somewhere. There has to be MutherLand. And in my case, the only one of my 4 grandparents to maintain any sense of their cultural heritage is my Polish grandpa. So for me, since there is nothing else to fill it’s place; Poland has become my MutherLand; it’s where I’ve from…at least 25% of me.

Well, tomorrow I am going to the MutherLand. The Prodigal grandson returns.

Andre, Peter, and I are loading up Andre’s Ford Fiesta and having ourselves a good old fashion road trip. Already we have been driving Andre up the wall by insisting on listening to country music and we have a few CD’s made just for the car ride. We’re going to spend an exorbitant amount of money on snacks and make a mess of Andre’s car. I am going to hang my feet out the window. Even though Poland is only an hour away, and our destination, Poznan, is only 2 hours away, Andre seems to think that is a long ass car ride. I think the German folk aren’t used to the mass expanse of highway we have in California, where a 5 hour ride to San Luis is made just to visit an old friend.

So off we go. Poznan is, I think, a real armpit; far off the beaten tourist map, so I think we are in for some sights. I’m betting it’s going to be Ozark, even Appalachian, in it’s backwardness. There will be mullets, Members Only style jackets, and middle aged women who haven’t bought new clothes in 30 years. There will be squalor, the relics of communism, and a population of pale, blank, and beaten people who will make me thank my lucky stars that I’m no longer their brethren. But there will also be beer, dancing, nightclubs, and maybe even a little danger.

Poland is to Germany what Mexico is to the US; and if my time south of the border is to be the example…we’re in for quite a treat.