As a dual citizen of Poland and the United States, I’ve always felt that there are two versions of me. The Polish me is a child, sitting at my parents’ dining room table, eating kotlet schabowy and speaking with my family in Polish. The American me is an adult, living in a new city, married to an American, and working as a lawyer. Becoming pregnant, however, caused these two identities to collide. In order for my children to have a chance at their own connection to Poland, I had to bring Polishness back into my own life. But as hard as I tried to recreate my own Polish childhood, I soon realized that my children were never going to have the same experience as me, in any part of their lives, and their immigrant identity is no exception.
I’m married to an American and I realized my assumptions—that my children would grow up with the same knowledge of Polish language and culture that I had—were not going to become reality without a lot of work on my part.
When I learned I would become a mom, I realized that all my visions of childhood were inextricably intertwined with being Polish. Although I was born in the United States, the majority of my relatives—everyone outside of my parents and sister—live in Poland. Growing up, connecting to family meant long-distance phone calls or long airplane flights, not shared Thanksgiving dinners. My parents spoke only Polish to me, my nannies spoke Polish and cooked Polish food, and I learned English for the first time when I was sent to preschool. I spent carefree and joyful summers in Poland at my grandmother’s house, playing with neighborhood friends all day and returning home only for meals.
I recall preening when relatives complimented my Polish language skills, marveling that I spoke without an American accent and could read and write in Polish. I also listened carefully when they told stories about people who had moved to America and now spoke only English, shamefully forgetting their roots. I absorbed from the adults around me, like all children who understand that the unspoken lessons are the most important, that this ability of mine—to be Polish through and through, despite living in America—was an achievement to be celebrated.
When contemplating my new son’s imminent entry into the world, these visions of my childhood rushed back to me. I’m married to an American and I realized my assumptions—that my children would grow up with the same knowledge of Polish language and culture that I had—were not going to become reality without a lot of work on my part. Though my husband was incredibly supportive and, for his part, has learned basic kid-oriented Polish, ultimately, imparting Polishness would largely be up to me.
Unsure of where to start, I first reached for books. I scoured the internet for books on raising a bilingual child and found a helpful PDF guide for Polish parents raising children in the United Kingdom. I learned about various models of teaching two languages at home, including “one parent, one language,” in which each parent speaks a different language to the kids. I read that success at learning a nondominant language can be reduced to a near-mathematical calculation: How many hours each week is the child hearing the targeted language? In addition, necessity is important: Does the child have a need to speak it—perhaps with a relative or friend who doesn’t understand anything else? Lastly, bilingualism must be fun, not forced. If speaking a language is seen as a chore, it’s unlikely to stick long-term.
I recall sharing my findings with my husband and doing some rough math aloud. Our son would hear Polish from me at home each day, but he would also hear English from my husband, and he would hear the two of us speaking to each other in English. While my parents would visit us and speak Polish to him, such meetings would be irregular because my parents did not live nearby. At daycare, he would hear English all day, because a nanny was not economically feasible for us. Would it be enough?
Most recently, I caught him explaining an animal book to his baby sister and was moved when I realized he was identifying the names in Polish, not English.
In this research process, I also dusted off my own Polish identity. Because I live in a major metropolitan area with many international connections, I was lucky to have access to resources that are not available elsewhere. I found a Facebook group for Polish moms living in my area, a standing happy hour at a restaurant serving Polish food, and a Saturday Polish school—just like the one I had attended growing up—run by the Polish Embassy. I researched Polish daycares and nursery schools (all too far away); the Polish library (very limited hours); and looked into kids’ events at the Kosciuszko Foundation, an organization dedicated to promoting Polish-American cultural exchange. When my grandmother travels to the United States, I ask her to bring us Polish books, games, and toys.
Now that my son is four years old, I’ve seen many of my efforts pay off—but also recognize their limitations. My son’s first word—auto, which means “car”—was in Polish, and he understands Polish extremely well. It is a joy to watch him play with his 90-year-old great-grandmother, and when I hear her talking to him I am mentally transported to a time 30 years ago when she was lovingly saying these same things to me. Typically, however, my son replies in English, often requiring my intervention because my grandmother doesn’t understand his response. I feel a small loss knowing that their relationship requires my mediation.
My son happily reads the many Polish books I have purchased and plays with the Polish games my parents have brought him. When he traveled to Poland for the first time at age two, he had no trouble playing with the other children and started speaking more and more Polish during the trip. Most recently, I caught him explaining an animal book to his baby sister and was moved when I realized he was identifying the names in Polish, not English.
At times, though, he pushes back, in the same way that I recall doing as a child. “No, say it in English!” he will tell me when he is having trouble understanding something. Particularly painful was a phase in which he insisted that I say “I love you” in English, not Polish, before bedtime. I realize that this is typical toddler resistance and that I can only facilitate—never coerce—his Polishness. My husband and I explain to him why Polish is an important part of our lives, and he listens obediently.
Though I tell myself that it’s natural for third-generation immigrants to have a more attenuated tie to their grandparents’ home country, I cannot help but feel sadness and guilt at this realization.
And, like all parents, I have made choices about priorities in my son’s life. I’ve thought about getting him a Polish tutor for Sunday afternoons, but instead we use that time for sports he adores. I could make much more of an effort to set up playdates with the kids of the Polish Facebook moms, but I see how much my son likes his friends from school and our neighborhood, so those are the relationships we put first.
I have come to terms with the fact that my son—and now his baby sister—will have a very different relationship to Poland and Polishness than I do. Though I tell myself that it’s natural for third-generation immigrants to have a more attenuated tie to their grandparents’ home country, I cannot help but feel sadness and guilt at this realization.
At the same time, though, I am also gaining a new appreciation for the American roots that my kids possess. My husband has a large, close-knit family, most of whom live within driving distance of each other. Seeing my son run around with his second cousins at Christmases and family weddings, I feel nothing short of immense joy. How incredible, I think, that he will have so many people in his corner as he grows up; that his family support will not be limited to his nuclear family. My husband and I also have more friendships than my parents, as immigrants, cultivated, and my children benefit from this social network. These connections, and the benefits of this Americanness, must be weighed against any perceived loss from assimilation on my part. My children will never have an immigrant experience identical to mine, but no other aspect of their lives will be identical, either. They are forging their own paths, just as I forged mine.
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