I was lucky to grow up in a community that was ethnically (if not racially) diverse. Certain nationalities predominated, and in the cul-de-sac where I lived from the age of two the majority of names ended in “ski” or “wicz.” My father had no idea that he was buying into a Polish outpost; my mother said it reminded her of her old neighborhood. Since my grandmother was the daughter of immigrants from Krakow, it was hardly alien to me.
Aside from the occasional meal of kielbasa and its usual cabbage and potato-based sides—which, to my discredit, I did not greatly enjoy—I was not grounded in any particular ethnicity. I listed very slightly toward England, and the elegance of the Received Pronunciation (as heard on TV) that I mistakenly assumed people actually spoke. I wanted to elevate my speech and make any other personal renovations that might dispel the lingering aroma of golumpki.
I felt no pride of heritage when the name of any country was mentioned. I was embarrassed when, in the seventh grade, we were forced to celebrate our roots and bring our various national dishes for an ethnic potluck. Fortunately, I was able to beg off on Poland since so many others stepped up with their pierogis. Since my mother’s father was from Lancashire (and of Welsh heritage), I made the hard choice of a rarebit. While my cheesy mess languished untouched, I envied the Italians.
Though I
