On my blog, I have focused primarily on my immigrant experience and Polish culture. Despite my parents’ significant impact on my life, I have not yet written in detail about them.
This is partially because, subconsciously, their story impacts much of what I do and write about—especially on this blog. My gratitude for their sacrifices is no secret, and our shared experience as immigrants bonded us in a very special way.
Inspired by my friend’s beautiful post about her mom, and the 30th anniversary of my and my parents arrival to the US, I decided it was time to share the story of my beloved Mama.
Growing up post-WWII
My mom Barbara was born in Kolbuszowa, a small town in southeast Poland, a few years after the end of World War II. Both of her parents (neither of whom I met, unfortunately) had been impacted by the War: Grandma was imprisoned in a Soviet labor camp for two years and Grandpa, a former police officer who refused to serve the oppressors, was tormented by the Germans and Soviets until his death.
One would imagine that such harrowing experiences would not lend themselves to a cheery, unproblematic life. And sure, there were challenges: each of my grandparents dealt with lifelong health issues. But mom never complained about her childhood. Her parents, as she recalls, were loving, kind, and giving.
Mom grew up in a wooden, honey-colored house surrounded by acres of farmland. The house lacked electricity until the mid-1950’s due to area-wide destruction from the War. Despite the lack of modern comforts, the house was warm and full: Mom, along with her younger brother and parents, shared the house with her grandmother, aunt, uncle, and three cousins. Everyone chipped in to make their shared life a little easier, whether that meant tending to the home, crops, or animals. When my mom was 6 years old, my grandparents built the house (the same one in which I grew up) right next door.
An abrupt end to childhood
Throughout Mom’s entire childhood and young adult life, Poland was under the control of the Soviet Union, which made life complicated for people like my family who remained loyal to the Polish Republic. Those who allied themselves with the USSR had privileges (e.g. work, extra food rations, etc.) that others could only dream of.
But, Mom recalls the good times. Family afternoons outside, planting vegetables in the garden. Music-filled evenings, during which she and her brother would perform Ave Maria for their parents: she on the piano and he on the violin. (My uncle would go on to become an exceptionally talented violinist in Kraków.) The sweet smell of freshwater perch caught by her father, frying on the stove.
Unfortunately, Mom’s childhood ended abruptly at 18, when her father died of a sudden heart attack.
(In the photo: Back row, left to right: Grandma, Mom, and Grandpa. Front row: a friend and my Uncle.)
The grief was immense, and Mom had to step up to help her mother and younger brother cope. My grandmother’s sister, who had spent most of her life in the United States, moved back to Poland to help. Not long after, my Uncle was enrolled in a music academy, and Mom got a job as a secretary at the town’s vocational school.
Raising a family in the Polish People’s Republic
It was at the school that Mom met Dad, a recent graduate of the Industrial-Pedagogical Technical School in the northeastern city of Łomża. The program prepared students with the skills to not only practice but also teach a trade. In Dad’s case, the trade was wood technology. Mom and Dad enjoyed each other’s company so much, they got married not a year after meeting. Dad moved into the family house.
Soon, Mom became pregnant with my sister Ania…and then Ela…and then my brother Mikolaj. They popped out one after another.
By the age of 26, mom had suffered the untimely death of her father, helped take care of her grieving mother, worked for 7 years, got married, and had three babies. (26-year-old me, in comparison, was having a quarter-life crisis trying to figure out what I was doing with my life….)
With three kids in tow, Mom continued to work various jobs, including in the accounting department of the town’s footwear manufacturer. She took care of her family and her home, and along with my Dad, maintained the large, beautiful garden. Resources were scarce, as the economic situation of the Polish People’s Republic ebbed and flowed (mostly ebbed) under the Communist state. (My siblings often share stories from those days: standing in a long line for bread or using ration cards for items like sugar or a pair of shoes.)
The economy forced my parents to seek additional sources of income. In the late 80’s, Dad traveled to the United States for a few months to help support the family. Although it was a tough time for Mom, the financial help provided by my father’s work abroad was indispensable.
Unfortunately, my grandmother passed away shortly after Dad returned from the US. It was a difficult time for Mom, who was very close to her mother. Despite the grief, Mom was able to find a piece of joy in the little critter (me) that was forming in her belly.
In 1990, almost two decades after having her last child, Mom would give birth to me.
A mid-life decision to emigrate to the United States
I don’t remember being a baby (few do), but I know I was extremely loved. I had not two parents but five, three of whom were teenagers not at all expecting to gain another sibling.
Life was beautiful, but it was still economically rough. Poland, now post-Communism, was still recovering. In what some may consider a wild move, Mom and Dad decided to enter the Green Card Lottery, a program that enabled applicants to move to and legally reside in the United States for an extended period of time.
In an even wilder turn of events, my parents won said lottery. Now in their late 40’s and knowing zero English, they decided to take the leap across the Atlantic with six-year-old me.
And it certainly wasn’t “for fun”: moving to a country not knowing the language, the people, without any help or money, and working to barely survive. Our parents did it for us—for me and my siblings.
Our immigrant adventure
After our arrival in New York City, my parents went to work almost immediately. Dad worked odd jobs before getting hired as a cabinet maker. He would leave home at 5:30 AM to catch the 6:00 AM subway train, and returned 13 hours later at 6:30 PM. Like most Polish women who had immigrated to Brooklyn, Mom worked as a housekeeper, cleaning houses and taking care of the children of several families.
Mom not only went to work—to a job that was both physically and mentally demanding—she made sure our apartment was clean, that we were well-fed, and that I was ready for school every day. Despite not understanding English, she did her best to help me with homework.
I can’t even imagine how challenging all of this must have been: maneuvering in a new world, thousands of miles away from home, apart from three of their children (thankfully, Ania would join us in the US a year later). But my parents never complained. They made sure I was well-cared for and never projected their worries onto me.
Beautiful memories
Thinking about my childhood and adolescence in Brooklyn, I have so many wonderful memories with Mom. We loved going to Pathmark (the best supermarket!), traversing the aisles and admiring items that we knew little about. Golden delicious apples, streaky bacon, so much cereal, Lipton tea. For more familiar scenery, we’d visit the Polish store, picking up some kielbasa, an international calling card, and the Polish newspaper for Dad to read after work. These were our little rituals, deceptively routine, but so special.
On the weekends, we’d make the long trek to the Kings Plaza Mall, chatting during the hour-long bus ride (like most New Yorkers, we did not own a car). We’d make our usual rounds, starting with Sears, followed by the Gap and Old Navy, Modell’s (sometimes I’d convince Mom to stop by Sam Goody or Game Stop). Some weekends, we’d take the subway to Macy’s in Midtown Manhattan. From time to time, we’d treat ourselves to Starbucks, spending hours sipping Frappuccinos, people-watching, and talking about life.
And so the years, and our immigrant adventure, went on. I moved to Washington DC, first for college and eventually for work. Mom and Dad encouraged me to study outside of NYC, to experience life on my own. But even so, Mom was always just a phone or Skype call away. Always supportive, cheering me on.
An unbreakable bond
Throughout my entire life, Mom always made me feel like I could talk to her. She was never judgmental, no matter what I shared. Drama with friends, insecurities…she always listened, never disregarded anything, and advised me accordingly. Our bond grew immensely.
As she grew older, Mom suffered her own set of issues. In my junior year of college, Mom had a heart attack and underwent open heart surgery a year later. Thankfully, by that time I had graduated and—along with Ania—was by Mom’s side during her recovery. I remember those few months so fondly: we were finally able to care for Mom, to extend towards her a small fraction of the love that she poured into all of us.
In the years that followed, she underwent several other surgeries, including one for the removal of her thyroid. With each one, she showed strength and resilience.
In summary
Needless to say, I feel very fortunate to have such a loving, selfless mother. I love her for all that I’ve mentioned so far, but also for her witty sense of humor, wealth of knowledge (how does she remember so many random facts?!), and incredible empathy. She taught me to consider the circumstances of others before judging them, and to notice (and take action towards) those who need help.
I learned a ton from observing Mom, but she has also given me a few pointers that I think are worth sharing:
In summary: I am so thankful for Mom. If I end up being just half as caring and loving as she, I will have made it in life.
