When I visited my Polish relatives in Pennsylvania, eating pierogies and dancing the polka, I might have felt a little Polish. When I was in Barbados and eating flying fish and drinking guava juice, I might have felt a little Bajan. But I’m not sure. I usually felt like a tourist when I traveled to see family. I always wanted to connect more to my relatives and learn our immigrant stories—but Thanksgiving is only once a year, and we only visited the Caribbean twice. Sometimes I search for the essence of my family through language, searching for a specific Polish word that might help me unlock the past. All of the years that my great-aunt Marynia called me “Schnickle,” I thought it was Polish, but now I don’t know. My mom just learned it means “little snail,” in Yiddish, but I haven’t confirmed this yet. Online, I read that “snicklefritz” is a Pennsylvania Dutch word, coming from the German, which means “rascal.” It has been a long time since my great aunt died. It has been a long time since I’ve tasted an authentic pierogi. Was my aunt calling me a snail or a rascal, or both? When my daughter was born, I wanted her to have a name that would be recognized in different languages. Stella comes from my great great grandmother’s name Estella, who is Polish, but Estela (one L) is also a common name in Spanish-speaking countries since my husband Stefan comes from San Diego, and has many Mexican relatives. When we visit San Diego now, we eat fish tacos for weeks. I’m not sure if it’s authentic Mexican food or just surfer food, but we love it. Stefan’s name comes from the Hungarian side of his family; his mother and her three sisters were orphaned in Germany during World War II, and they were sent to live in a mission in San Diego, where they were raised by nuns. I’m grateful for the new mixture of cultures my husband’s family has given me. I feel less like a tourist in his family than my own. In San Diego, I am embraced. Does this make me part Mexican and Hungarian too? I wish! Since Trump was elected and immigrants have been under attack, I’ve felt new motivation to connect Stella to her Polish, Barbadian, Hungarian and Mexican roots. If she can celebrate these strands within herself, she will embrace other people’s immigrant stories. We all belong in this country, every one of us,and we belong to each other. By: Jess Hinds-Spring 2017 Issue
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