Matching Tracksuits

ameryka

Bristol

Sunday 26 June 2005

Bristol — miasto w ktorym wychowal sie Gary. Mniej wiecej tak duze jak Kingsport ale o nieco innym charakterze. Spedzilismy tam pol dnia w piatek. Gary pokazywal mi dom w ktorym sie wychowal, szkoly do ktorych chodzil, miejsca ktore odwiedzal. W piatek odbylismy podroz do przeszlosci. Domek, niestety nie zrobilam zdjecia, bardzo ladny, w bardzo spokojnej okolicy. Osiedle domkow zupelnie odciete od glownych drog–bardzo bezpiecznie, zeby tam wychowywac dzieci. Okolica na prawde ladna. Teren pagorkowaty, dookola ladne domy, duzo zieleni, sporadycznie ogrodki z kwiatami–idelalne osiedle dla rodziny. Jedna rzecz jednak mnie zasmucila aczkolwiek nie zaskoczyla. Osiedle sprawia wrazenie opuszczonego — po prostu zywej duszy nie widac. Jedynie fakt, ze wszystko jest tak zadbane uswiadamia, ze jednak ktos tam mieszka. Dziwni sa ci Amerykanie, wszedzie widzi sie piekne domy, wszedzie mnustwo samochodow, smilam sie wczoraj, ze Ameryka to jeden wielki parking ale ludzi nigdzie nie widac…

Bylismy w starej podstawowce Garego, w szkole sredniej i na uniwersytecie. Oczywiscie ogrom, przestrzen, funkconalnosc, wyposazenie robia wrazenie jak wszystko tutaj. Przechadzalismy sie po placu zabaw szkoly podstawowej, Gary przypominal sobie wszystkie sztuczki jakie robili z kolegami w malpim gaju.

I was surprised by the playground on the school grounds. This is supposedly for high school students’ children. It’s not that I was thinking that the morality in American schools is lower than that in Polish schools because they’re certainly comparable. I was thinking, though, of Mrs. Stopkowa, the director of our high school. Even thinking about such a thing would, for her, be “demoralization of children.” I remember that she once didn’t allow a student to take the matura [high school exit exam] because she was pregnant.

Liceum–no coz, my nie mielismy hali sportowej, ani auli o basenie nawet nie bylo co marzyc. Ale to sa standardy do ktorych mozna przywyknac ogladajac amerykanskie filmy. Zaskoczyl mnie plac zabaw na terenie szkoly. Podobno to przedszkole dla dzieci uczniow szkoly sredniej. Nie chodzi o to ze pomyslalam sobie, ze morale w szkole amerykanskiej jest mniejsze niz w polskiej, pewnie to sie wyrownuje. Pomyslalam sobie o pani Stopkowej, dyrektorce naszego liceum. Ona, sama mysl uznalaby za demoralizujaca mlodziez. Pamietam przeciez przypadki, ze dziewczyna nie zostala dopuszczona do matury tylko dlatego, ze byla w ciazy…

Uniwersytet — wydal mi sie bardziej angielski, w bardzo pozytywnym tego slowa znaczeniu. To niesamowite jak wszystko co wydaje sie bardziej europejskie niz amerykanskie przykuwa moja uwage. To zabawne ale ogladam sie w sklepie za kobietami w sukienkach — zaloze sie ze plynie w nich europejska krew.

Bylismy w pieknym parku. Wlasciwie w centrum miasta ogromne hektary ziemi to park, tylko amerykanie moga sobie na to pozwolic. Park podzielony na rozne sekcje, czy czesci. W jednej czescie roznego rodzaju boiska sportowe, w nastepnej miejsca na piknik, dalej place zabaw dla dzieci, dalej sciezki spacerowe a wreszcie bardzo ladny rezerwat przyrody. Tam tez pojechalismy. Zaparkowalismy nasza toyote zaraz przed wejsciem i poszlismy na spacer. To byl rezerwat na terenie mokradel. Szlismy lasem pomiedzy bagiennymi plytkimi stawami. Sciezki spacerowe to swietnie przygotowane drewniane pomosty (nasz stopa nie postala na lesniej sciezce) spotkalismy toche dzikich kaczek i gesi. Miejsce na prawde bardzo ladne–i co ?–oczywiscie nie spotkalismy zadnych innych spacerujacych… — czy to jest taki stary europejski, wymierajacy zwyczaj.

Flags but No Bikes

Sunday 26 June 2005

There are simply flags everywhere around my parents’ neighborhood. Kinga and I went for a walk yesterday and found a house that had seven flags hanging–and that’s not counting the Americana ribbons decorating the split-rail fence in the front yard, or the Americana pinwheels in flower pots.

And then there’s the “We support our troops” real-estate-style signs in the front yards. Unlike during Gulf War I, there are no “We support our troops —- bring them home” signs. Somewhat depressing.

What is it about patriotism that makes me so nervous? Why have I never considered myself a patriotic individual? “And I’m proud to be an American,” we hear from huge speakers during Independence Day fireworks shows around here, but I just can’t identify with that. How can I be proud of something I had no part in? How can I be proud of an accident of fate? Am I fortunate to be an American? Certainly. Am I glad I’m an

American? Yes.

But proud?

I’m not ashamed of it in that sense. Well, not usually. Kinga tells me that I am much more European than American now, though when pressed for an explanation, she couldn’t explain it more than to say, “Well, you don’t sit around on the couch all the time.”

Is that the view she has of Americans? If so, then I’m a little embarrassed to be an American. We need to clean up our image if that’s how the world views us.

Trouble is, Americans haven’t ever really worried about how the world views us. In fact, I don’t think the average American knows how the world views us. Perhaps we see all the Mexicans trying to cross the border and think of Ellis Island immigration and assume that all these people are struggling to get into the country to be with us in our great American adventure and eventually take part in that cliché.

That’s why criticism of American policy is often met in middle-America with the simplistic explanation, “Well, they’re just jealous, that’s all.”

“America is just one big parking lot,” Kinga said the other day.

There’s a lot in that simple sentence: the consumer mentality, the urge for independence even in transportation, the wide-openness of America, and often the emptiness of America. Taking a walk yesterday evening, Kinga and I were shocked at how the whole neighborhood is deserted. “Not a single kid out playing,” she said. As we were driving around Bristol Friday, the same thing. “If it weren’t for the fact that everything is perfect down to the last detail,” Kinga said, “I’d think the whole place was deserted.”

It didn’t use to be that way. When I was growing up, our neighborhood was filled with kids riding bikes, playing baseball.

Well, from my perspective anyway.

America has changed a lot in the last three years.

First Impressions

Thursday 23 June 2005

English, English, English — English everywhere. That’s the most shocking thing for me of late. I can eavesdrop without effort. In fact, I found myself eavesdropping in the airports even when I didn’t want to. I ducked into a newsagents at Newark airport and almost lost control of my bladder, so many English books I saw. Flipping through stations on the TV (strange enough to have a television), I didn’t have to decide, “Okay, is the English underneath the monotone dubbing loud and clear enough that I can understand it, or should I not even try.” (An old habit I never quite lost. In Poland, there’s one man reading the translated text with the original language in the background. When I first arrived, I tried desperately to hear the English underneath, and I never lost the habit once I could understand the Polish monotone.) English, English, everywhere. Except when I hear Spanish.

I’m in food heaven too. So much food I haven’t eaten in so long, and so much food that Kinga has never eaten.

  • Humus — Ripped the tub open in the parking lot and took two fingers-full there.
  • Shrimp — I cooked shrimp with garlic and cilantro our first evening here. When we bought the cilantro, I just buried my face in its greeny goodness and inhaled deeply, walking around supermarket afterwards with a chlorophyll buzz and a grin.
  • Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia — Unable to eat the whole tub, but we made a dent.
  • French roast coffee from freshly ground beans, with the leftovers chilled in the afternoon for iced coffee
  • Select, highly processed junk food, which I rarely eat, but from time to time is amazing (read: Pringles).

And there’s so much waiting…we’re going to be positively zepplinish if we’re not careful.

The trip back was relatively painless, though long. We left Krakow somewhat late because of the chaotic situation in the immigration area. Three officers checking passports for two international flights. Really smart.

Our connecting flight out of Newark got canceled, so our mad dash from one end of the airport to the other (slight exaggeration, but…) was for naught. But in the process, we encountered a very nice immigration officer who, hearing that we were trying to make a connecting flight that was due to leave within the hour, made sure Kinga was the first of many to hand in her visa papers and getting fingerprinted (thank you Patriot Act). As I waited outside, he came back several times to tell me how things were progressing, for at the beginning, no one was processing them — they were all sitting in a room, staring at each other. “I’m going to try to see if I can’t get her first in line,” he explained, “Though I can’t promise anything.” I can’t imagine, honestly, a Polish immigration officer doing that.

Three Random June Thoughts

Tuesday 31 May 2005

One

June is finally here — the month of our return. After four years in Poland, I’m moving back to America. After twenty-some years in Poland, Kinga is moving to America. Big transitions for both of us.

“You’re more European now,” she said last night, not commenting though on what I’m more European than. I suppose than I was. She mentioned the almost cliche change some Muslim men exhibit when, after marriage and returning home with their new wife, they suddenly revert to ultra Islam and become a new person — much to the bride’s dismay. I suppose that’s what she meant — more European than American, and her concern was about me becoming a fast-food bubba.

Two

In the process of packing, I found the old photos I’d taken before coming to Poland the first time, almost ten years ago now.

They were intended to be spare identification photos, though I doubt they’d suffice. Looking at them, I’m shocked at how much I’ve changed and how little I’ve realized that. I look in the mirror every day, after all, and so the changes — receding hairline, more mature eyes, lack of the scars of adolescence — slipped by me. I imagine that’s how it’ll be with Kinga as time passes. “What will she look like when she’s forty?” I ask myself, knowing the answer will still be “beautiful.” But it’s hard to imagine the marks time will make, and now I see it’s doubtful I’ll even notice until I look at our wedding album.

Three

Back to America. I haven’t been to the States in three years — too-busy summers and a lack of money will do that to you. “Reverse culture shock” is something you hear about from time to time, and I’m wondering if it’s hovering there, a few weeks in the future. When I went back for the first time in 1998, after two years in Poland, the difference was profound. The quality of roads was something I’d totally forgotten about, so used to bumping along I’d become. The ability to understand almost everyone around me without trying felt almost like a dirty secret. “Do they realize I understand everything they’re saying?”

But most shocking was the choice — fifty-seven varieties of everything. The entire row of paper products (paper towels, napkins, etc.) at Super Wal-Mart literally stopped me mid-stride. Channel after channel on the television, all in English. Restaurants for every conceivable palate and wallet.

And so I know the feeling of “My oh my” that awaits Kinga.

In Triplicate + 1

Wednesday 20 October 2004

I’ve recently begun the process of applying for a permanent residence status for Kinga. The amount of paperwork is about what you’d imagine. One form has to be filled out not in triplicate, but in quadruplicate — by Kinga and then again by me!

What’s amazing is that in the twenty-first century, these forms are still not available in an electronic format. Sure, you can get them in the PDF version from the INS (or whatever it’s called now) website, but you still have to print them out and fill them in by hand. A few of the forms use Adobe’s “Fill-in-able” (for lack of a better term) feature on its newest version of Acrobat Reader, but that saves very little time when you have to do four examples of the same form and you can’t cut and paste. It leaves you thinking, “What’s the point?”

The ideal, it seems, would be to write a small application that gets all that data (place of residence for the last five years, employment history, etc.) and then spits out the various forms in a printable format. Or make the INS website database driven, with accounts and such, so you can at least do it online. Such a web application in CFM, PHP, JSP, ASP, PPP, NOP, QRS, or whatever scripting language would not be that difficult to write.

Until the government catches up with the rest of the world, though, we’ll just have to get writers cramps filling in all that paperwork.

(Ultimate irony: it’s easier for Kinga to get permanent residence status in the States than it is for me to get the same in Poland.)