If there’s one thing I love about Chicago, it’s the fact that they share a lot of the same traditions as Detroit does. Today just happens to be one of those days.
I had a co-worker back in Michigan that moved from the East Coast. The first February in Detroit, she recalled how she’d be reading the newspaper and would stumble upon this word that she had NO idea how to pronounce.
“Pack-zee? Pass-key?” That’s how she thought the word would sound like. “And what the *heck* is ‘Pazz-ski Day’ anyway?”
My fellow Detroiters and I laughed when we heard that statement. “Poonch-kee,” we corrected her. But really, we couldn’t fault her because … well, unless your Polish, you probably wouldn’t know how to pronounce “Paczki.”
For those of you that aren’t familiar with what a Paczki is, it’s a deep-fried piece of dough that is typically filled with either crème or jelly. Sounds like a regular doughnut, doesn’t it? Except it isn’t … it’s made out of especially rich dough containing eggs, fats, sugars and sometimes milk. So basically it’s a lot more calories than your typical filled doughnut.
Paczki Day started as a Polish tradition in which a typical Polish-Catholic would make batches and batches of paczki to try to purge any ingredients that might spoil during the Lenten season. And, of course, what better day to get “rid” of all those extra paczki than to make Fat Tuesday the official day for these treats?
This tradition carried over to the US, and in particular the Midwestern states, where there are large communities of Polish-Americans. Detroit, in particular, has Hamtramck; a city of Polish descendents within the city of Detroit. And Chicago, apparently also has a multitude of Polish neighborhoods; which is collectively known as Chicago Polonia.
And why do I know so much of the history of Paczki Day? Well … let’s just say the Catholic Grade School I went to comprised mostly of Polish-Americans. So much that this Filipino-American knew more about pierogi and sauerkraut than the typical non-Polish-American.
Seriously … our Grade School’s Annual Festival comprised of your typical Midway rides, a beer tent and a Polka contest. (And no … I do not know how to Polka. But I have been taken around the dance floor a couple times!) In fact these same co-workers (who helped me tease our East Coast transplant) have all but named me an “Honorary Pole” for knowing a little too much of Polish traditions!
So yes … I just thought I’d bring a little history to y’all non-Polish peeps and any non-Midwesterners. Have a wonderful FAT TUESDAY and a Happy Paczki Day!!
Hubby & I are back in Michigan for the weekend. It’s kinda nice to be back, although I do believe that the weather report exaggerated exactly how much snow that they supposedly got. I mean really … Chicago got a whopping 12.6 inches in 24hrs last week, so I was expecting at least 10-12 inches here as well. But nope; it looks like there was only about 4 inches outside of our house.
It’s funny though, because after experiencing the snow storm in Chicago last week, I realize how much I could actually survive in a city where there is a lot of walking involved. Especially that walk from work to the El station, and the El station to our apartment. Or when needing to take our puppy out for a walk.
Oh trust me, it was tiring walking in a foot of snow, but it’s so different from winter life here in Michigan where the longest walk would be from my car to the front door of my (previous) office building. Or the longest amount of time I’d have to be outside was to shovel the driveway and sidewalk.
Uncle J and the Birthday Girl
Anyway, the reason we are back in town this weekend was to celebrate our friends’ daughter’s 1st birthday. This particular couple has survived the the throes of infertility and have managed to get a totally awesome daughter in the process. A-girl is such a good-natured girl; always smiling and engaging everyone that comes in contact with her. Even in the midst of her birthday party when we could tell she was getting really sleepy, she still would smile and allow others to hold and carry her.
And as A-girl sat in our lap today, both Hubby & I couldn’t help but be amazed with her. We let her play with my iPhone and were quite surprised by how her little chubby fingers could flip through my photo album. Then we let her play Bejeweled 2 for the phone, and were shocked when we saw how successful she was … especially since her dad happens to be the one person‘s score I aim to beat every week on Facebook.
Also at this party was Cutie Girl; the same precocious little girl who always asks us about our dog and our cats. She is so sassy and smart that I can’t help but be taken in by her incredibly large personality.
Cutie Girl & Me
So, as usual, she spent a whole 45 minutes or so with us, talking about our pets and what we could do to get her “Daddy” to agree to get one for her. I swear, this kid … if she continues to have that fearlessness and confidence about her … could very well be someone important and/or famous in the future. She’s just one of these kids that people just naturally gravitate to!
And yes, I also got to see my beautiful niece Kairi. She is growing so fast now! Except, well … since we didn’t get enough time to spend with just her, she wasn’t exactly in a “playful” mood with her Auntie & Uncle. And that kinda bummed me out.
Part of me thinks that the reason Kairi is like this around me is because she’s just not “used” to us … after all, she only sees us during major family gatherings. But then there’s the other part of me that thinks that the events that unfolded after her birth had a part to play with my relationship with her. It’s like … I don’t know … she unconsciously (or even consciously) knows that there was a major strain between her mom & me immediately following her birth.
Our Beautiful Niece, Kairi
I think there’s this incredible Catholic guilt feeling that feeds that train of thought. It’s the same thought I had during my SIL’s pregnancy with Liam and his consequent passing: that the circumstances surrounding Liam’s short life was a result of my feelings of jealousy over my SIL’s pregnancy. And similar to that, my lack of “connection” with Kairi is a result of the loss of connection with her mom following her birth. Realistically I know that none of it is true, but there are those days … like today …that these thoughts are stronger that usual.
I know I haven’t talked much lately about how my relationship with my SIL has been. It’s partly because I’ve learned from certain “foot in mouth” statements that certain things are best left off of Blog Land. But it’s mostly because things have been rather quiet and low key amongst the two of us. I’d like to think that we’ve reached a silent “truce” of sorts … that we’ve managed to move forward in fixing those severed ties.
I don’t think things will ever be a 100% better between SIL and me; but I do know that I’ve since learned a lot about myself since then. And one of them is knowing that I’m strong enough to move past the anger and hurt and resentment I felt for so long. Sure there will always be times where I might just shake my head at certain activities or actions, but I’m quite sure she probably has those same moments when thinking about me, as well. And I’m really, truly okay with that.
If anything, being in a room full of children under the age of 7 proves that I’m finally at that stage in my IF journey where I can start to let things go and accept things for what they are. And it, quite remarkably, feels good.
I am so annoyed. And the thing is, I should know better. It’s not like I haven’t been out and about social-networking for years; so I can’t use the excuse that I’m ignorant to internet-iquette.
Except … well, except there are certain things in life that I guess I consider my moral compass in life. And one of them (amongst many others) has always been the ability that we’ve been given as human beings to make our own choices in life; to reason.
So when I start seeing Tweets or Facebook statuses that are intended to show “pride” or elicit some sort of dark humor, but end up sounding more offensive than anything … well, that just makes think, “What the H*LL were you thinking?”
In other words, did someone I *know* consciously make that decision to post something that might … just might be offensive to other people?
Don’t get me wrong … I’m the first one to admit that I’ve done things just as stupid as what I’m complaining about. I’ve even been called out on the carpet for such stupid actions as well. While it’s not the most pleasant feeling in the world, it has taught me the lesson to think what I’m saying before I speak … er, I mean type.
So what exactly am I PO’d about? Well, this is the status that started it all. One post that says …
“WELCOME TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Press 1 for English. Press 2 to disconnect until you learn to speak English. And remember only two defining forces have ever offered to die for you, JESUS CHRIST and the AMERICAN SOLIDER. One died for your soul, the other for your freedom. If you agree and have the guts … copy and paste in your status!”
Yeah. I *personally* felt the sting of that one. On many levels. First there’s the whole “You’re in America, so you should only be speaking English.” Well I hate to burst the bubble here, but I believe that the US is considered a MELTING POT of different nations. You know, a mixture of people from different nations that have come to this nation in order to improve the quality of their lives and their families’ lives?
My parents were one of those people. Both came from the Philippines in search of a better life for themselves; a place where they could best make use of their education and talents and share it with the rest of the people in what has become their new “home.” While my Mom spoke fluent English (a primary language taught in Catholic school in the Philippines), my Dad learned it as a second language. And while I can’t *completely* understand what it’s like to learn English as a second language, I can certainly empathize … especially since I’m “once-removed” from being born and raised outside the US.
And then there’s the part about having only two defining forces that have ever offered to die for me. I make no bones that I’m Christian; or more specifically, Catholic. I also fully admit that I’m not exactly a “practicing” Catholic; meaning that (much to my Mom’s chagrin) I don’t attend mass weekly. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t believe in God or Christ. Nor does it mean that I don’t hold myself to the basic Golden Rule, of which Christianity (and all other religions) is based.
In reality, I believe in the spirituality of Catholicism. I believe that there is GOOD in the world and that if your actions reflect what you believe in your heart to be good … then that goodness will return to you. But on the flipside, I do believe that BAD exist much in the same way. You reap what you sow. By living *my* life under the premise that I should do unto others as I would want done unto myself … well, that’s one of the reasons I *stop and think* about what I say or do before I act upon them. Would what I do hurt anyone else? What are the consequences of what I’m about to do?
Yeah … so to sprout the whole “Christ died for me” lecture in that Facebook status? Gimme a break. That is *NOT* a very “Christian” thing to do.
And trust me … I won’t go into the whole “American Soldier” bit; other than to say that I am patriotic enough to know that these soldiers have given up their “freedom” to keep America safe and *FREE*. And I’m also patriotic enough to know that it was a choice that they made. ‘Nuff said.
So why am I still riled up even though that Facebook status is now more than a week old? Well, it’s because of this status that was just posted on Monday:
“Shame on you America: the only country where we have homeless without shelter, children going to bed without eating, elderly going without needed meds, and mentally ill without treatment – yet we have a benefit for the people of Haiti on 12 TV stations. 99% of people won’t have the guts to copy and repost this.”
Uh huh. Seriously.
Okay I get that, as a nation, we have homeless people and starving children and a health care system that’s broken for our elderly population / mentally ill population. But there is a reason why we are considered a wealthy country.
And when I mean “wealth,” I’m not strictly speaking about *FINANCIAL* wealth. I’m talking about a nation where we have many of the smartest, most progressive minds in the world. I’m talking about a country that shows their “wealth” by giving *every* individuals theopportunity … the choice, if you will … to improve themselves.
Do you think socialist countries afford every person that ability to better themselves? To move up in their station in life? More importantly, do you think that THIRDWORLD countries, like the Philippines or Haiti, are able to provide those same opportunities to every citizen?
This is when America shines the most; when we provide *our* resources and services to countries that have been devastated by natural disasters. This is when we show exactly how generous a country we can be.
These moments … they are the moments when the words on our Statue of Liberty shine the brightest:
“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
As I wrap up this long and rambling politically charged post … let me just remind everyone of one simple fact. Unless we are 100% Native American … we are all “immigrants” to this land. The same soil that has provided our forefathers (and now ourselves) with the ability to forge a new future; the land of opportunity … the land of CHOICES.
So just like our parents / grandparents / great-grandparents, etc who chose to come to the land of freedom (and who may have *NOT* known how to speak English) … choose your destiny (and your words/actions) wisely.
This morning as I was walking our adorable dog, I caught the scent of lilacs. It was a strange thing, as like most people, I associate lilacs with spring time.
Again, this morning at work, the same scent whiffed through the air. Same fragrance of lilacs … except now I had this image in my mind of the purple lilac bush in the backyard of my childhood home.
Despite the fact that I was born and raised Catholic and went to 12 years of Catholic school, I don’t consider myself a very “good” Catholic. However, I do consider myself a relatively spiritual person.
I believe that there is a higher being out there that watches over me; a person who is there to observe my thoughts and actions, but who is also nonjudgmental with the path in life I decide to take.
I choose to believe this because I need to know that there is someone out there (besides my husband) who supports me when I need it most. I don’t demand this higher being to prove His/Her existence; He/She wouldn’t need to say one word to provide further proof. All the faith I need is that I feel that unconditional love and support. I need to know that there is some positive “force” in my life.
After experiencing the aroma of lilacs for the second time in a matter of hours, I realized what … or rather who was infiltrating my senses.
This is when my spirituality comes into play; my belief that there is life outside of this existence. Perhaps it’s based on previous experiences. Or maybe it’s just because I’ve always had an open mind to these types of things.
This morning, I believe myGrandmaRose came to visit me.
Grandma Rose loved the color purple. I could never imagine her wearing anything else but all shades of purple. Which is why, despite her namesake flower, I have always associated the lilac bush in my parent’s backyard with her.
So when the smell of lilacs overcame me for the second time today, I just knew that it was Grandma reminding me that she was looking over me; acknowledging that I had finally made the decision to live child-free with my Hubby. It’s as if she was letting me know that, even though I always wanted to have a house full of children like her (I have/had 10 aunts and uncles from her alone!), it was okay that I didn’t achieve that dream.
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I can’t believe the outpouring of love and support I received on my blog after publishing the previous post. Every comment was a reminder to me of exactly why I continue to write … of why I express many of my most private thoughts and feelings to the public.
It’s amazing how total strangers (well, not all of you are strangers anymore …) can provide that unconditional love and support I’ve needed during the most difficult times in my life. These “strangers” have literally taken me from feeling incredibly isolated with no one (but Hubby, of course) to turn to … to feeling as if I’m in a room full of Adoption, Pregnancy Loss and Infertility (ALI) gals. It’s as if these “strangers” become that positive force I’ve learned to turn to when, at times, I felt paralyzed in taking a step forward.
But despite the incredible love and support I’ve received from the ALI community and from close friends alike, I still can’t seem to shake off some of the sadness that comes with this decision.
Part of me thinks that, despite the fact that we’ve been living without children for years, the reality of saying that we’re living child-free is so … FINAL. Even though Hubby & I both know that it could change at any moment.*
Mostly, I think it’s because I’m searching for the “approval” of those other important people in my life; those family members who may have looked to us to continue the family lineage and those traditions that both our families hold dear. I wonder how they feel about this decision. And if, by making this choice I’ve disappointed them in some way, shape or form.
Logically, I know it shouldn’t matter what they think. I know that this is the right decision for Hubby & I at this time. It has allowed us to open our hearts and minds to new adventures in life.
Emotionally? Well, that’s a different story.
But this morning’s visit from Grandma Rose and all the warmth and love I’ve received over these past few days … Well it’s those positive things I should continue to focus on. Because, somehow I know I’ll need to depend on that energy on those days … those moments I need it the most.
Thank you again, from the bottom of my heart,
for every kind word and encouragement.
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My Grandma Rose with all her kids. Guess which one is my Mom?
* Meaning that we’re not closed to the idea of having children;
but if the right opportunity should come along …
“Poor Me” … that was the headband that Sr. Barbara, the Third Grade teacher at my small Catholic school, would make one of 25 or so kids in my class wear for an entire day at any given moment. It was “awarded” to any classmate whose behavior she deemed appalling.
Imagine a headband like this, sans feathers, that had "Poor Me" written across it ...
Lucky for me, I only found myself wearing that headband maybe once or twice during that year. Okay … maybe three times. There was that incident where Sr. Barbara caught me jump-roping outside during recess without my school uniform on. Relax Mom … I had shorts on underneath that lovely plaid jumper, so I wasn’t completely running around in my day-of-the-week underwear. The correct day-of-the-week underwear, may I add. (At least I think so …)
Punishment like that would never fly in today’s classrooms. It’s (rightly) deemed too humiliating to present to a young child at such an impressionable age.* But that doesn’t stop other children from humiliating a fellow classmate. For instance, Nancy who got “caught” by others digging for gold might suddenly be called “Nose-picker Nancy.” Which, I suppose would be better than being called “Paste-eater Peter.” (I was unfortunately given the nickname “Dummily”)**
Other school-ground embarrassment can also include the feeling of being isolated or singled-out. Perhaps it’s something as silly as refusing to play with a certain individual during lunchtime recess because he/she ate tuna sandwiches for lunch every day. Or it could be as typical as choosing a particular person last in gym class for your team just because he/she wasn’t athletic/graceful enough.
Whatever humiliation is endured at that time, it’s cruel that — even as adults — we still act in such a manner. At times, playing the “Isolation Game” is blatantly obvious: A co-worker may avoid another co-worker for some incredibly vague reason or another. Or a fellow peer may request to be taken off certain projects just so that their name isn’t associated with another employee. Personally, I think it’s sad and childish that certain adults still feel they have to act out in this manner. ***
Then there are those instances where inadvertent humiliation takes place. These are the moments in which one person unintentionally says something that results in the embarrassment of another person. These, if the offender actually realizes that he/she said something off-color … well, these would be known as the “Open Mouth, Insert Foot” moments.
Allow me to use the example in which a skinny friend goes out to meet with her weight-conscious, always-on-a-diet friend for dinner. Skinny Gal orders the largest and fattest piece of red meat out there, while Diet Gal sticks to her plain salad with dressing on the side. And after finishing the meal and despite knowing how self-conscious her friend is about her looks, Skinny Gal states, “G*d, I feel like a cow!”
Heh. An ancient depiction of "Open Mouth, Insert Foot"
And then there’s this scenario. It involves either a well-meaning family member or an “infrequently seen” friend. This person proceeds to make the mistake of reach out for the belly. That action is closely followed by the statement, “Wow. You’ve gained weight! Are you pregnant?”
Yeah, that one’s definitely not my favorite.
I’ve had many of those “thought you were pregnant” moments over the past 13 years of marriage. It doesn’t help that I definitely gained a bit of weight since being married. Nor does it help that I had taken all those meds during those active baby-making “science project” years. And my latest excuse is that I’ve been totally stress-eating since my latest work issues began in June.
But my weight issues aren’t the basis of this latest rambling. Nor is it about feeling humiliated, whether intentional or not. Rather this post is about feeling once again, as if I’ve been left behind.
You see, today I read one of my HS friend’s FB statuses, indicating that her 9-yr old daughter would be going away to overnight camp for the first time this week. And I thought about the strange combination of pride and sadness she probably felt letting her “baby bird” fly away from the nest for a bit; even if it was for no more than two days. And this is probably what started the chain of events and line of thinking leading up to this post.
While I love FB, there are some days where I just want to bury my head in the sand and forget that such an addicting social-networking site ever existed. It has been a wonderful tool for me to catch up with those friends from my “school days.” It has done wonders with keeping in touch with Dr. Bro and Dr. SIL as well as any of my cousins who keep a FB accounts.
Then there are those aspects of FB that make it appear as if I’ve literally been left behind. And today is definitely one of those days. Especially when it comes to seeing friends post pictures or videos of their children. It makes me want to post pictures as well; ones of my “supposed” children. And it makes me want to update my status (via Twitter, of course) with witty statements about what my imaginary kids are up to. It’s moments like that where I feel like I’ve been a “total slacker” in my life. Where I’m just not at the same point in life that my other friends are. That I’m kinda just “stuck” in the marriage phase of my life.
Oh yes, I know realistically that what I’m feeling is pure crap. And I know that despite the fact that I don’t have children of my own, I’ve been pretty successful in my life in other ways.
Yet, there’s this small nagging voice inside my head. It’s the voice that remarkably sounds like a hybrid of my parents and a third-grade version of myself. It’s the one that tells me that I can’t just be average; that I must strive to be the best in everything I do. That I should be a step (or a phase, in this case) ahead of where I’m currently at. That I should always be the one at the top of the class; ahead of all my classmates in everything I do.
Good thing my devil voice doesn't sound like Homer
And that nagging is swiftly followed by the voice of that little red devil on my left shoulder; the one that says, “Face it, Em. You’re so far behind in what you’ve planned for yourself in life. You might as well give it up.” And it’s the same devil voice that tells me that, even if I do have kids now (whether it be my biological child or adopted child), I’d never be able to “catch up” to the rest of those parental peers in my age-group.
It’s, quite frankly, the same voice that tells me I’m a failure for not even being able to pass a pregnancy test. (No multiple choice; just True or False … )
It’s at those moments where we feel like I’ve been instructed to put on a “Poor Me” headband and head to the back of the class. Because, given my conscience lately, Sr. Barbara would have told me to.
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* No wonder I have self-esteem issues to this day.
** No thanks in part to my brother, The Dork.
*** But when there are reality TV shows out there that foster such behavior, it’s amazing that the whole world isn’t all about the backstabbing and talking-behind-the-back
“Pack-zee? Pass-key?” That’s how she thought the word would sound like. “And what the *heck* is ‘Pazz-ski Day’ anyway?”
Seriously … our Grade School’s Annual Festival comprised of your typical Midway rides, a beer tent and a Polka contest. (And no … I do not know how to Polka. But I have been taken around the dance floor a couple times!) In fact these same co-workers (who helped me tease our East Coast transplant) have all but named me an “Honorary Pole” for knowing a little too much of Polish traditions!
My parents were one of those people. Both came from the Philippines in search of a better life for themselves; a place where they could best make use of their education and talents and share it with the rest of the people in what has become their new “home.” While my Mom spoke fluent English (a primary language taught in Catholic school in the Philippines), my Dad learned it as a second language. And while I can’t *completely* understand what it’s like to learn English as a second language, I can certainly empathize … especially since I’m “once-removed” from being born and raised outside the US.
