Wasilowski (VASH- SHE- LOV- SKI) The W is pronounced V, but that isn't the point.
A surname is something that shouldn't bring shame to the one who bears it, rather a sense of family pride, but for many years, my surname brought me a deep sense of embarrassment, and got in the way of my life. I felt dislocated from society and my peers in primary and secondary school, my surname always being a joke or a topic of conversation for newly acquainted friends.
"When did you move here?" "You don't look polish." "Does your mum and dad speak English at all?"
It's simple really. My father is half Polish, and my grandfather was a Polish immigrant, who moved to England shortly after the Second World War ended. I'm a quarter.
I remember a boy in high school told me to once "go back to your own country." A teacher at the same school once told me that in England, it is often rude to talk and laugh with friends when a teacher is speaking to the class. Although both 100% ignorant, as a white woman, I did not see these statements as racist, nor do I still. I just see them as something which defined who I thought I was at that period in my life. It rekindled the shame of having a last name that wasn't strictly English, and it separated me more and more from the others at school.
I had someone tell me, with disgust, that my father looked 100% Polish, and proceeded to ask me what he did for a living. Stealing the hard working English Man's Jobs, I suppose.
My shame surrounding my surname and my family background could not have been more different to how my dad felt about the country I refused to have any connection to.
My dad, is very, very proud of being half Polish. He speaks the language fluently, after his Babcia (grandmother) taught him as a child. He started a business which dealt solely with the Polish Community, and frequently, but not often enough, visits Poland. He sometimes dreams and thinks in Polish, and regularly watches Polish TV, even if it is only to bore me with their (horrendous) politics.
As the years went by, I became increasingly less ashamed of my Polish roots, and stopped saying things like "I can't wait to get married so I can get rid of my surname." Yuk.
And, especially more recently during this time of isolation self reflection, I have understood a form of loss that I never realised before. I am a quarter Polish, with no feelings towards a part of me and a part of my father. I could, at a push, speak maybe five words of Polish, and have no understanding of the language in its entirety. I can't speak to my father in Polish, like he could speak to his. I will never have that experience, and it brings me great sadness.
Instead of being embarrassed of my surname, I am embarrassed when people ask if I can speak Polish, and I have to sheepishly tell them no. When I was a child, my father did not have the time to teach me Polish, although I remember him occasionally saying goodnight (dobranoc), and telling me over and over again that sufit meant ceiling.
I'm not blaming my father for not teaching me a second language when I was younger, especially one as complex as Polish, but I am wishing that I could share more of the identity that he is so proud of, and share a language that he loves.
I do, however, blame the feelings of shame that I have felt most of my life on the boy who told me to go back to where I came from, the teacher who patronised a perfectly English speaking Mancunian, and the society which teaches us from an early age that it is bad to be different. It gives people something to talk about. It is bad to be the granddaughter of an immigrant. And it is especially very, very bad to have a surname that is not so easily hidden.
As I'm older now, I can embrace the jokes and funny pronunciations of my surname. It doesn't bring me shame or embarrassment anymore, rather a sense of belonging to something outside of myself. This name was passed down to me, it was given to me by my father, and I proudly wear it. I wouldn't give it up for anything.
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