Rich Mazur
1 Jun 2018
Travel / Poland - never again [593]
The day my daughter married him, he became my son-in-law. After the ceremony, I said: John, I am Rich. Do not call me anything else. OK, Rich. This was the end of that. From this point on, not a single awkward moment.
My wife and her parents came from Poland. My relationship with her father never evolved to friendly or relaxed. Maybe the age difference of 25 years was too much for us to become friends. Him being a stubborn Polak always talking about Yalta and looking for disagreements didn't help any. But the real poison was our Polish background clashing with the American reality. There was no way I would call him father or anything like that. To me he was "you". I watched my wife stuggle with that awful Polish third-person verbal tumor, niech mamusia, to have any of this Polish crap forced on me.
I met him in 1970. In 1982, he died from cancer. During those twelve years, he would always call me by my first name while I would not call him anything. Only a complete moron from Poland wouldn't recognize this disparity and the fact that the situation was so damn stiff it was stifling . During this entire period, it never occured to him to take me out of my misery of not being sure what to call him.
This was when I resolved to dump everything Polish, from my old pictures and books to the awkwardness of prosze pana injected into everyday conversations. My respect for those who deserve it was going to be expressed by my deeds, not some third-person convoluted verbosity. What to call you - by your first name or a "you" - would be entirely up to me.
The day my daughter married him, he became my son-in-law. After the ceremony, I said: John, I am Rich. Do not call me anything else. OK, Rich. This was the end of that. From this point on, not a single awkward moment.
My wife and her parents came from Poland. My relationship with her father never evolved to friendly or relaxed. Maybe the age difference of 25 years was too much for us to become friends. Him being a stubborn Polak always talking about Yalta and looking for disagreements didn't help any. But the real poison was our Polish background clashing with the American reality. There was no way I would call him father or anything like that. To me he was "you". I watched my wife stuggle with that awful Polish third-person verbal tumor, niech mamusia, to have any of this Polish crap forced on me.
I met him in 1970. In 1982, he died from cancer. During those twelve years, he would always call me by my first name while I would not call him anything. Only a complete moron from Poland wouldn't recognize this disparity and the fact that the situation was so damn stiff it was stifling . During this entire period, it never occured to him to take me out of my misery of not being sure what to call him.
This was when I resolved to dump everything Polish, from my old pictures and books to the awkwardness of prosze pana injected into everyday conversations. My respect for those who deserve it was going to be expressed by my deeds, not some third-person convoluted verbosity. What to call you - by your first name or a "you" - would be entirely up to me.