Unfinished People: a reflection 15 years after my dad's passing

My dad was wonderful. Ask anyone: His friends, his patients, his students, his family. He is my hero and my inspiration. I’ve written about him here before, but there’s one part of the story that I haven’t shared.

I disappointed him.

Growing up, I was my dad’s girl. We were bookish, inquisitive, and awkward in the same ways. I even looked like him. I have fond memories of reading the encyclopedia together, of Pizza Hut lunches on Sundays, of quizzing each other with my older brother’s SAT vocabulary flashcards.

I was in high school when things began to come apart. I was self-absorbed, deeply sensitive, and determined to establish an identity distinct from my parents. I was a teenager.

Travel Plans

I went to Poland once, when I was 15. It was one stop in my last European vacation with my parents. We visited relatives, my mother’s childhood home, and my grandfather’s grave. It was a powerful emotional experience for my parents, and while I know the trip was meaningful to me at the time, my clearest memories are of listening to R.E.M.’s Out of Time on my Walkman and missing my boyfriend.

Drinking espresso in my jean jacket. 

Letter to my kids, November 9, 2016

Dear Evie & Felix,

It’s 4:30 a.m. and I am trying to figure out how to tell you that the America you’re waking up in has elected Donald Trump as its next president.

You watched the first debate and, even at ages 6 and 9, you saw Hillary Clinton as the more polished, prepared, and knowledgeable candidate. She won, definitely, you said. He’s a bully. She is the smart one who talks about helping people.

Your dad and I have talked to you about how voting for a president isn’t the same as cheering for a sports team. It’s a decision that starts with your soul and reflects your beliefs about the world you live in and the people you share it with.

I’m going to remind you what our family believes.

The L-Word

Every parent gets the email, amidst field trip announcements and gentle reminders about snack policies.

Subject: Head lice was reported in your child’s classroom. It’s an ordinary thing, an email you can delete. It’s always someone else’s kid.

Until it isn’t.

Ours arrived on a Thursday. I was at the dinner table, wearing my soft pants that say “I give up” as I sputtered across the finish line toward the weekend. My evening plans were to eat tacos, play Candy Crush, and be in bed by 9.

The girl was scratching her head. The boy was scratching his head. Come to think of it, my head itched, too.

5 minutes later, I was throwing a coat over my pajamas and driving toward the kids’ salon before it closed. I burst through the door like a mad woman, blurting out my confession: "Lice! Help!"

Google Translate and the words in between

While translating my grandparents’ memoirs for The Poland Project, I’ve had a lot of help from Google Translate. I grew up bilingual, but my Polish is rusty and my vocabulary falls painfully short in areas like World War II weaponry and spy tactics.

Google Translate is powerful, but not perfect. Often the translations are too literal, too formal, or not quite right. I’ve spent hours smoothing the translations into English sentences and paragraphs that (I hope) convey the original meaning.

In doing so, I’ve become aware of – and felt indebted to – the people whose fragmented conversations are the building blocks of this database. So I accepted Google’s invitation to improve Translate by adding my own knowledge. I’ve translated or verified more than 1,000 Polish words and phrases into English. 

Here are a few things I've discovered:

The Poland Project

It began with a third grade assignment. Evie needed to interview an older relative for a history report. Three generations sat down at my mom's kitchen table in Fargo. 

“What were your parents like?” Evie asked my mother.

She tugged a thread, gently, and a story tumbled out. The story was new to me and older than all three of us.

I knew that my grandmother Henryka was a teacher and school principal with a stern demeanor but a soft spot for her only granddaughter. 

Headmaster Henryka was as smart as she was tough.

Why I run races (which I have no hope of winning)

"I hope you win!" my daughter said the first time I told her I was running a race. I laughed. 

A more realistic goal is to finish without injury, and to not delay the people picking up the traffic cones. 

I'm slow. I'm overweight. I'm not especially competitive.

So why do I run races?

1. It pushes me.

I sign up for races months ahead of time, because I love the forward momentum of training.

"I'm training for a half marathon" has been my reason to schedule running dates with myself, to pack sneakers on business trips, to veer off my familiar trail, to download new playlists, and to push past my comfort zone. These actions aren't just making me a better runner; they're making me better.