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czarna herbata bez mleka

Nie pisałam nic po polsku poza wiadomościami na messengerze i whatsappie do mojej rodziny i przyjaciół. Mój język ojczysty który leży w mojej paszczy i sercu i tęskni żeby ‘ r’ zawibrowało, żeby ‘sz’ zaszumiało, żeby można było usłyszeć w mym głosie magiczne i ‘o’ z kreską. 

Przez wirusa co je świat i papier toaletowy nie mogę tam popędzić zeby spedzic czas urodzinowy z moja rodziną. To że nie mogę sprawia że jeszcze bardziej chce tam byc. Mimo że te blokowiska, i te chodniki i ten mały kwadrat mojego miasta wciska mi wspomnienia i trzy inne osie czasowe w serce i mój rękaw , to ja chce tego spaceru na czwarte piętro. Chce się zdyszeć po tych schodach i wymarudzić jak beznadziejny jest ten kolor ścian na których pomalowali klatki schodowe osiedl wszelakich. Dziwne uczucia dzwonią i piszą po nocach i popołudniach i pytają jak mogą się wcisnąć do Twojego łóżka i snów. 

I tak tęsknota ma podłoże przedurodzinowe i tęsknota za moja Mamu, jej glosem i sercem i głaskaniem mnie po moich rozczochranych włosach. 

Koktajl melancholii i nie wiadomo czy tęskno bardziej za dzieciństwem czy za używaniem języka ojczystego i tego że mówię o kreskówkach, sankach na górce przy Raju, kole fortuny i zonku z kimś kto rozumie o co mi chodzi. 

Czy tęskno mi za słodkim czasem innych zmartwień kiedy się świat nie probówał się skończyć a ja nie musiałam płacić rachunków i kupowa�� własnych skarpetek? 

Przyciskam ten switch jak melodie na hi fi, teraz myślę po Polsku teraz jestem z blokowiska i osiedla między torami kolejowymi. Jest i las za rogiem, i trzy stacje benzynowe, są kominy elektrowni co wystają z dalekiego dystansu, są kościoły na każdej ośce, są apteki i cukiernie i banki i chodniki co nie chcą się wyprostować. Balkony, wywieszone prania, psy na smyczach przy sklepach szczekają, są melodie jaskółek wieczorową porą sa warzywniaki i zapach świeżych pomidorów na pajdzie chleba. Są marzenia podawane z czarna herbata bez mleka w przezroczystych z ciemnego szkła szklankach. Poczekaj zadzwonię do Ciebie o 15tej w niedziele to mi powiesz co jest zadane na jutro, a w tle Mann porozmawia z kimś co ma Szanse   na Sukces. 

Ten świat już nie istnieje, oś się przesunęła i zjadła opowieści z zachodu, Wedel zmienił recepture czekolad. Już nie ma gimnazjów, a dzieci kręcą tiktoki na schodach. 

A ja tęsknię za czasem kiedy machałam do Mamu w oknie drepcząc do swojego przedszkola, do zawołań na kolacje wszystkich mam do wszystkich dzieci kiedy mrok wybijał dziewiętnastą. 

Zjedz mięso chociaż a ziemniaki zostaw, nie wychodź z domu z mokrą głową, zakryj nerki, nie siadaj na ziemi bo złapiesz wilka, wypij herbatę po obiedzie. 

I widzę siebie marzącą o innym świecie, wciągającą książki na balkonie w okresie letnim i za chwile pojdę kupić kalafiora na obiad. Widzę siebie oglądającą tv i wciskającą szczotkę od odkurzacza w kanapę udając że to mikrofon. I śpiewam Myslovitz głośno i rano puszczą ‘ Warszawe’ T.Love w radiu. I wezmę wrzucę w plecach-kostkę swoje plany o wielkim życiu jak tylko się stąd wydostanę w ten wielki świat.

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my Polishness

Today marks 100 years of Polish independence.

100 years since we re-appeared on maps of the Europe and the world.

It made me think about what actually means to me being Polish and how Polish I still feel after living in London for 8 years now, and calling this place my home.

I started thinking about all this guilt raising in my bones sometimes when someone asks me about current Polish government and I don’t know anything. What is more I don’t actually want to know. Since 2010 -  since the very important airplane crash which became turning point in Polish politics - then I just gave up on it. I was too angry and frustrated to care.

I’m not Polish in Poland and I’m not British in London. I’m just an immigrant. I’m one of a million of Polish immigrants in United Kingdom. I have even no idea how many in the world. I’m telling you whenever I go anywhere there are always some Polish folks around.

Sometimes I feel so bad that my ancestors were fighting to regain Polish independence, they were giving up their lives for our country to exist after being erased from the map for 123 years!

For 123 years Poland didn’t exist on the map, only in the hearts of those who believed in the future of our country.

And there is me too angry at the current government, too much rooted into a different country’s  mentality to be living anywhere else.

There is me waving a flag of total ignorance. Only from time to time screaming Chopin! Or rather Szopen! And Maria Sklodowska-Curie instead of some ‘Marie Curie’ woman. Polish blood! They were Polish but they emigrated and became famous in France to the point that so many people have no idea where are they from! Can you hear it? It’s the scream of my national pride! There is this fire in my blood telling me that no one else can say bad things about my country and my hometown apart from me and the rest who also live / lived there.

You will never be there in late 80s and 90s in Poland when we were dreaming beyond our grey everydayness, when shelves were slowly filling up with all the products from West. When grandparents were telling you stories of standing in the que for tomatoes and oranges and when everything was on coupons - doesn’t matter if you have money or not, everything was rationed.

You don’t know that school education - all about freedom, all about wars, all about Poland being Christ of the Europe - taking all the beating.

You don’t know Sundays in church because there was a time when the church was the opposition to the government, it was place of hope, it was about the feeling of being united. We had ‘ our’ Pope and everyone was so proud as he had actually changed the history of our country.

Everyone ‘ bad’ was ‘ red’ - red was colour of the communist government.

You don’t know much about Polish music in 80s  = voice of the revolution. There was a censorship and certain stuff couldn’t be said out loud. However the Polish culture found the way  - using codes and jokes. Using film and tv medium, using literature and music, using cabaret (meaning more like comedy sketches and political satire than dancing).

You didn’t eat history lessons for breakfast. Yes, the second world war finished in 1945, but Poland wasn’t truly free till 1989 and history books our parents had at school were re-written for my generation.

In a way Polish independence is still very young, and the country doesn’t have a clue what to do with it. 

I can give you all the names of Polish artists, who won’t mean absolutely nothing to you.

I can tell you about growing up in a typical Polish blocks of flats, with at least one dog per family, with all of kids at the same age at the playground, people hanging out at their balconies as there is always someone’s name’s day ( almost more important than birthday) singing out loud, about house parties - pubs weren’t a thing just yet. 

I can tell you about what every child in Poland have been taught: don’t go outside with a wet head ( you will catch a cold! ), drink tea after a hot meal etc. We all have heard when struggling your big portion of family meal ‘ eat the meat, leave the potatoes’.

You didn’t watch tv series of 80s talking about faulty block of flats and the mistakes of the system so bad that you could only laugh but it was so close to the bone it practically can be taken as a documentary right now.

You haven’t seen ‘ Psy ‘ aka ‘ Pigs’ movie talking about the police in early 90s which is as powerful as Taxi Driver mashed up with some Tarantino.  However without background knowledge wouldn’t mean anything to you and you won’t love Linda as much as we all do.

You don’t know about Russian cartoon about a wolf and a rabbit with an excellent soundtrack and a bit better than Tom & Jerry ( you will disagree and i don’t care).

You don’t know about how sacred Polish bread is. You don’t know about the power of chicken soup. Tradition, safety and a cure for all the bad things in one bowl / plate. And you don’t know that entire nation would eat chicken soup every Sunday. Synchronized tradition.

You don’t know good pork is until you will try ‘ schabowe’. Preferably my mum’s Schabowe as they were the best in the entire whole world, anyone who tried them can confirm.

Your school reading list wasn’t about ALL the possible battles EVER fought by Polish army. Yes we’re not only talking about world wars but the 1410 battle, we are talking about every moment Poles were fighting with pride.

You weren’t the first generation brought up in the true independence, trying to figure out how to bite on capitalism with still all habits rooted in every corner of society. The wave of coca-cola, oranges and all Western culture coming your way when you were child.

You haven’t watch tv series for kids with little round computer virus called ‘ Wow’ who was intelligent enough to escaped the computer and it was hiding in a suitcase and kids had to protect him from the bad people.

You haven’t seen ‘ Szansa na Sukces ( ‘A Chance for Success’) first talent show before all Xfactor, Idol etc. ) It was on 3 pm every Sunday, therefore you wouldn’t know any of Mann’s jokes.

Basically there is a bit of my personality visible only in a Polish light. There is an extra layer of culture knowledge which won’t come to use in a pub quiz and you won’t talk about it with me.

I do understand there is no need for you to know it and i’m okay with it.

What i’m saying - it is in me and i’m proud of it.

I don’t think there is any other country just like Poland. With its pride. With being squeezed between Russia and Germany. Try it yourself if you feel you can be any wiser.

With Russians always lying to Polish people, with Polish people being trained to never trust Russians. For generations we have been programmed to always trick the system - since the system wasn’t really ‘ ours’.

With grandparents saying that communism was better as we all have the same, everyone had a job and everything was growing. Not mention the massive debt our government took and all the other lies in between but the fact was that everyone was almost the same.

If you were in the opposition they could come over any time of day and night, put you in prison or beat you up so badly that you will shut up. Or would you?

For some Europeans everything started with the falling of the Berlin wall but truthfully it was Poland who started the movement. I’m not a history teacher, check the facts yourself and we can discuss afterwards.

Poland was always a rebel in a pot of European nations.

I do miss it sometimes and the fact that i don’t really belong there in a way makes me melancholic and sad and a bit guilty. But what is the country? What does it mean to belong to one country? Is the tradition I miss? Is it the pride it was given to me in my blood and in all the books and all the poems?

Sometimes I miss is so bad that makes me cry. Honestly. On the other hand I can’t imagine living there as I felt like I’m in a box which is way too small for me and I can’t really be myself.

From the very first time I came to London I felt like I belong here. Like I can do more and no one will judge me, no one will be jealous of whatever the fuck other people were.

Maybe this whole melancholic hand grabbing me by my throat, especially on Sunday afternoon are just childhood memories, about just chilling on the couch with my family, about just being a kid and then teenager with lots of homework to do popping out her room to the living room to see a movie together instead of learning something for some yet another test. Maybe it’s all the cosy feelings and all the food and that safety net there was. Maybe I just really miss being a kid without all this grown up responsibility, without deciding if i have enough money to have dual citizenship, just in case Brexit will decide to cut off my rights as a foreign living in the UK.

Maybe it is the memory of me on that late night train to Poznan to catch the morning flight to London in September 2010.  My mum and me we both knew it’s a one way ticket and I might never come back for good. There was this big, red suitcase. And there was me sitting next to my mum when she was giving me the last pieces of advice before the new chapter of my life  - to always take care of myself, to always educate myself more, to never give up my dreams, to work hard and enjoy my life to the fullest.

Maybe Poland it is just my family. Polish flag, the language I used to be so great at and now it only appears in the conversations with my family or squeezed in my dreams between all the English words.

There was a time when i felt slightly ashamed to say I’m Polish. I could see people’s faces changing after hearing where I am from. However I have changed since then. Yes i’m Polish and I worked hard for all I’ve got. I wouldn’t make it without all the people I have met.  And maybe yes, they can’t pronounce my surname - but no one ever could since I remember.  However, they can always pronounce my first name and that’s what it counts.

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7th June

The battle is now one year old.

Sometimes it’s okay. Sometimes it’s like a punch right in your throat in the middle of the day. Or a gust of wind from nowhere brings back the scent of an orange post surgery paste = the smell of her illness.

Sometimes I’m totally fine. Sometimes I’m choking on my own laughter, not entirely sure that I should be able to laugh if she’s not around anymore.

The memory of me sitting in the bath, holding a shower head and realising that she is definitely dying. Opening the doors of our home and howling. Howling with pain that she will never come back to this place alive again.

Realising that there will be at least two more very horrible days ahead of us. The one they will tell us it’s all over and the day of the funeral. After it will be only better even though it will be the worst.

Why those days felt like taken out of a movie? The one you don’t really want to watch as you know too well it will make you feel really sad. Your every movement feels like it is out of your control, out of your body. It is not your reflection in the mirror with your terrified eyes staring back. Those are not your hands washing her teeth in the sink. It is not you holding a pink see-through hospital bag with all her belongings.

Time of seeing her signature for the first time since she died, those happy looking letters which I have seen some many times - as notes left on the fridge, letters to London, dedications in books - now they’re on her life insurance papers. Staring at me.

Smelling her clothes. Her every belonging became something sacred. I am wearing her belt. I have her perfumes, I don’t want ever to finish those two bottles.

Some people told me that I am strong and I didn’t really believe them, not sure if I do now.

I have learned that being strong means asking for help and opening up that you had a bad day without feeling guilty that people might not be ready for your breakdown.

Being strong is not being a whole piece at all times, but keep on falling apart and keep on putting yourself back together over and over again.

I miss her everyday. I dream about her often. I dream that I found the way, that we figured out in time what was wrong and we could fix it. Once I dreamt that something went wrong with the cremation and we will have to do it again. I dream about her on my wedding day, it doesn’t matter who am I marrying - what is important that she will be there helping me to get ready.

I dream about us hanging out together. I dream about her stroking my hair just like she used to, I would mess up my hair only to make it as long as possible. Sometimes in the morning I recall her voice in my head when she was waking me up.

I want to call her everyday.

That day a couple months into the grief when suddenly in the middle of the day I was making plan to go for a haircut and realised not only that she will never get another one, but that I was the very last person to wash her hair. I cried so hard that I couldn’t breathe. I run home from work and people on the tube were asking me if I am okay and random people were giving me hugs.

Through the first few months I cried so much that my tears didn’t have much salt in them left, but it is good to cry. Do not hold it in.

That was ( and sometimes still is) an another part - crying on the public transport. As soon you do it once, you are not embarrassed or scared to do it.

Just happens sometimes. Especially in the beginning I wasn’t even able to stand in that certain spot on the platform at White City, sometimes I was actually struggling to get on the train. Like just get on, sit down and go back home. Doing it was like agreeing to ‘ move on’ with your life and just keep on going. I didn’t want to ‘ keep on going’. I wanted for entire world just to fucking stop, not move anywhere. I was petrified.

I was angry. I was so angry. Like unbelievably fucking annoyed with the world. No, I didn’t blame God for taking my mum. Nothing like that. I was angry that my grandma who’s 94 years old and never really liked me is still alive while my mum died being only 59. That kind of angry. Not-a-nice-human angry way.

I had some much aggression within me that I have no idea what to do with. I wanted to scream as loud as possible. I wanted to punch walls. I wanted to destroy things.

Even a few months ago I had an ‘ anger attack’. I put my boxing gloves on and I was punching the wall scared but also happy that I could break my wrists. I took a plastic box and I was throwing it at the window. Louder was the sound and more that tupperware was destroyed better I felt.

When I started going to kickboxing classes every single time I stood in a front of a punch bag I was imagining that this is this invisible creature named ‘ Cancer’ and that I can finally punch and destroy it.

It helped. It really did.

If you know me well you’re aware that I’m not really a ‘ sporty type’. Come on, I broke my left arm at PE classes age 16 at little obstacle round. In a front of entire school seeing my arm being bended in a very weird way. Or that time when a basketball landed right on my nose - hence its current view. As the doctor said then ‘ you’re still growing. It will look okay’. I don’t really think it does, but it’s part of my face’s character now for good.

September last year I couldn’t even put two boxing gloves on, I didn’t know how to tight the belt around my waist, I couldn’t do one press up.

Now, I’m about to grade for my fifth belt. Red with a white stripe. Maybe sometimes I’m getting lost with ‘ front kick, roundhouse kick, front punch, reverse punch, front kick, slide back’ stuff. Maybe I need to work on my spinning kicks, but damn how do I enjoy sweating and not being able to catch my breath while doing another press up or punching with all my heart so hard that I feel I will pass out. Physical exercise is really very important part of taking care of your mental health.

Apart from being really angry I was also struggling with eating. Obviously when everything was going on nothing, literally nothing had any taste. After coming back from hospital my sister was preparing food for us. It could be anything, I didn’t feel any taste. I might as well eat some paper. I was hungry, but it was really just mechanical thing.

After coming back to London I felt an actual exhaustion of having to organise for myself three meals a day. It was a huge problem. It meant making multiply decisions, it meant an effort to go to the shop and buy it, it meant cooking it. I didn’t see a point in any of it.

I started with just making some comfort food. Yes, lots of pasta and tomato sauce was involved. Slowly taste of things started coming back.

You know that ‘ Someone Great’ by LCD Soundsystem lyrics ‘ The coffee isn’t even bitter Because what’s the difference’? That is exactly how it felt. What is the actual difference? The world doesn’t care that there is one wonderful human less on this planet. Even the taste of the coffee haven’t changed. For me the world just ended. Everything what happened since 7th June 2017 is After The World Ended. It’s Life Version 2.0.

I even have a playlist called ‘ after the world ended’. Which brings me to another crucial point - music. I can’t breathe without music. Overstatement? I don’t care what you think. It was always the very first thing in the morning to switch the radio on and very last thing to do before going to sleep. My entire life. Music in my home was everything. It was our fun, our background, our joy and even our hope.

On Fridays me and my mum would do grocery shopping and remembered ‘ Murder on the Dancefloor’ playing on the speakers when I was pretending to be a little kid and riding in the shopping basket. It was doing homework and helping with some chores with Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin or Queen bursting out of the speakers. It was New Years eves with my dad setting up that Pink Floyd’s song with all the clocks for the first strike of the midnight. It was me doing silly dancing to to Whole Lotta Love or Wake Me Up Before You Go Go or Dirty Dancing soundtrack. It was us watching ‘ Christiane F. diary’ aged 13 and hearing for the first time David Bowie. It was my teenage obsession with UK MTV 2 Rocks - and falling in love with Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Strokes, Muse, Arctic Monkeys and so on. And boy, how I was dreaming about being in the country where everyone actually knows those bands and it’s obsessed with them as much as I am. Making silly posters with cut outs of Nirvana members, Muse and The Strokes.

Music helped me massively. It helps me everyday. I’m very, very grateful and happy that I got this music taste running in my blood. More importantly that I have so many songs that like little time machines bringing me back those to the moments when me and my mum were together. Memories tokens I can take everywhere with me.

After the funeral at the little gathering we were playing some music. I made the playlist. Playlist out of all our favourite tunes. My sister and me didn’t care if someone will think it’s inappropriate to play some of the tracks. We couldn’t fucking care less. It was playlist for her. Do you know what was the very first track? ‘ Europa (Earth’s Cry Heaven’s Smile’) by Santana of course. I swear I was listening to this song when still safe right underneath my mum’s heart in a womb. I don’t think I realised what is this title about until we actually played it then.

It was hard to get up every morning. Sleeping was the only time when you are not fully aware of the pain. I remember walking the tube corridor at Oxford Circus to get to the Central line and seeing all the people rushing and I wanted to scream to them ‘ there is no point of any of this! We are all gonna die! ‘. I remember looking around while sitting on the tube and imaging that everyone around me is dead. I was wondering who will be in a coffin and who will be in an urn. There were no faces anymore, just urns and coffins sitting next to me.

It wasn’t like a sudden realisation - ‘oh no wait Olga there is a point to all of it’. It was tiny parts of my soul screaming, it was laughing with my workfriends, it was dancing till the dawn, it was reading her cards and text messages knowing she will always want for me to enjoy my life to the fullest. It was keep on making plans.

Writing was and still is a major part of me going through it. Sometimes it was only ‘ I cried on the tube today’ or ‘ I haven’t cried today just yet’. Sometimes it was accidental poems, sometimes it was letters to her. Sometimes it was just me trying to gather my thoughts or to say how fucking amazing it is to have friends who can catch you when you fall. Or rather when you keep on falling.

They are there when in the middle of Friday drinks I start crying, there were there for me when I was scared of first Christmas without her, they were there cooking a dinner, they are there on whatsapp crying with laughter video calls , they are there to respond to ‘ shit day alert’, they are there to dance away at LCD Soundsytem gig.

They are there with their words, hugs and time  - spreading metaphorical safety net underneath my feet. They are there for all my random craziness and chats about everything. It is okay to be a mess.

My friends weren’t afraid to talk to me when I was scared to spread this black shadow of grief, it didn’t freak them out.

I wouldn’t be able to go through all of it without my sister. Oh yes, you are ready for a soppy moment ‘ I’m so lucky to have her. We were always so close’ No, we weren’t. We had our moments when we didn’t talk for months while living in the same city. Now miles apart and waking up in a two different countries we were never so close and so honest with each other. We both learned to listen and to ask questions. We are now a team. Very strong team. I am proud of her and proud of her being such an amazing mum of wonderful twins and handling everything by herself. I have learned so much about womanhood, sisterhood and motherhood in the last year. More than I thought I ever will. More than I wanted to be perfectly honest.

During this year I have also perfected ‘ sliding down to the floor’ movement. Done so, so many times at various places including toilet at work when everything was just a bit too much to handle and there was no will left to make the next step.

Maybe you can see me everyday full of joy and laughter and maybe you think it is all okay. Sometimes it is not and i’m crumbling like a cookie  - squashed, falling apart into a million pieces. What I do every single day is putting myself together. Over and over and over and just getting on with it and having the best time i can possibly have.

Losing a parent or someone extremely close to you, someone who’s death you were terrified of since you realised what death is, the person who was literally everything to you and was ALWAYS with you - it is like losing your own skin. Like i feel like the layer of it was taken and it will be never ever replaced.

I did looked up for some help. I was trying to get counselling - ended up with one very teary phone call. I couldn’t take them keep on asking me ‘ and how do you feel about it’ over and over again. Or just saying ‘ sounds like you have a plan’, ‘ just keep on writing’. I think I was just too scared to fall apart in front of someone I don’t know and take a layer off from my armour of strength.

Instead I wanted for someone to just take me and hold me, stroke my hair and say it will be okay somehow. 

I totally understood why my sister got a dog straight after. Like seriously a week or two after. Lucky her - she has twins too.

I wanted a dog. I wanted twins. I wanted LOVE. It was like:

‘LOVE. NOW. PLEASE. LOVE so I can take care of something, someone, anyone. ‘ Glad to be past that point.

I have read somewhere that living after losing your parent could be compared to a tree growing over an obstacle - you never forget about it, you just learning how to live with it.

I like to compare all of it to swimming in the ocean, very deep ocean. Sometimes I manage to forget how deep it is, how I am actually by myself in London, trying to take care of everything, how I won’t find her anywhere and that sometimes life is unfair and I can’t call her to tell her about my day, my problems and she won’t give me an advice like only she could because no one knows me as she did and no one loves me the way she did. It will be different, but it will be okay and I am just keep on swimming. Left hand, breathe, right hand, breathe.

I think she would be proud of us - her two girls. Thanks to her we are made out of iron of love.

Dziękuję Mamu. Kocham Cie mocno.