Home.

I greatly enjoyed our UC Common Event, the screening of Roy Germano's The Other Side of Immigration.

I know these stories. My neighbors have told me them over barbecues. My school friends have driven down to Mexico, from Chicago, by truck, for someone's wedding. And crossed back, illegally, with aid of a coyote. And... multiple times? They were "illegals," the ones who attended class, pored over their Driver's Ed textbooks, but were never granted a license. They were "aliens," bright and ambitious, limited to study at a less-than-satisfactory CC because of no hopes for scholarships, because of no ways to pay.

There was Joanna, who toiled at Little Caesars every day after school, to support her family, buy some new sneakers, and just maybe pay for her monthly internet connection.

But that was my high school, that was the American side. It was arresting to learn of the other side of the border. Yes, I've been to Mexico, and I've actually had a police officer in Taxco ask me about his cousin Rosario in Chicago. (How was she doing? I didn't know.) But I haven't been to those towns. Not to towns with half the population gone in the US. Almost ghost towns, if you will.

On a side note, this is a universal curiosity. It must be. In my mom's village of Dębno, close to half of "residents" dwell in the Chicagoland area. Some followed the mountains all the way to Colorado. The funniest and most striking example of the American influence in the village is my dear grandma's speech - I remember as a kid she used to ask me to throw something in the "garbeć." (Read: "garbetsh.") "Garbeć"? What "garbeć," I thought? Grandma, where?!

See, I just assumed it was the highlander dialect of Polish that my grandparents speak, which includes an ample vocabulary unbeknown to the average Pole. Upon arrival in the US I finally realized my grandma had been speaking Polglish. Has she been to America? She hardly ever leaves the village. But the three of her children do live in America. Some of her neighbors have walked down Archer Avenue (represent!).

And seeing those Mexican families on the other side, feeling the immigrant sorrows, of ones gone, and of ones left behind, I felt like crying. Bawling my eyes out. Not only was this the demographics of Franklin Park, Illinois, flashing before my eyes, it was also the image of grandma, sitting in her musty living room and on speakerphone, asking whether I'd be coming to visit for the summer. Grandpa mumbling "yes, yes" in the background.

This has been my life, and as far as identity goes, the experiences have shaped me immeasurably. How often I have been bewildered at my own ambiguous identity - it's like my HS Spanish prof once put - "so it's a line... where does Polish end and American begin?" I didn't know. Who was I, anyway? But now, it's different. Who would I be without this background? That's almost ridiculous to ponder. Thanks to it all, I am responsible, driven, independent, ambitious. I take charge, I know I am able, and I am most definitely grateful.

That hit home. Much.