My family history is complex and and would certainly take a long time to explain. As in any other family, we can all drive each other up the wall and there is never a shortage of drama, however at the end of the day we are there to support each other, no matter how scattered across the globe we are. Since I am mainly of Polish and Russian decent, my ancestors have endured a vast number of tragedies, and I suppose I have inherited that trait of being able to start over in a new place. Having moved so many times in the past, it has become almost second nature to be able to pack up at short notice and leave to someplace new. For that reason I believe that although having a physical place to call “home” is always a privilege, to me home is where my loved ones are. After all, going back to an empty flat, etc. and just being filled with memories isn’t quite the same as having dinner with the whole family, or going to see snow for the first time.
It’s these small events and milestones that make us who we are as humans. It’s the accomplishments and the downfalls that test to see who is there for us. Friends of course play a huge role in this, however the difference is that not only do you choose your friends, but they tend to come and go. Family is something that defines you, and that sticks with you for the rest of your life whether you like it or not. Despite some hardships, my life has been pretty blessed. In short, when I think of the word “home,” I don’t think of the places where we gather once a year to have our own reunion of sorts, whether for the endless Christmas festivities that last for days, or exploring the city of Torun during the warm days of summer. Instead I think of the people who surround me, and how humble and loved they all make me feel. No one knows you more than the people who helped bring you up, so the saying goes, and in this case I find that to be true. To me, home is going to get ice cream at the infamous local ice cream place with my older cousin and my step grandfather on hot summer afternoons, it’s going to the beach with my grandmother and braving the cold morning water. It’s waking up to the sound of that strange next door neighbor (who has known my family for decades) knocking loudly on our front door every morning at the crack of dawn with some pointless newspaper that we end up tossing right after he leaves. It’s being at midnight mass and hearing very off-key singing, only to turn around and see my cousin and his friends laughing because they are already making plans to invite me to their all-nighter festivities right after the sermon. It is going to the local renown bakery at 3 o’ clock in the morning and watching the employees through the big window bake the bread and take it out fresh from the oven. It’s having the mayor of the city of Gdansk coming up to me at one of my aunt’s infamous parties and seeing if my Russian is still any good. It is reuniting with people, friends and family alike, after a long period of no contact, and being able to pick up and as if it had only been yesterday. The long and short of it is, without my family, Poland and any other place in Europe would just be a beautiful country that I come from. With them there, it is home, and there is no place I’d rather be.