I cut off today my Polish moustaches. I’ve been considering
it since I returned. They did their work, inspired my look and framed my mouth
with Old Polishness, but they do not appear to have improved my language skills
particularly, that is to say, magically. And nonverbal communication can only
go so far, even to the point of miscommunication, misrepresentation. Last
Saturday at the Minnesota State Fair, wearing my moustaches and my Kraków
T-shirt, I heard someone from the crowd call out dzień dobry, to which I
responded, dzień
dobry, but could take it spontaneously no farther, alas, szkoda. (A Polish graduate student in
Horticulture.) I have yet, it seems, to have genuinely earned those silver
stripes. I feel no less Polish now in their detachment, nor any less committed
to the enterprise. Rather, I’ll proceed in my natural-born disguise, the
baby-faced Amerykaninem. Until then.
