I probably talk more about being Polish than having amazing bunions. It’s something I take pride in, but sometimes it isn’t easy. Present day America is so much different than the Communist Poland my parents remember. Escaping the U.S.S.R.’s satellite state when they were young adults, they came to America with a couple dollars in their pocket and a piece of paper with the name of the person that was supposed to pick them up from the airport. They both have very different yet amazing stories. My father, for example, came when he was 18 all by himself not knowing any English whatsoever. All he had was a few bucks, some clothes and motivation to go somewhere in life. He, by some miracle, got a visa and escaped the obligatory military service of Poland at the time. When he came to the states, he worked as a contractor by day, cleaned as a janitor by night, and in between those jobs, he was studying English. I use his story as motivation when I feel like my world is crashing down. If my dad came to a country vastly different in every circumstance and was able to build a business from those few bucks, I could do anything. My parents always raised me with those values, and because of that I have never been so proud of my culture.

During my freshman year of college, a few of my friends heard me talk about my heritage (one of many, many times). As a joke, they named me "gypsy," and to this day I do not truly understand how they connected gypsies to Polish people. But the more I think about it, the more I understand. I guess my parents were technically gypsies. I looked up the definition of gypsy, and it was defined as such: "The definition of a gypsy is a member of a tribe of people found throughout the world who has no permanent home or someone who shares this wandering lifestyle." So the connection makes some sense now. When my parents escaped Communist Poland, that wasn’t the same Poland that was before communism or that is now. People of Poland were truly nomads living in a land that wasn’t truly theirs but the U.S.S.R.’s at the time. Then, when my parents came to America, they were nomads again; settling in a land that wasn’t truly theirs either. They didn’t know the language nor the culture. And a few years after they met each other in the States, they had me. I was a gypsy as well. I lived in a Polish bubble in my house, and once I stepped foot outside, it was like crossing the Atlantic into America-two totally different worlds.

I distinctly remember my first day of preschool. Being raised in, basically, Poland, I knew absolutely no English. My mom taught me two phrases, “can I go to the bathroom?” and “can you call my mom?” Those two phrases got me through preschool. I felt so out of place amongst these Americans with their Gameboys and iPods while I was used to playing outside with sticks and bikes.

I finally am starting to connect the dots that my friends freshman year started to draw for me. I am actually a gypsy; in both lands honestly. I do not find myself “American enough” because I have so many deep Polish roots and values that don’t exactly go along with some American ones. But also, when I go to Poland, I don’t feel like a pure Pole either because of the fact that I was exposed to a lot of American ideals. I am a gypsy in both lands. I don’t have a "pure" home. Over the years, I have learned to embrace the fact that I have more lands than most people. I have two and in the end, two halves make a whole. Half of me will be labeled with the Polish stereotypes (vodka, potatoes, cleaning ladies), and the other half with the American ones (Obama, McDonalds, Kanye). But in the end, those two halves, Poland and the U.S., make the whole Bella or gypsy.