There is something about being Polish that runs deeper than a last name.
It lives somewhere beneath the surface—in the stories we were raised on, in the food that somehow tastes like childhood, in the sound of a polka that can make an entire room move, and in traditions that have survived not because they were easy to preserve, but because someone decided they were worth preserving.
Our family is proud to be Polish.
Not because we believe being Polish makes us better than anyone else.
But because it reminds us that we come from somewhere.
And perhaps, in a world where so much seems to change so quickly, knowing where you come from matters more than we realize.
Our ancestors came to America carrying more hope than possessions. They arrived speaking a language that wasn’t always understood, carrying customs that weren’t always welcomed, and trying to build a life in a country that often expected immigrants to leave pieces of themselves behind.
Polish immigrants faced prejudice, discrimination, poverty, language barriers and pressure to assimilate.
And still, they built.
They worked.
They sacrificed.
They endured.
They built homes and businesses. They raised children. They built churches and neighborhoods. They created communities. They took whatever they had and somehow made a life from it.
They didn’t have everything handed to them.
They earned it.
Maybe that’s why hard work and perseverance feel like such a deeply rooted part of our identity.
Because somewhere in the back of our minds—or perhaps somewhere much deeper—we know that the life we have was made possible by people who didn’t get to live it themselves.
We inherited the results of sacrifices we never had to make.
Think about that for a moment.
Someone you’ve never met may have worked a job they hated so that their children could have opportunities they never had.
Someone may have crossed an ocean knowing they might never see home again.
Someone may have struggled to learn a new language while trying to make sure their children never went hungry.
Someone may have experienced discrimination and still decided that this was the place where their family would build its future.
Someone endured so that we could thrive.
And now we get to decide what we do with that inheritance.
For us, part of that inheritance is the way we love people.
We feed people.
We open our doors.
We squeeze one more person around the table.
We show up.
We celebrate loudly.
We dance.
We laugh.
And if you’ve ever been around a Polish family when the music starts, you know that sitting quietly in the corner was probably never going to be an option.
This weekend, we celebrated Dożynki at my family’s tavern.
And for a few hours, that place became something bigger than a tavern.
It became a gathering place for generations.
There was music.
There was dancing.
There was food, of course—gołąbki (stuffed cabbage rolls), pierogi (traditional Polish dumplings), and zupa grzybowa (Polish mushroom soup).
There was laughter.
There were people hugging, talking, remembering and making new memories.
And as I looked around the room, I couldn’t help but think about how much history can exist in one room.
Generations of Polish families.
Generations of immigrants.
Generations of people who came from somewhere else and built something here.
Generations who carried pieces of the old country into the new one and refused to let those pieces disappear.
That matters to me.
Because heritage isn’t just about knowing the country your ancestors came from.
It’s about understanding that your identity didn’t begin with you.
Someone came before you.
Someone struggled before you.
Someone sacrificed before you.
Someone dreamed before you.
Someone loved before you.
Someone crossed an ocean.
Someone learned a new language.
Someone worked with their hands.
Someone raised children.
Someone buried people they loved.
Someone faced uncertainty.
Someone endured things you will probably never have to endure.
And somehow, through all of it, they found a reason to keep going.
Maybe they even found a reason to dance.
That is what I think about when I hear Polish music.
I don’t just hear music.
I hear continuity.
I hear people who refused to disappear.
I hear grandparents and great-grandparents whose names I may know only because someone bothered to remember them.
I hear a culture that survived migration, hardship, prejudice and time.
And I think about how easily these things can disappear.
Not all at once.
But quietly.
One generation stops making the recipe.
Another stops teaching the song.
Someone stops telling the stories.
The language isn’t passed down.
The traditions become inconvenient.
And eventually, something that survived for generations can disappear within one.
That is why we celebrate.
Not because we are stuck in the past.
Because we understand that the past is part of us.
We can embrace the future without abandoning the people who made it possible for us to have one.
We can be American and still be Polish.
We can belong here and still remember where our family began.
We can appreciate other cultures without apologizing for loving our own.
There is room for all of it.
And maybe that’s the most beautiful part.
Our heritage doesn’t require us to close our doors to anyone.
It simply asks us not to forget the people who opened those doors for us.
So yes, we are proud to be Polish.
Proud of our ancestors.
Proud of our culture.
Proud of our food.
Proud of our music.
Proud of our dances.
Proud of the traditions that have somehow survived generation after generation.
And, yes, even a little proud of the stubbornness that seems to come with the territory.
But more than anything, I am proud of what our heritage teaches us:
Work hard.
Love your people.
Feed the hungry.
Open your doors.
Remember where you came from.
And when life gives you a reason to celebrate, celebrate.
Because someday, we will be the ancestors someone else remembers.
And I hope that when they tell our story, they can say we carried something forward.
That we remembered.
That we loved our families.
That we welcomed people into our home.
That we laughed loudly and danced when the music played.
That we understood the sacrifices that came before us.
And that, despite everything, we kept the music playing.
To everyone who came to celebrate Dożynki with us this weekend:
Dziękuję.
You didn’t just come to a party.
You came home.
And for one beautiful evening, we got to honor those who came before us, celebrate those standing beside us now, and give the generations who come after us something worth remembering.
Niech żyje Polska. 🇵🇱❤️
