Reflective Essay

FAMILIAL REFLECTION

--NICOLE MASNICAK

Most of us trudge through life without ever truly knowing who we are and where we came from. I was never like that. Throughout my entire existence, I’ve always known who I was and where I came from and the basic series of events that unfolded to get me to where I am today. But when I was young and naive, it was an albatross weighing down on my shoulders: I was embarrassed of my background, or more importantly, of being different. As the years wore on and I matured, I came to a substantial realization: I am proud of my heritage. I am proud to be different.

Small children are often fond of showing off and sharing personal information in order to gain subconscious superiority: “Your mom is forty and mine is only thirty;” “I’m half German, 25% Polish and one quarter Native American; what are you?” “My mom is a teacher and my dad is a chef.” From a small age I was always badgered with questions and statements that I felt I couldn’t compete with or even answer. The main problem for me was that there wasn’t an assortment of cultures running through my veins; I was pure Slovak, and my parents had accents to show for it, further differentiating themselves from the rest of the tight-knit community.

One year, in grade school Spanish class, our teacher had us draw family trees and label them. I have an average-sized family, and I have never been ashamed of that. The real problem for me was the names of my family members: my father was Jan, but I wrote down the American name of “Ian;” my aunt is Katarina, but I scribbled in “Kathy.” Where other kids had grandfathers named Joseph or Thomas, mine was Alojz, and there was nothing I could do about it besides feel awkward and uncomfortable.

I dragged my feet in a similar fashion for years afterward. When people asked my mother’s name I had to spell it and repeat the pronunciation several times: “Lubica.” Any time that classes changed, I would be forced to laugh off the fact that only one out of every ten teachers held the ability to pronounce my last name correctly. I always wished I was born into something different, something normal.

As my high school years passed, I became better acquainted with my heritage and I met new friends that adored my mother’s broken English and distinct accent. I visited Slovakia three summers in a row, and realized its close proximity to everywhere else in Europe, allowing for easy travel. I came to the conclusion that Slovak is one of the most beautiful languages. I was finally able to connect with my family, and I realized how useful it would be for me in the years ahead to be acquainted with another language, another culture.

In French class we were once again assigned to draw a family tree. I pulled out the one I had concocted in grade school, glad my mother had kept it throughout the years. As I read through the names, I remembered the humiliation I felt about myself for being different. And I felt bad for the old me, the naive me, who refused to acknowledge the singular beauty of being so unique. I’m not ashamed of being 100% pure Slovak anymore; in fact, I’ve more than embraced it.

I know now that my uncommon heritage is what makes me so different, and I’m proud of it. It’s a conversation starter and continuer. I love the culture and the country that my family belongs to, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. It’s my only wish that the my younger self had realized sooner just how beautiful my heritage--and being different--is.