"Dumb Pollacks" was still in common usage. Even among Pollacks. Yes, even among the clan, there were the dummies. I grew up not proud to be Polish; even ashamed. That's on me. It may have driven my desire to leave after college and start a new life in that Big [Tempting] Apple, New York City. Now, however, just look at all the Polish names prominent in the news and in so many walks of life.
With all the wanting to get away, the imprint of one's culture is hard wired. It's still with me. Makes me what I am as a person. Hopefully now with some wisdom of age I can happily integrate every bit of it. The good, the bad, the ugly. [Hey, but that's life. Not just if you're Polish. "When life hands you Lemons." The Polish gene in me says, "When you go to bed and put your head on the pillow, you think 'Pierogi' ".]
Still some very crisp, fond memories from those days.
Got me to reminiscing ...
In 1981 most of my old Polish neighborhood was razed to provide GM the space to build its new, all-on-one-floor Cadillac factory. It's a big story. Read the coverage for yourself online. Here's something I wrote that talks about that historic event.
I purposely chose the term "Ethnic Cleansing". Huh? What? It's timely, don't you know. Did you hear about Gaza? There's an argument over whether right there next to the State of Israel it's "ethnic cleansing". Or, even "genocide". Or, it's just Israel "defending itself". Regardless, the reality is that a lot — A LOT — of people are being killed. [And the Super Bowl had the most viewership ever!]
I'm not at all suggesting that eliminating that Polish enclave was anti-Polish. Or, intentional ethnic cleansing. Yet, regardless of the motive(s), it boils down to the same thing. And, probably since it's just a bunch of dumb Pollacks anyway, no big whoop. Economically, for the city, no great loss either.
After the razing the erstwhile neighborhood has since been referred to as "Poletown". It wasn't a term before that in the day as best as I can tell. Yet, it fits. Very "Polish". Le mot juste.
Poletown had an ethnic flavor. "Polish." So, what is that?
One taste of Kielbasa ... you know. I don't know if it's a Polish thing, but in our family the quest for the best Kielbasa was a never ending odyssey. In fact, it's still a thing with me. Fortunately in northern New Jersey where I currently call home there are so many choices shopping at wonderful Polish stores. Some where servers only speak Polish. Believe me, each one has their own take on THE Kielbasa. With many varieties at the same store. The texture of the ground Pork; fine cut, or coarse. Seasonings. Garlic/no Garlic. Even types of wood smoke.
Bakeries sold Pฤ czki. Fried yeast raised fried Donuts filled with jelly or Bavarian Crรจme. Sugar glazed for the jelly ones — Powidลa [Prune lekvar/butter], Raspberry, Apricot, Rose Jam. A dusting of powdered Sugar for the custard. By the way, when you see a word in Polish with "ล" it's pronounced as a "W" ... whah. And, since we're getting all proper, a "W" is pronounced like a V. See, I told you, Polish has its own way. Supposedly a difficult language to learn. I know enough to say "thank you", and "give me a kiss".
On the streets, women wearing babushkas. Seemed everybody spoke Polish. My Grandparents spoke no English when they arrived in America in the early 20th Century; and still didn't until the day they died. My parents were bi-lingual. Like, the enclave didn't require it [English]. Some English came through; "telephone" had my Polish Babcia's spin: "Telephonuya". Her word to the wise: "No money, no funny".
In my early grade school years there was an attempt to teach the Polish language. Alas, it didn't get any traction. Don't know why. Well, I know. By the time I was in school Polish wasn't spoken at home. Except maybe when the parents didn't want me to know from something or other. My older Brother Arnold [by nine years older] his first language was Polish. Had trouble starting out in grade school at St. Hyacinth's on account of that. Took some teasing too. But, he learned English. Well enough way later in life to become the President of the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra. Dumb Pollack, indeed!
Polish homes are famous for being well kept; inside and out. Mostly humble homes in Poletown, but spick and span. Flowers and shrubs growing neatly around the house in front; border gardens in the back yard. Small front lawns, never overgrown. Neighbors who didn't keep up were frowned upon.
[I had a Polish Uncle who kept his lawn as tight as a Golf putting green. Special push mower. All the shrubs ... topiary precise. Reindeer statues out front. Big ass blue reflector globe in the back yard. I remember visiting once to see him on his hands and knees with a knife, trimming the narrow precise lawn gutters around the walkways. His home was not in Poletown, but in Grosse Pointe. He moved on up.]
In the time of my youth stores were not open on Sundays. Seemed to me at the time that was the custom throughout the city of Detroit. And, well beyond. A corner convenience store opposite the Church was opened on Sunday; bit of a scandal with my Mother.
Neighborhood flavor. Everyone has their take. I was a sensitive lad. Tuned to the sensorium of life. The barrels of pickled Herring on the sawdust grocery store floor at Chene and Trombly Market, across from Chene-Trombly Lanes; kitty corner from the Candy Kitchen. Big barrels of Powidลa [Prune Butter] too. Frankincense smoke wafting throughout the Church on special occasions when there would be an indoor procession. My Mother's delicious cooking.
Learned to bowl at the Chene-Trombly Lanes. Pinsetters were young boys. They were stationed right there next to the action, after each roll they reset the pins. Can you imagine that! When bowling was dangerous.
After homework sometimes I'd trek over the 3 or 4 blocks from our home on East Grand Boulevard for a Banana Split at the Candy Kitchen. Even in the thick of snow. Read all about it.
The Cunningham's Drug Store at the corner of Chene and Milwaukee. They had live Leeches for sale. Old timey. What to take the blood of that bloody eye. And the best licorice I ever tasted. A thick stick of hard chew Licorice, in a slim dark orange box with black lettering. Serious stuff. Licorice. I remember going to the corner store and testing the shop guy's patience trying to decide what types of licorice and other candies I would get for my few cents spending money. Licorice. The flavor of my youth.
I went to grade school at Immaculates. The grade school of the Immaculate Conception Parish. Felician Nuns. Strict. Seems the general consensus among the Good Sisters was we were little born devils.
In the early years in grade school we had a Nun whose name was Sister Mary Cantia. [I can't say I'm spelling it right. Just remember the sound of her name.] She would rag on us miscreants, frequently. Remember her complaining that if it weren't for us brats she could have been a movie star. We did not like Sister Cantia.
Fuzzy Fachinni sat in the first desk, nearest the door. One day he put a pencil down on the floor and Sister as expected took a tumble. We had our ways. Little devils. She sure knew how to bring it up in us.
One thing I vividly remember about Sister Cantia was her look. Her look of displeasure was so severe and frightening the devil himself would slink away from that deadly gaze, tail between his legs.
I was a budding photographer in my youth. One day I took my mini spy camera to school. Predictably, Sister gave us that disapproving look. I jutted out into the aisle and took a quick shot. Sister saw; "What's that?". Me ... "Nothing". The moment passed. I never developed the film. But, Dear Sister, the image is framed in memory.
Sister Maximia. She was reputed to be the toughest Nun in school. She taught the 8th Grade class. Once she got all the girls together and gave them a talk about tempting the boys. A few girls were rather well developed. Pretty too. I don't know the actuality of that talking to, but I heard rumors. Don't show off those tits, girls! Strict.
And, Sister Maximia liked me. For sure she changed the trajectory of my life. She pointed me to the University of Detroit High School, one of the top schools in the state. Jesuit. I got an education.
Our Pastor, Father Alexander Cendrowski, questioned me about why I was going out of the neighborhood for high school. St. Stanny's [Stanislaus] was the usual next step for high school for kids from this blue collar neighborhood. I don't recall what I responded. Just stuck to my guns. It was a college preparatory school. And I went to College. The University of Detroit. Also Jesuit. I was educated.
Cendrowski. First name Alexander. We didn't have a good relationship. I named my dog Alexander.
As a kid in 1st Grade we had the homework once to make Butter. Heavy Cream shaken in a jar. My Mother put some of my pristine product in a shot glass and covered it neatly with wax paper, secured with a rubber band. [Pre-plastic wrap days.] It was given by one of the Nuns to Father Cendrowski. Never heard anything more about it.
I was an Altar Boy at Immaculate Conception. Regular duty. Even during the summer recess months. One summer early morning mass, Father Cendrowski celebrating, I got sick. Queasy, dizzy. I didn't want to interrupt the Mass, so I just left. Later that morning Dennis Sczieda, the doctor's son, rides up the alley on his deluxe-doctor's-son Schwinn Phantom to tell me that I was kicked out of the Altar Boy's. That hurt. But, I didn't have the nerve to confront Father about the why's and wherefore's. Nor did he call me in to discuss it himself. A true authoritarian.
I probably had it coming. Not for that incident, but ... As an altar boy I had my style.
When serving Mass the two main boys knelt on the lowest of the three steps down from where the Priest stood at the Altar. We were assigned either "Bells" or "Book". One lad's task was to take the Missal from it's starting place on the right side of the Altar, bring it down the three steps to the center, then then up again to the left side of the Altar. Meanwhile the other boy positioned kneeling on the lowest step would move from the left side the right. The guy on "Book" was now free to take the spot on the left.
Now, the "Bells". To the right, a step just below where the Priest stood, was a little metal lid covering a set of push buttons for said bells. The bells were rung at the most sacred moment of the Mass; the transubstantiation of the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ.
[Okay — look, I don't know how to paint this picture without getting into it. So thank you for your patience. You had to be there.]
Part of the set up for when the two boys would change places for the "Bells and Book" was to see to it that our missals were exchanged so that the respective missals would be in place where they arrived after the switch. Each stair was covered by a fabric rug. I loved to scoot the other guy's missal over, sliding it over on that narrow rug. Once I gave it so much juice it went flying off and landed way over on the left side of the sacristy, well to the left beyond the altar.
On bells, I once jazzed it up with probably the speediest rendition ever in the history of that Church. 1-2-3, 2-3-4, 4-5-6. Sacrilegious. Like I said, what Cendrowski knew, and the Good Sisters knew; I had the devil in me.
When I was young many times at Mass I would have this recurring fantasy. Just came to me. I didn't conjure it, or dwell on it. Just curious. Like I was taking a sledge hammer and breaking up the steps to the Altar.
The aisle floors in the Church and everywhere around the Alter and sacristy were covered in earthen tiles. From the locally Detroit famous Pewabic Tile. Beautiful shades of brown/black/orange/yellow/gold.
In my high school years we went regularly to Sunday Mass. On some occasions there was a Father-Son breakfast after Mass in the Church basement sponsored by the Holy Name Society. Father Cendrowski asked me why I didn't want to join the Society. "I have nothing in common with anyone there. I don't see what's in it for me." Pretty bold, huh? But, it is what I said; and, how I saw it. I saw a future away from that community; not wanting to grow roots there. Father Cendrowski wasn't one to take me under his wing and try to understand this young whippersnapper. He was expecting compliance. He would rule.
Well, don't you know, very soon after that impasse at Mass one Sunday during the sermon, my buddy Cendrowski tells the story of a selfish young man who didn't see what was in it for him to join the Holy Name Society. Me, sitting right there, listening to him talk about me to the whole Church community. No names, but pretty withering nonetheless.
Years later, at my Nephew's high school graduation at Orchard Lake Academy in Michigan I met up for the last time with Father Cendrowski. He was retired at the seminary there. I was newly married, living in New York City. "Hello, Father Cendrowski, I'm David Wronski. Remember me?" Flatly, stone faced, he said, "I remember you." I wouldn't say the tone was disdainful, but certainly clearly indicating long held displeasure. Forgiveness is the Lord's. Not Cendrowski's; not that day anyway.
In his defense, I have learned that Father Cendrowski was a great help in supporting new Polish arrivals into the neighborhood. Helping with housing and furniture. He also was instrumental in persuading the powers that be to install a foot bridge across the new I-94 highway on Moran Street leading to the Church.
I'm praying that Jesus and the Saints have welcomed Father Cendrowski into Heaven. Maybe after a little good talking to? Thank you Father, because of you and Immaculates, I'm what I am today. Thank you. Truly. With maturity, and maybe some wisdom, we learn to forgive. And, see the benefit(s) in all our experiences. And, maybe, the best from the toughest.
At my 8th Grade graduation ceremony I played the Ave Maria on my Violin. Maybe gained some graces back for that.
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