Des Plaines, Illinois, 1989: Visiting Dad
An hour away, on the north side of Chicago,
he lived in a foreign land
Four or five times a year, as Mom waved goodbye
he drove me in a white Oldsmobile
into his working-class, Polish neighborhood
where immigrants congregated in drab hives
for an afternoon that lingered into evening
Stark, square and soviet
low-slung, one- and two-story buildings
huddled along bleak, treeless streets
crowded lanes of shoe-box stores, mini-malls,
of soulless, small-windowed apartments
wet, plaintive pavement reflected stoplights
asphalt punctured with scrawny weeds
always grey, no matter the season
perpetually raining, overcast
skies dense and disorienting, opaque as candlewax
Litter-strewn sidewalks
where pudgy babcias plodded in their plastic babushkas
protecting their grandmotherly perms from the rain
in knee-high, dark stockings that sagged beneath shapeless skirts
and masculine, boxy shoes,
balancing plastic grocery bags in both hands
that had twirled and wrapped around their wrists
as they waddled home from the Jewel/Osco
and were rudely passed by thick-chested young men
in sporty winter coats, tight jeans and crew cuts,
with pallid faces and distracted eyes
The city was summer-less:
always a pinched, wet November
or a February of blackened snow, clumped at the edges of parking lots
whips of wind snapping as you turned the corner of buildings
and were left breathless
a cold that overwhelmed you, weakened your bones,
cowered you like a slave
For miles these semi-suburban blocks rambled sluggishly toward the sleek downtown— its crisp, blunt blue lakeshore and sharp shock of skyscrapers
We pulled into the driveway guarded by two stone lions perched on a high gate adding a touch of pretension to the dreary avenues inhabited by plumbers and cleaning ladies The house: upon entering, you were stabbed by cologne, by perfume that soaked into clothes, absorbed into drapes, permeated wood and carpet, clung to your twice-kissed cheeks, masking an earthy odor of bodies mingling with the stench of fried sausages
Shaggy white-carpeted floors, mirror-lined walls,
a spotless white couch, rooms clogged with pastel rugs and sparkly trinkets,
lamps pointed and long-necked like gleaming metal herons,
blinds perpetually closed, even in daylight:
we were entombed in oppressive whiteness
Devoid of the warmth of pets, the scent of potted plants,
the grubbiness of children, the house felt sterile
I was a foreign body in this space
stiff with worry
of spilling, of breaking something
A synthetic, plastic place,
a taste for the gaudy, for gloss and glitter,
aggressive newness layered over old memories—
the tradition, the folk, the superstition,
a whiff of the archaic seeping through, underneath a layer of modernity—
decadence covering over years of poverty
A portrait of Our Lady of Czestochowa,
swarthy and gold-rimmed,
was relegated to the sliver of wall next to the bathroom
tucked with baseball-sized cards of John Paul II
bedecked with cheap, plastic rosaries
And always my step-mother, parents’ friends, distant cousins,
women heavily made up, hair-sprayed and high-heeled
dressed in tight patterns of leopard, snake skin, draped in feathered boas
a rhinestone-fingered, red-lacquered femininity
buzzing about their blanched and hollow-eyed, mink-faced men
And spoke among themselves
in a buzzing backdrop of gnarled tongue
a purring, shushing speech, cluttered with consonants:
“k’s” and “ch’s” and “sh’s” and “zh’s”
a snaked, thickly braided porridge of sound—
something exotic about it, this language of my ancestors,
a world adjacent to me that I could not enter
The dining room table draped by ornate cloth
of shimmering purples, burgundies,
children harassed into eating, eating—
a feast of blood-red borscht, cold cuts, pickles, pierogi,
sauerkraut and small sausages wrapped in bacon,
dry, choking slices of poppyseed cake,
doughy kołaczki, sugared paczki,
thinly-cut, limp cucumbers soaked in sour cream—
everything pickled, fermented, or creamed
Hours playing with the one toy I’d brought as Dad asked me stilted questions in broken English bombarded with camera flashes demands to smile, to pose sweetly, tell my age, say something nice compliant at first, but by the end my annoyance frozen in sneer, captured for eternity
Feeling like a paraded circus animal—
on display for viewing, for tricks and compliments
as friends and relatives whom I have long forgotten
bombarded me with vermillion lipstick kisses
open-armed hugs releasing whiffs of brawny pungency
My father, tall and slim,
obsessively combing his thinning black hair,
with shockingly pale, mole-scattered skin
handsomely Slavic, wearing a powder-blue suit
with pantlegs too short, that rode up his calf when he sat
exposing his black-socked, pale legs
No matter how familiar, how kind, there was always a formality, a distance— I had to dress up in ribbons and tights, patent-leather, buckled shoes and be on my best behavior He was like a laconic uncle you see only at Christmas and Easter as you endured awkward hugs, a forced intimacy, someone you were supposed to love but for whom you felt only indifference Sometimes we dined at dark-draped or windowless restaurants crowded with greasy-skinned, leering men as I fidgeted in rubbery booths amid scents of cooked lard and stale cigarettes where grown-ups lingered too long around soiled, empty plates Hours dragged on until finally they bid me farewell and I was laden with new winter coats a size too big, envelopes of cash, and strange, inappropriate gifts – a robotic dog that barked, or a toaster And he drove me back through the grim streets conversation drying up to a relieved silence passing the fluorescent-lighted intersections windshield wipers swishing in the unrelenting drizzle blurring together until the landscape gradually greened the trees returned like shy friends the roads became recognizable a dog greeted me in the yard and I was home.