...

In my role as "Ciocia," or "Auntie"

For the past two years my job has been to talk.  During my formal lessons I had to teach my children the day’s vocabulary and phrase structures, to give them instructions, guidance, and (often) reprimand.  After my lessons finished, though, the talking did not cease.  I maintained a constant flow of words around my children: narrating my activities, asking them questions about their day, talking to them about their work, their toys, etc., and answering their constant little questions of, “Ciocia, what you are doing?” and “Ciocia, what this is? What this is for?” Formally I was an English teacher, but my English lessons lasted for only 45 minutes; the rest of the time I was a preschool teacher, teaching the children how to eat properly, how to play nicely, and how to go about their daily activities.  In essence, my job was to teach my children how to be functioning human beings, all the while speaking to them/with them/at them in English.  And every day was filled with, “Don’t touch that!” “Chairs stay on the floor.” “Who hit you?” “We don’t say that word!” and “It’s okay, mama will be here later.”

It’s not surprising, really, that after eight hours of words each day with my children, I lost my voice.  Not literally, of course, my actual voice remained somewhat intact (if not a bit hoarse after a particularly grueling day), but my writer’s voice.  I spent all my words in forming and shaping my children, and at the end of the day, I would sit down to write, to update my adventures, but the words would not come. 

I tried more than once to remedy this situation.  I read travel writing blogs for inspiration and came away impressed and with a renewed sense of purpose.  I would write, I would become a writer…tomorrow.  Most days found me too tired to try to write, and on the days where I had the energy, I still couldn’t find the words.  I couldn’t find the right start.  So I read tips for “Finding Your Voice,” and experimented with the various suggestions—write in a crowded café, free write, write it in a letter to a friend, etc.  But I just couldn’t start.  Or I would start, write a few paragraphs, and hate everything I came up with.  The words just weren’t right.

So I gave up.  I stopped trying to be a writer to focus on the present.  I refocused my energy on my children, my work, and my friends.  The result is that, while this blog suffered from neglect, my life did not.  I left Warsaw a very different person than the one who arrived; indeed, I am much different from the girl who wrote this last post almost a year ago.  My Polish is better (I can order food without the server making the “pity switch” to English and I can almost carry on a conversation about certain topics), my photo album is fuller, and my heart is full to bursting with love for the city and the people I found in Warsaw.  And my children, oh my children!  They now say “yes, please” and “no thank you” and most of them speak English with much more confidence and ease than when I began.  And (best of all) they stopped viewing me as the English teacher and (I think) came to regard me with real affection and warmth.  And for my part, I showered them with attention, love, and far too many hugs.

When I wasn't "Ciocia" or "Miss Jerica," I was just Jerica, relaxing
in the park with my friends, or drinking too much piwo, and
probably laughing way too hard

I regret that I wasn’t able to update this blog with stories of my adventures—my parents’ visit this autumn, my second Christmas in Worcester, Easter in Prague, spring in the park with new and old friends—but in retrospect, I would not have sacrificed a moment of it to struggle over the right words.  I am on holiday now, where much of my day is spent in quiet thought and memory; I have my voice again, and I will try to recount some of what has passed.