What has never been clear is why Pulaski? I get naming a street after him. Nothing could be worse than Lunt, anyways. But what was so great about Pulaski that he deserves a day off school? Of course, while in school, I never cared. A day off is a day off is a day off. But, as an adult, I have found myself wondering what he must have done. Rumor was that he was a great Revolutionary War hero, helping the weak and feeble American army get ready to fight off the militarily sophisticated British. According to Wikipedia (I know...but where else can one get free information easily these day), its stated that, "He is known for his contributions to the U.S. military in the American Revolution by training its soldiers and cavalry." So, essentially, he helped train the new US soldiers. There is no mention of any bravery in combat, or having helped in a decisive victory. In fact, it's not even clear if he did fight. I'm sure there were some Polish immigrants that did fight, maybe even a whole regiment that marched into battle together. The idiosyncratic nature of the holiday has led both folk-rock darling Sufjan Stevens and Chicago's own post-punk hardcore band Big Black to immortalize the day off in song. [Edit: apparently, Casimir Pulaski, as someone rudely pointed out earlier, died in the Siege of Savannah in 1779, fighting the British on the side of the Americans; I'm sure, as anyone who fights for a military can attest, it took some bravery, especially to fight for a foreign country; that said, hundreds of men and women, several Polish I would assume, also fought and died - wouldn't a Polish-American War Remembrance Day make more sense than just singling out one guy? That was all I was saying; I'm glad I got the day off school...]
Which brings me to the heart of the matter: America's strange sense of identity. See, I am pretty sure that there must have been an entire Polish regiment because Gettysburg is littered with memorials to all the Irish regiments that fought together. America, as a country born from immigrants, tends to have large regional sections that were populated by exclusive immigrant communities. Beverly, on the South Side of Chicago, is just such an example of an Irish community; short ginger men and women as far as the eye can see, and tons of "authentic" pubs.
When I was marching through Gettysburg in the blazing heat, sweating out the will to resist such a vacation that lacked beaches, amusement parks, or relaxing, I felt a swell of pride for all the Irish monuments I would see. In fact, for most of my life, I called myself Irish. I associated myself with the Irish, I found myself gravitating towards other Irish people, took St. Patrick's Day absurdly seriously, and listened to a lot of Irish music. Similarly, other Americans I know always try to associate themselves with their heritage, regardless of how separated they might be. In fact, I think I might have some second cousins in Ireland, but my Grandma was raised in Chicago. That city, with its tough working class ethics and small-man syndrome, has had a bigger effect on who I am as a person than Ireland has. Yet, until recently, I would never associate myself with Chicago; I was Irish through and through.
Recently, a friend of mine whose blog you can read here, posted a link to the song "Dreams" by the Cranberries. For two days snippets of that song plagued my every moment of waking. In an attempt to congeal the snippets into something more cohesive, I listened to The Cranberries first album Everyone Else is Doing it, So Why Can't We? I haven't listened to that album all the way through since high school, and I was flushed with memories (like driving around in Claire Liptrot's Geo blasting that and Alanis Morisette).
What hit me the hardest was the soft spot I have for the accent. Dolores O'Riordan is a sort of severe looking woman, particularly when during the early years of The Cranberries. She softened her appearances during her late solo career, but which age has returned some of her angular look. Regardless, I could listen to her read the phone book and fall madly in love. The same feeling was true when Dublin sent a Fulbright to Southern Illinois University every year. It didn't hurt that these incredibly attractive blonde women would have these endearing accents. The same is true for the English and Scottish accents. The most recent companion in the Dr. Who series, Karen Gillian, is Scottish, and the moment she opened her mouth, I was hooked. Luckily, she was also a very good actor, so I didn't need to suffer through a horrible TV show just to watch a pretty actress with an attractive accent.
The more time I spent here, the most I really start to develop certain soft spots for regional accents. For example, I particularly like the way that Midlands accent leans into vowel sounds, particularly "u" and "o". Like each one has several stacked umlauts. I like the rhythm of the Northern Welsh accent, and how it traipses along like when the Elves speak the common tongue in Lord of the Rings. I've even warmed to certain regional jargon phrases, like "Go on, then." It might not read that endearing, but with the right accent, it's just the cutest thing.
It was at that point, thinking about endearing regional characteristics of both Chicago and the UK, that I realized I have arrived at a threshold here in Wales; where I am crossing the line from travelling student to expatriated American. I no longer see this whole island (and by extension, it's ginger cousin to the West) with the eyes of an immigrant living abroad, associating myself with bastardized characteristics that are more connected to my hometown than to my homeland. Now I am seeing the soft undersides of this neat place, and I am finding it that much more endearing.
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