Dzien Niepoleglosci - Polish Independence Day

I’m sitting in my friend’s Warsaw apartment, thinking, romanticizing, dancing with my visions of America. The dirt roads I haven’t gone done, the mountain highways I’ve wrecked on and loved. Roads that take me to the tops of mountains and with one turn, make me feel like I’m falling into an exultant ocean. I’ve been here a week, one week, and already the distance is making my heart grow fonder.

Poland’s Independence Day was recently celebrated. I got to be in the middle of it all. In the country’s capital city, yards away from their president, standing by the Unknown Soldier’s Grave, speaking to his country.

“What’s he saying?”

“I don’t know, I’m not paying attention.”

Children all around being hoisted onto their father’s and grandfather’s shoulders, waving the red and white flag – Polska. Cameras slung over young men’s shoulders, clicking cameras and camera’s filming from cranes erected for the occasion.

“Everyone has really nice cameras. I’ve never seen so many nice cameras.”

“That’s because the boys are trying to impress the girls. To be a photographer is cool and artsy. They can’t sing or write or paint, but anyone can take pictures…They can’t afford a car, but they can buy a nice camera.”

The tanks firing off, young men covering the ear’s of their squeeze, children on the verge of crying. But then came something I haven’t seen much of in Poland – smiles. People were happy. Maybe because they didn’t have to work, but I like to think it’s their country. They’re proud, proud to be Polish, proud of the fight that their country has, that they have, that the Polish people have had for hundreds of years.

People began walking, forming lines, walls of lines. A parade through the streets of Old Town Warsaw was going to take place soon. Not Macy’s parade, but a march. Soldiers, calvary, policemen, airforce, navy, marching through the streets. Old and young protestor’s held up their signs. A man passed and muttered “Murderers,” while people around ignored or showed disgust at his words. A coffin was put in front some of the protest signs, and the young men took out their cameras.

My friend and I waited in line. On the streets that weren’t marked off. Someone had told someone that the soldiers would walk by here. After close to an hour, the men began walking – another direction.

“What a hilarious joke.”

My friend was upset, the irony, the irony was frustrating and funny.

Then the soldiers marched on and began marching down our street. The beginning of the parade, other nation’s marched – the French, the Slovakians and the Americans. Two black men and a short soldier.

“I think people are amazed that the black man actually exists.”

And I was proud of my country, too. Sure, there were only 3 soldiers compared to the hundred of Poles, but still, mine were the only black men marching and the shortest person marching. Heartwarming.

They sounded like the armies of orchs, and then the Navy men, with stern faces, halted feet from us. Every motion amplified by multitude’s unified action.

People’s face lit up. My fiend and I swooned at the men, and I took pictures so we could pick out our imaginary Navy boyfriend when we came home. People pushed by me, more pictures were taken. The soldiers standing in our presence gave everyone a thrill. What men of honor! the crown felt. The feeling was infectious.

Poland’s been a country, a free country, one it can call Poland, for 90 years, again. Congrats, Poland. Please, be kind to me.