Posted by Celina Kareiva on August 01, 2011  |  0 Comments More from this author  |

07.18.11          Poznan, Poland

We could barely see each other above the platters of fried chicken and corned beef, the cubes of lime green Jello and layer cake. There were bowls of Greek salad, pillowy dumplings and jellified cylinders of herring and parsley. Every square inch of table space was in use and the room echoed with the sound of clinking glasses and happy chatter. We were the guests of honor at this imperial feast, and surrounding us, were at least three dozen relatives with the same sharp jaw lines, high cheekbones and fair hair. I’d never seen so many Surowiecs in one room.

Three weeks into our pilgrimage to Poland we had finally encountered a tangible link to our family tree. We’d visited countless museums, eaten our way through heaping platters of pierogi and crisscrossed the countryside in a minibus. Still, our understanding of our roots was superficial. Despite our best efforts, most of our self-guided exploration had only skimmed the surface of this complicated country and its multilayered identity.

To be surrounded by a room full of relatives made the trip more than just a series of clichés (the history lesson on WWII, an acclimation to cabbage and a growing appreciation for European beer). While my grandma’s identity was woven into the fabric of Poland, we were still creating ours. And this table of kin encapsulated our reasons for coming.