On the Good Side; On the Bad Side

This week has been a mishmash of things that, on the surface, seem unconnected but, on a deeper level, are quite profound.

Profound in the sense that they are a reflection of the greater Polish attitudes; one in specific.

Let me lay them out for you.

My New Teacher

After six months of Polish language lessons – with my being tutored one to one, I am (not) proud to report that I could barely put a sentence together, let alone speak a word of Polish.

I believe my own attitude had a lot to do with failure to learn, in the beginning.

With a broken arm and some serious emotional baggage to work through, I attest that I was less than eager to learn anything.

On the other hand...

With a teacher who spent quite a bit of time on her phone while I did ‘busy work’ in my exercise book, a teacher who discouraged my attempts to speak and who corrected me without ensuring that the corrections were understood, I think I had a good reason for being less inclined to learn at that point.

I did try.

I asked if we could read dialog rather than play the textbook’s complementary CD. I asked if we could role play, if there were any learning games we might employ... I know how I learn best, after all.

All entreaties fell on deaf ears.

I fired that teacher. Not dramatically – no shouting accusations or pointing fingers.

My contract came up for renewal and I simply requested a different class, knowing full well that daytime lessons would cause me to be assigned to a different teacher.

And what a teacher I got! After only one lesson, I felt emboldened to make use of what Polish I know to carry out transactions at the grocery store’s deli section rather than selecting prepackaged lunchmeat.

Not only that, but I actually engaged the store’s service desk clerk in a conversation unrelated to the transaction we had just conducted and, when a random stranger asked me where ‘Dom Lekarz’ was, I was able to tell her!

Oh! The thrill!

Now anticipating my third lesson with this miracle teacher who knows how to explain and how to engage students, I feel no need to refer to the back of the workbook to do my homework (that is where all of the answers are).

In fact, I breeze right through my homework; a dramatic contrast to the frustration I felt trying to complete work the other teacher had assigned without so much as going over the vocabulary needed to complete the work.

Working with that teacher, I every assignment’s answers were copied from the back of the book.

The new teacher and learning Polish: definitely on the good side.

The Ongoing Struggle to Obtain Medication

You might remember, back in April, when I recounted a tale of doctors turning patients away for seemingly paltry excuses.

In my case, the excuse was the fact that I don’t speak Polish. That doc soon had to swallow the fact that I know people, and said peeps don’t take kindly to my being dismissed from medical care.

Luiza, chief protector and defender of my health, had been asking when we were going back to the doctor.

Now in the know of my medical condition because she talks to the doctor on my behalf, she is hellbent on making sure I get the care I need. I love her for that... and a bunch of other stuff! 

Last Thursday was the dreaded day.

I don’t care for that doctor; he seems to care deeply about practicing medicine to the best of his ability but not necessarily on me.

Maybe I expect too much... but is it too much to expect that, when you utter a greeting, you ought to get a response?

Instead, doc looked over my shoulder to Luiza and smiled, greeting her warmly. They proceeded to converse.

Luiza being much prettier than I am, I could certainly understand people paying more attention to her!

Thanks to my new Polish language teacher, I was able to pick up on some of what they were saying so, when he asked Luiza for my postal code, I spoke the first two numbers in Polish.

“71-...” is as far as I got before he turned away, muttering that he would have me write it down.

He then handed me a piece of paper and a pen, and I obliged, all while suffering flashbacks of my first teacher discouraging my fledgling attempts to speak Polish, and dealing with the persistent impression that this doctor would rather be treating someone who could speak his language.

As I’ve said before, he does go above and beyond to practice medicine.

When he could not get through to the pharmacy to call in my prescription, he first sent Luiza downstairs to ask if their phone was off the hook and, upon attempting to call again when she returned and still not getting through, he escorted us personally to the pharmacy. 

Being treated for thyroiditis: on the good side. Being cold-shouldered by the doctor, presumably for the simple fact that I don’t speak Polish: on the bad side.

Enjoying a Meal Out

I don’t often eat out, especially not by myself but, when the urge is upon me, there is one eatery I favor above all others.

On my first major foray into this city, with my now dear friends who were mere acquaintances at the time, I paused for a food break at a kebab restaurant during our apartment search.

It could not have been more authentic: Middle Eastern music blasting from the sound system, pictures of Syria on the walls and the favorite treat of my days in Berlin, the doner kebab, prepared by people apparently from the region that food originates from.

It took a few times of dining there for anyone besides the cashier taking my order to speak to me.

On a slow day, the person I had thought was the place’s owner (he has an air of command about him) asked me in English where I am from.

I always balk at that question because my origins are fairly convoluted: do people want to know where I was born or where I had spent the most time? Do they want my mother’s or father’s nationality?

Should I also throw in the land and city I most identify with?  

Through that whole ‘it’s complicated!’ conversation, we discovered that ‘the owner’ and I have several languages in common.

To our mutual delight, one of them is French, and that’s the language we speak when I visit there.

That doctor’s appointment had given me plenty of food for thought, not the least of which was how I might manage to continue living here if faced with ongoing bias... and with growing medical concerns.

Thus, my head in the clouds, I stepped into Only Kebab, greeted my friend and placed my order, immediately afterwards repairing to the dining area.

Whereas normally, diners carry their order to their tables in this cafeteria-style restaurant, I was served by none other than the establishment’s manager – my buddy! Turns out, he’s not the owner.

Of course, we prattled in ‘our’ language but, when I thanked him in Polish (as a joke), his reaction was immediate and visceral:

“Don’t speak to me in that horrible language! I hate it! I hate it here! I can’t bear it! The superiority! The racism!” 

I was hardly taken aback by his outburst; we had discussed how difficult it is to be an outsider in Szczecin before.

And, hadn’t I just come from an experience of bias against me – the doctor who barely acknowledges my presence?

With my Caucasian looks, I am often mistaken for a Pole... until someone speaks to me, causing me to stammer that I don’t understand them.

Unlike Riad, whose distinctively Middle Eastern appearance marks him from the get-go. 

My experiences in China, a place where I was visibly different from everyone else, permits an easy stepping into his shoes.

The early years there, the stir my looks cause was not ill-intentioned or ominous; people simply had limited exposure to foreigners and they wanted to make the most of their opportunity.

The ‘sour’ part of my China experience, being turned away from hotels and denied basic services at banks and post offices didn’t happen until later.

It left a lingering aftertaste that, even now, when friends in China beg me to return, I recall those times and gently turn down their offers of hospitality lest I be confronted with the same treatment. 

Is that what Riad faces every day? That, or worse?

Does he sense sneers and disdain? Outright contempt – the same as I felt from that doctor and from my first Polish teacher?

Identifying with someone who is discriminated against because of similar experiences: most definitely on the bad side!

How much it will weigh as time goes on... we’ll have to see.