Where Do You Come From?

Abstract

Where Do You Come From? Rachel Kesselman (bio) Larksville, Pennsylvania My grandparents always called it the parlor, never the living room. The TV stand was really the empty shell of a 1990s television set inside of which they had placed the flatscreen they were forced to buy when it died. They did not like how thin new televisions were, they had said, and they liked the cabinet that was built in to the old one. Their TV [End Page 81] consequently looked like a shadow box theater, and when it was turned on, it seemed you were watching something very far away. My grandmother's two-foot wedding portrait had been propped on top of it, in front of which was what resembled a white cake box. "Here she is, Rach," my grandfather said, reaching for the box. I did not understand what was inside until he put it in my hands, its weight remarkably heavy for its size. "Don't make no sense!" he said. "I'm older. I was supposed to go first." "How many times do I have to tell you? It's not always age that makes you go," my mother replied. She turned to me, seeking agreement. But all I could focus on was the empty couch. It had been over a decade since I had seen it unoccupied, its floral print faded on the seat cushions where my grandmother would lie. And then, how the scent of pierogies and onions was there, even though no one was in the kitchen, as though it were oozing out of the walls. I placed the box on the coffee table, still sticky with the rings of her teacups. "Don't make no sense," Grandpa repeated. ________ Paris, one month earlier The students' exuberance ripped through the stone courtyard of the lycée like a tornado, destroying any trace of fatigue or indifference in its ruthless path. Colorful vinyl backpacks swung from their shoulders as they released bursts [End Page 82] of laughter into the spring air, their arms dancing in the space before them as though the world were their theater, a place to be explored for expression. They were invincible in that uniquely American way, their smiles stretching across the entire width of their bright faces. My French students, overwhelmed by the amount of movement and noise, eventually succumbed to the American students' hugs, smiling over a mixture of bafflement and wonder. The two communicated, side by side, in two extremes: one utterly unobstructed and one of great reserve. I had spent months preparing for this moment: the coveted French American exchange I had organized after years of teaching in Paris. But that day, when it was actually happening, I was elsewhere. ________ The past I was born and raised in my grandmother's kingdom. A proud Polish Catholic, my grandmother taught my sister and me words like czekać and pierzyna, though she did not speak Polish fluently. She had a portrait of Jesus in her kitchen, where she would prepare haluski and kielbasa while we waited for our parents to retrieve us after work. The AM radio on top of the refrigerator would crackle with tunes from an alternate universe, singing soft tales of courtship through the screeching static. Grandma loved America and told us that everything was safer, more prosperous and just plain better in the 1950s. At her house, we'd travel back in time, and while we were reluctant to admit it, we were fascinated. We'd look through [End Page 83] drawers for old relics like paleontologists for fossils: trying to understand how we got here. As I grew up and left Luzerne County, I was able to locate the difference between where we came from and where we were. Grandma, however, could not. Her Luzerne County of glory and abundance simply did not allow for any contradiction. As the world outside continued changing, as generations grew up and left, it became harder for Grandma to preserve her world. She left her house less and less, until finally, when I was in college, she resigned to a life on her living room couch, watching the outside with a pair of binoculars...