Poland

Mex/j/ico: I was reading today about how Mexico "got" its name. According to one person's perspective, a mix of an already-existing word/name, imperialism, and habit, resulted in a name that was a little off for both the named and namers. Like learning your immigrant Grandmother's last name was once a long, jagged, beautiful Polish name that she changed to a monosyllabic, blunt, unassuming name. She lost her name to gain what? The majority can now pronounce it, and at what loss for them? And her children and grandchildren: do they accept the name that no longer connects them with their ancestors, or attempt to override both society and their Grandmother's decision? A name is never just a name, it's clear, but a history of lies and truths, a direction and misunderstood signals, an insistence that naming something makes it real, valid.

Papers: I've spent the last few days at my parent's house going over every document I've written, printed, or received since maybe my birth. It's been a relief in some ways, finding so many words that I no longer need to be trusted with. It's been a burden, too, because of the sheer volume and my slightly lingering packrat tendencies. Also a bit shameful, looking back on old writings and silly ways I used to waste paper; I used to be a terrible speller. And it's also been exhausting, reliving countless years and memories through ink and pencil, like I've been reading my own biography for 3 days without a break.

Tuesdays: My Grandma has friends she eats lunch with every Tuesday. She also plays euchre and gambles with several of these ladies, from what I gather. Today, my mom and I went as well. The group praised my mom highly for her pie-making abilities and traded their own methods for making crusts. I appreciate the elderly so much for making the simplest facets of life a wonderful topic of discussion, interaction, and weaving conversation.