The colorful lights on our choinka were twinkling, the ornaments I’d made from my babcia’s crocheted doilies were hanging on the branches, and on the radio, Freddie Mercury was thanking God it was Christmas.

I used to be a purist when it came to teaching my children Polish. Even when I was younger, I was adamant that my future kids would speak, read, and write in my native language. We would speak only Polish at home. None of this parents-speak-Polish-kids-reply-in-English nonsense. Nope. That wouldn’t be our family.

The first time I remember writing a story, I was eight or nine. My parents had purchased a typewriter at a tag sale, and I spent many afternoons painstakingly typing out a tale of spending a year living at my best friend’s house. The only way to make such a scenario plausible, I reasoned, was to have my parents die tragically on the first page of this story. (God, I hope they never found it!)

The house is immaculately maintained, with a manicured lawn and a flower garden lining the front walkway. Marigolds peek out over the stone edging, with red geraniums behind them and the green leaves of lilies not yet in bloom still further back. Purple petunias spill lushly from window boxes. I glance down at my sheet and note the Polish last name.

One evening a couple of months ago, when I was at my memoir writing class, our instructor handed out a poem by Wisława Szymborska - a Polish poet and essayist and recipient of the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature. I kid you not, my whole face lit up like a kid’s would at the sight of an ice cream sundae.