When Notes of the Polish Negro was published, many Blacks, who live in Poland, but do not speak Polish (yet), asked me if it’s any English edition. Honestly, I was shocked. Writing this book, I thought that it will be for the white majority in Poland; for people, who never understood, what does it mean to be Black in this country at this time, who never thought, how it feels being always different. At some point, I realized this book can be a sort of guide for my Black Brothers and Sisters, who were born in Poland, speak Polish and are Polish citizens; for those, who never had opportunity to face their blackness — because almost everyone was white.

Those questions about the English translation of this book have made my aware, that the English-language community of Blacks in Poland is also interested in this topic. Why should they not be interested in that? Especially if they want to stay here, they want, and they should know, what does it mean to have black skin in Poland in 2022.

I didn’t know, how to answer questions about English translation. Definitely, I would rather not translate it on my own, I didn’t suspect that I can even do that. I had many reasons to assume otherwise — I have started to write another book, this time about the refugee crisis on the Polish-Belarusian border, I had to do some things at school, I studied, and so on. But one day, after long discussion with Black friends, I realized I had no choice. I have to do this.

The process of translation wasn’t easy. I think the biggest problem I faced was explaining the polish context of events and words. I am not confident, if I succeeded in that, but I believe I did my best. The most problematic word was, probably, Murzyn. It’s a Polish noun, which came from German Mohr in the 14th or 15th century. Der Mohr was describing the inhabitants of Maghreb, Northwest Africa. Whereas Murzyn in the beginning was a neutral word for black person, now it’s considered offensive. I decided to translate it to “Negro” because it’s the closest substitute for Murzyn. In this situation, the adjective murzyński was translated to “Negro’s,” and the noun murzyńskość to “Negroness.”

Reading this book, one can tell I am reinventing the wheel. It is only a part of the truth — as long as it is truth at all. For part of non-Polish readers, especially from countries, which have been struggling with these topics and issues for a really long time, some of my statement (as, for example, about “whiteness of the white”) can seem obvious. Nevertheless, it does not mean it’s meaningless. It shows how many things we still have to do, and also perhaps makes us aware of problems around the world. Furthermore, I suppose in several post-communist European countries, like Hungary or Slovakia, Blacks are dealing with similar issues, as we in Poland. Perhaps they will find in this book something, which help them to better understand the situation in their countries.

This edition is a little different from the Polish original version. I decided to skip one chapter, which was about using the word “Murzyn.” Furthermore, I throw out the part on LGBTQ+ situation in Poland in comparison to about Blacks. I am certain it has no value for English-language readers. I also added my address for young politicians on General Assembly of Cooperation and Development Network Eastern Europe, which I delivered in Warsaw on March 11th 2023, and I wrote a new chapter: The Words, Which Do Matter. I suppose I can even claim it is not just a translation, but a different book.

Furthermore, I should also express my gratitude to many people. Above all, I am grateful to Ola. She was my first reader and first critique. I also thank Tosia, who is supporting me with my crazy ideas, including writing. After I decided to translate this book, I could count on them when I had doubts. If not they, probably this book wouldn’t have been published. I am grateful to my friends and family members, with whom I have spoken about racial issues, especially Bernadetta and Iga. Laura Kwoczała and Julia Chruściel, my co-workers in the MP’s Office, are my source of inspiration. I’m especially grateful to Jules, who encouraged me all the time to translate this book (I am still not sure, if it was a good idea, bro).

I ask for forgiveness for any mistakes in this edition. Perhaps next will be better. Notwithstanding, I hope this book will be useful to all of those, who want to understand racial politics in Poland.

Christian,

Wrocław, May 3rd 2023,

on 3 May Constitution Day

Preface

The story of this collection of essays begins at the end of September 2021, when in anger and because of hopelessness I wrote the essay Stranger and Propaganda of Fear. I finished it late at night, in a couple of hours. I had to as soon as possible give vent to my pain, my bitterness, my resistance to things happening in my own country. I didn’t suspect that this short text will be a starting point of whole book. After a week, I was ready to send it to a few liberal-leftist magazines, which very politely, but without reason, refused me or did not even reply. I was about to give up; then Kontakt, a Christian left magazine, offered me publication. Finally, on November 8th, three days before polish Independence Day, appeared as I, Stranger in My Own Country.

This time I realized that racial issues in Poland are marginalized. Even my leftist and liberal friends seem not to care about this topic. I do not want to say that they are insensitive or intolerant, for sure they are not: they were fighting against homophobia, sexism or transphobia, but racism was, still is, hidden behind “bigger” issues. I realized that for them, racial issue is a placeholder topic, that my life is a placeholder topic.

Slowly I was thinking about some problems and I felt I had to speak up. I believed I can start a discussion. I had begun another essay, and another, and then after three months I decided to set them into the book.

If I have to shortly describe the writing process, I would say it was a journey and struggle.

Journey — because I did not suspect that I will delve into myself, into my Negroness that much. It was extraordinary, but also disturbing, maybe a little spooky even. As somewhere — I don’t remember where — Baldwin says: “You cannot know what you’ll discover on the journey.” I confess: I did not expect that I will find these kinds of memories, associations, thoughts. But they were there, they were just waiting until I find them.

Struggle — because I had to (sometimes for the first time, sometimes not) face with demons of the past, present, and future. While writing, I faced with problems, before which I was trying to escape. They caught me, finally.

That’s why this collection of essays is neither some sort of systematized lecture, nor a consistent theory of postcolonial studies; I didn’t want to do any of that. This is a collection of reflections, some sort of diary, an attempt to telling my own experience. I have feeling that in many part of this book I repeat myself, I am going back to some thoughts, I watch them for different perspectives, I start a plot, and then I don’t finish it, like that, what I want to say, is beyond limit of language or — what’s more likely — I cannot express it.

In this book, I use two groups of words, which — I believe — should be explained if it has to be understandable. First: “Negro” (Murzyn), “Negro’s” (murzyński), “Negroness” (murzyńskość). Second: “race” and “racial issues.”

In general, when I use the word “Negro,” I mean the oppressed person, The Other sensu largo. In this case, “Negro” or “person in Negro’s situation” are also unprivileged workers or Christians in some countries. I use the terms “Negro’s” and “Negroness” in the same way.

The term “race” is criticized, and it should be. This anthropological conception from the 17th century grown into our minds, and it is very hard to eradicate it (obviously, it doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t try to do that). That’s why I have to admit to some kind of failure — I could not find the right substitute for that word. But I think that we can handle with it, like with “Negro” — treat it as a social category. However, in that book I use this term in “normal” meaning — as a term for skin colour.

When I, The Stranger in My Own Country was finally published, first time in my life I felt in some sense I lose control of my writing: people I know and also those, whose I do not know, wrote to me, they congratulated me, or they wanted to tell me about their thoughts.

This was a crucial experience — the black voice was heard. However, this voice is still whispering. It should finally speak loudly to be heard all around the world. Perhaps it will never stop whispering. But I know for sure it is in our hands, if we will listen intently to this voice. Until we will not do that, the whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the Earth, here and there, and it will not be easy.

Because this world is not, never was, and never will be only white.

A Question of Identity

The topic of identity is extraordinarily thankless, and writing about it is almost crazy, especially if you don’t have any mates, who can support you with their experiences and awareness. At the same time, this question is tactless enough, that you cannot answer it deftly; I doubt if in general you can answer it properly. Maybe I am writing it only for myself and no one will gain any knowledge from this; in this situation, someone can ask if it’s worth speaking about the identity. But I know this book would not be whole, if I didn’t try to do this extra hard task, which is asking about identity and — what is even harder — trying to give an answer.

I cannot speak about it easily, with the grace of a talented ballerina or gifted pianist. I will walk on this minefield like a bull in a china shop. Furthermore, I won’t finish the topic, which is multidimensional, still incomprehensible. A draft drawn by interrupted line, awkward flounce, fingers worn by arthritic — this is how I can describe this essay. I can only have hope it is enough.

A Black European is in an entirely different situation than his African or American brother. Opposed to them — who are though at home — he feels stranger. African American built the United States, cocreated American culture (if something like this even exists); about the role of Black in Africa we don’t even have to talk. But here, in Europe, Black is basically a new guy and is connected to Europe differently than Afro-American or African to their continents. In this is something absurd and mysterious — Black foreknows Europe, Europe is entered into his social memory as a torturer and colonizer, he got to know her in the worst way; but when he is here, discovers her culture, he can be amazed by this is the one and the same Europe.

But we supposed to ask about identity and search for answers. I believe identity is built on the collision of The Big Other, our individual feeling of identity. This quasi-dialectic concept is not trying to appear as a serious psychological theory in any sense; it’s just an observation of certain mechanism existing in our societies. That concept doesn’t, although, mean identity has any structure: The Big Other, feeling of identity and — let’s say — real identity. It is a more processual vision of identity, that means: identity is not something stable, it’s a journey to understanding one’s own Me. At the same time, it isn’t about the possibility of absolute autocreation — identity is fluid, of course, but in this sense that no one can fully understand, who really is.

The notion of The Big Other appears first time, I think, in Lacanian psychoanalysis, where — long story short — it is a construct observing us and in some sense overruling us. I believe The Big Other is also as some kind of social structure. Society as The Big Other dictates us a certain identity. The basic and first form of that is family relations. Being-kid-of-one’s-own-parents is — except biological not always being there — some kind of social construct. Perhaps teenagers’ rebellion is the very first moment, when we actively objection to legacy, imposed identity and then exactly we start searching.

After that, The Big Other in his different “incarnations” imposes on us different identities or its elements called social role: we are wives and fathers, employees and employers, leftist or right-wingers and so on, and so on. That probably meant Simone de Beauvoir writing: “One is not born but becomes a woman.” Often we agree with The Big Other because we are finding is his despotic decrees ourselves, we see in them our individual feeling of identity. But occasionally, we have to face the question: “Am I really that as The Big Other says I am?”

Perhaps that is the biggest question, which Afro-European have to ask themselves. Even often this question is asked by descendant of Africa and Europe, child of whiteness and blackness. Their situation is a little bizarre, very ambiguous and tragically absurd. They are treated as bastards of Europe, unwanted, but still child of the Old Continent, and The Big Other is resembling them they are at the same time African. I know what I am saying because I am in this dubious situation myself.

It’s hard to understand this strange connection between me and Poland, with Polishness, with her culture and language, with her history — this is my legacy, but that exact legacy is rejecting me. How can I differently read In Desert and Wilderness by Henryk Sienkiewicz, Polish Nobel Prize Laureate, than as an attempt to convince the reader about the superiority of white over Black, Europe over Africa? But I do not have to run to extremes. When I am admiring paintings of Malczewski or Matejko, I am watching Wajda’s or Kieślowski’s movies, I see only white faces and I cannot find myself fully in that.

I cannot find fully myself also in Europe, in Dostoyevsky’s or Kafka’s novels, in the plays of Beckett or Bernhard, in Rembrandt’s or van Gogh’s paintings. I look in vain for my traces in Notre Dame in Paris, in the architecture of Utrecht, in the Danube flowing lazily through Budapest, in the busy streets of London. I know there is a part of me, I do feel it — but it is not all, it’s only part of the story.

And though I hear the rumble of steps in Barcelona and Vienna, I see Celtic cross in Wrocław and Dresden, I listen to the racist voices from the House of Commons and Chamber of Deputies. Yes — I am the heir, but I am treated as a bastard, one is still trying to take from me my part of the legacy.

Sometimes I hear: “go back to Africa, you Nigga!” But where exactly I should go? This is also my home — but it is a foreign home, unknown to me. The streets of Johannesburg or Bujumbura were never my playground, I never smelled Luandian air, I never learned in Nairobian school. Mother did not read me African folktales to sleep, I never knew African mythologies. Africa is a land, from which I was eradicated and in which perhaps I will never put down the roots.

Sometimes also — even more often — a friendly white fellow says: “it is so obvious you are Pole!” They do not understand the difficulty of my situation. This, what is obvious to them, I feel I have to prove, rip away, fight for that. My Polishness is different from theirs; it doesn’t mean one is better, and the other is worse. But I know I cannot always run away from that difference. This difference constitutes my identity, is an inherent part of it, which I have to understand to can go on; perhaps I am that difference. When I hear that sentence, sometimes I am ashamed of my own tear — a tear, which was not my choice, something I was thrown into. But this white monoethnic poleness is for me like too tight outfit, in which I look foolish, and I cannot breathe in it. I have to make my own — I know that for sure — but to accomplish that I need the help of my fellows.

I was always threatened by this confidence my friend had, unquestioned identity. Somewhere in the middle of the fourth season of Atypical, Casey, the main character’s sister, opens up in front of his classmate:

We went to this meeting, me and Izzie, with the GSA at school, and she just felt they got her. She found a community there immediately. And I feel like she knows herself better. And I’m… I don’t. I feel like I’m not supposed to not know. I’ve just done all this work on myself, in my head, trying to figure out what I want (…). But I just feel like that’s not enough. Like, I feel like I need to be, you know, I need to do more, and say more, and be more certain, but I just don’t know how I’m supposed to be loud, and bold, and political about something, if I don’t even know how to talk about it yet. I mean, is there something wrong with me because I don’t know exactly who I am?

This scene moved me, a lot — before I liked Casey, perhaps she was my favourite character, but only then I felt I identified myself with her, I am her. For a long time, I was like Casey. I was loud, and active, and political even, but at the same time I felt that was not enough, that something was missing. I still feel like this. And I still do not know who I am. Is there something wrong with me because of it?

It is a year after for the first time I heard Casey’s words. And I still have goose-flesh.

One of the hardest things I have been facing every day as Black is being Pole and European. I love Poland and I love Europe. My childhood is Wrocław’s street and Utrecht’s Plompetorengracht. My first books are Andersen’s Folktales and Bible for Children. But I cannot, I must not reject Africa; I love her also, but this love is different. And — to take care of my Europeanness — I have to understand my bond with Africa.

For many my fellow citizens, for The Big Other, I am polish-language, but still Nigga. For a long time, I couldn’t face it. My identity was not waiting for me, as for Poles, Germans, Spaniards, or Americans. I had to, I still have to create it from the beginning.

I am not Nigga — I am Black, I am Pole, I am African, I am European. And I know my struggle for identity just began.

Dealing with Childhood

or, Black Child in White Country II

After my essay Black Child in White Country was published in the Równość, a polish leftist magazine, in which I described time spent in primary and middle school, I did not have the same reaction as I published I, Stranger…. The topic wasn’t popular then, and it was Christmas Eve. I am not writing it to complain about something or feel sorry about myself. But I cannot absolutely emotionless ignore the fact that the essay written in anger was analysed by some people.

Childhood — this strange time of carefree, to which we’re going back in nostalgic rapture — is a bed of roses. What makes a different between the roses, is the length and sharpness of the thorns. I cannot say mine was extraordinarily hard, considering I am the nineties middle-class kid born in a big, European country. At the same time, it is not a joyful story — perhaps no one’s is. Mine, except the difficulties, with which most of us were facing, was encumbered by this strange standing, to which I devoted so many letters — the blackness of my skin. What is more, as I was not aware of it enough, I couldn’t join it with the harsh upbringing given me by the society.

It is, from what came A Black Child in a White Country — from an attempt to understand, how being Black has effect on my childhood. When I am reading this essay (even in so short retrospect used here), I have a feeling I wrote it for myself. I had to face with those things which — volens, nolens — formed me and are still living in me.

These tree events mentioned by me contain in themselves, I think, what I call growing up to blackness. How should it be understood? Well, in this book I am trying to answer this question more or less successfully. It is so hard because — as I am saying God knows which time — I did not find yet the language, in which I could describe this experience.

Meanwhile, I mean since Black Child… was published, I was hired in school (the same school, in which foolish classmate was shouting at me: “Nigga! Nigga!”, and psychologist considered it as trivial) and MP’s Office, I am working every day with children and non-white refugees, who are waiting for international protection in Poland. This double perspective, joining two such different jobs, enables me to see things that happened to me in a different light. Now I can see the aspects of my childhood, which I have never seen before.

Now I know the experience, which have told me I should not trust in real change in Polish school, was correct — still we have many (too many) things to do. I am also aware of the scream I have heard in Wrocław, scream of a guy in his twenties to ten years younger teenager — “Fuck off to Africa, you Nigga!” — is still there, it’s resonating in our society and there are people, who are hearing it so radically, that it flinches them from their bodies.

This whole thing makes me to state, that childhood is over and for that reason, I have to face it. Black Child… becomes a landmark going into maturity, this means: allows me to dissect pastoral, angelic age, as says somewhere Mickiewicz, although I wouldn’t call it like that. In other words: to run out from the cage, I had to climb the rock face, and the rock face was hurting me; those wounds were given from above, a strange, cruel necessity I had to bear (I still have to bear) to stand in the Sun of The Truth. My climbing is still on and my hands are still hurting because of touching the rock — willing to be free.

Yes, I needed to read again, Black Child…. I needed to read that short essay, even after a few months. And I know, definitely I know I will read it many times, perhaps for the rest of my life, to go on and on.

En avant.

✻

When was I in primary school (or maybe in middle school? — I’m not sure now), on winter and summer holidays I was sent — like many other kids — to play centre. Today I cannot say, if I was happy about it or contrary — I do not remember many. Only scraps of memories are not telling much about my attitude. Definitely, I had a hat with headphones inside, and I could imperceptibly cut myself off from the world around me. But I am not going to talk about it.

Once in summer play centre we went near Wrocław to learn, how to shoot with the bow and arrow. I really do not know, who was ingenious enough to teach that thing to primary school kids. Anyway, I was quite good at it, what was, obviously, noticed by one of my mates. “Of course — he said — there, in his neck of the woods, they taught him hunting and use the bow; otherwise he would not have anything to eat.” I have tried to ignore those comments although — I remember it very well — they were making me furious; that boy did not stop mocking me, as if he badly wanted me to explode. At the end — I suppose that his arsenal ran out — asked me with a foolish smile: “And you, do you live in a mud hut or luxuriously in a shelter?”

I don’t remember, exactly, what I have said to him — for sure my answer was stiff, maybe too much, and maybe I was even in trouble because of it.

But I also remember I was extremely hurt by his words; there were in my mind like a thorn for many weeks. It was not about — I don’t know — my hurt proud or something like that. I thought at this time, and I still do that the boy was not mocking only me: in fact, he was mocking at whole poor Africa, the Black Land, as we say in Polish, left without food, running water or “normal” houses, the continent worn out by colonizers and today is still destroying by neo-imperialist impulses of global superpowers. I thought about it, a lot, and I cried and could not understand how anyone can make malicious remarks about it.

Now — after almost a decade — I do understand it very well: when you reject the humanness of the Negro, his pain is purely theoretical; as for Descartes, animals were only nifty machines.

Animal howling because of pain for mental offspring of Descartes is only a badly oiled-up machine.

The African Negro starving for white European — if he is even noticed — is a proof of the superiority of civilized whites over Savage, never the accusation.

But he should be.

Are You an Enemy?

“Man is always sentenced to playing a role — he is either Countryman or Enemy” — says the nameless main character in the short story Stranger, and I cannot disagree with him, at least in part. Observing our societies, we see polarization is more and more strong, and the demand for enemies is bigger and bigger. Talking about discrimination, especially when one is beginning with the question of identity, you cannot run from the term “enemy.” It is appeared so that it’s one of the carbon stones of the huge — because global — edifice of inequality.

The foundation of hatred is obviously incomprehension. Although I am sceptical about the statement popular in some circles: “the enemy is somebody, whose story you didn’t hear.” Slavoj Žižek, Slovenian philosopher, answered to it by question: “Was Hitler our enemy because we did not hear his story?” Obviously not — Hitler was our enemy just because we did hear his story. I think this statement makes sense not when we are talking about individuals, but when we’re talking about social figure of the Other, this means: about some stereotypes about this or that group of people. I don’t mean only minorities; it is — as I think — universal and can be related to, for example, professions (judges, physicians, teachers…).

Incomprehension brings fear. It is not about simple feeling, but about something, which can be called as imbalance. The Other — standing with me face to face — makes me to deal with him, with the Truth about him; he appears as the claim — when I meet the Other I cannot longer pay tribute to the figure I created in my mind. In other words: meeting with the Other is ruining my image of the world and the ground is falling out from underneath your feet. So, I have to defend myself (at least I believe I do) and I try to find desperately in the Other proof of my image of them. If I do not find any proof — I am fabricating it, growing heated overprotection of the image I created.

Sometimes the process I have described may be in extreme form, for example in the United States in the era of Jim Crow, where the white majority almost every day stood face to face with the Other. As Baldwin says once: “They deceived themselves so long, that they don’t think I am human.” Yes — dehumanization is a consequence of the horror caused by ruining created image of the world.

But fear not necessarily has to lead directly to hate, similarly incomprehension has not to lead to fear. There are also intermediate stations, where someone’s leaving the train and enjoys that much they are staying there. I mean two mechanisms: rationalization and apathy. Both serve to save the figure of the Other, and in that sense they aren’t any differences between them and hatred. They are much easier than open hatred because they do not require doing anything; one can say rationalization and apathy are basically passive hatred.

Rationalization is perhaps the most primitive solution. It tells us the Other I am meeting bilk figure of the Other I have created, but it does not mean that figure is false. The Other I have met is singularity, a strange individual, who doesn’t fit to his group. I can accept he drifts away from my figure of the Other because in fact he is not the Other.

On the second hand, apathy is as — or maybe even more — dangerous as open hatred. It means cutting off the Other from my image of the world; the Other does not exist to me. I am aware of the stupidity of rationalization, on the second hand, I know open hatred is pointless — so I have to manage differently with my problem. I am modifying my image of the world — there is no more place for the Other. At the same time, this attitude does not seem to the Other a threat, and perhaps this is a tragedy of it. The Other does not recognize the exact intentions of those in apathy, which — as it was said — are not different from the intentions of those, whose are hating. Thereby, apathy becomes the biggest ally to open hatred.

I often repeat (as well in private conversations as public speeches) I have never in my life met a person, which related to me with hatred because of my skin colour, or those I’ve met were excellent at hiding it. But most of the people — perhaps even all people are — dodging in these two ways: rationalization and apathy. Almost no one wants to begin a journey, a real journey; better to stay at home, on a couch, lying down and stick to established convictions.

I have said about hatred, but — as I said before — I cannot do it properly, ignoring passive hatred, focusing only on active, open hatred, about which — I’m afraid — I won’t say anything new.

Perhaps open hatred is for those, whose have never really stood face to face with the Other, or those, to whose this meeting was so traumatic they have to as soon as possible forget it, treat as not existing. Freudian psychoanalysis and modern psychology give us a full spectrum of defence mechanism, which are used to internal conflict. One of the most known is repression — who knows, if open racist, who met Black, do not oust memories about it?

But in fact, open hatred exists and runs rampant in public space. This is a poison destroying slowly our society, madness pushing us slowly to chasm. “See, madness, as you know, is like gravity — says Joker in one of the ends scenes of The Dark Knight. — All it takes is a little push.” Through the ages, we were watching this “little push,” but perhaps we have never drawn conclusions.

There are days — I should say: every day, the Other asks themselves the question: “am I an enemy?” The answer — so far — is positive. The Other lives with crushing they are hated by their brothers, which have never seen them really, have never met them, have never really discerned them. And — what is more — they cannot do anything about it. That is precisely the tragedy of their position.

The Polish Holidays

2014, perhaps 2015. I don’t like when it’s cold. The wind blows strongly, so I turn up the collar on my winter coat. I am rushing, and late as usual. There are people around me, but I don’t note them until someone pokes me. I am a little surprised, but I think it was not on purpose. Then I hear laughter, but I cannot even imagine it’s about me. When I am on the bridge, I hear: “Nigga!” “Okay, I think, it’s probably to me,” but I go forward, like nothing happened. I am near my middle school and somebody spits at my feet. I start to shiver, I start to fear. I am speeding up. Someone is shouting behind me: “It was a mistake, Nigga!” I just snapped, I am aghast, I start to run, I want to run away from those people, I want to go home. “I will never go out on Independence Day,” I am promising to myself. I still keep the word.

2017. It’s a warm day. I am with my friend on a tram. Before Dominikański Square, we suddenly stop and do not move for a long time. I am curious, what is going on, so I try sight. And unfortunately, I do. My heart is beating faster, I am starting to sweat; I am damnably afraid. I forgot the day, I forgot the hour. And it’s the anniversary of the Warsaw uprising. In the middle of Dominikański Square, I see a crowd with flags — if I would see only polish flags, I’d be glad that many people remember about this important day. But there are not only polish flags — I see Celtic crosses and other signs of white pride. Next to us are sitting two elderly ladies. One is telling another: “See? Nationalists rampage again.” Going home, I pass men in T-shirts with inscriptions: “Death to Poland’s enemies” and so on. I feel their eyes on me, I hear them talking to each other: “See that Nigga? What is he doing here?” I try to look at the ground, I want to fall into the ground, and wait for the next day, James Baldwin’s birthday, day, when I can go home safer. When I am at home, I carefully close the door, and go to my room, and I start to read. At this moment, reading, I feel safe.

2021. I am going to my uncle and aunt for dinner. They live close enough to go by foot, it’s healthier and more ecological. But I consider it damnably foolish; anyway, I made a promise to myself six or seven years ago, so I will keep my word. “I should order Uber,” I say to myself, and actually do it. In a few minutes, I am sitting in a white Toyota Corolla, passing Zwierzyniecki Bridge, observing people and I envy then a little. I cannot do that. I wonder: “How many of them believe Black is terrorist and criminal? Could I be a friend of them, or perhaps they would be distrustful?” When I am at the location, I thank the driver, get off and smoke. Three days before my essay, I, The Stranger in My Own Country, was published, and some of my friends wrote to me, commenting or expressing their support. I am tired, I slept badly at night — my activist friends from Warsaw were arrested at midnight because of happening; so I have been spending the night mostly calling my friend, who was with them at the police station, waiting, what will happen. This was probably the first time I was impatiently waiting for news about arrested. Never my friend was arrested because of activism (or, what is also possible, I just didn’t know). Anyway, I knock, aunt is welcoming me at the doorstep, and uncle regales me with cold beer. The TV is turned on — we see pictures of the current Independence March with comments of politicians, political scientists, sociologists, and activists. I see Celtic crosses and banners announcing to everyone white pride. “Dinner is ready,” aunt says, and we sit at the table. They ask me about studying, we talk briefly about politics, but uncle brings liquor and says: “Let’s have a drink!” Hours go by, dessert, coffee, and, of course, smoking. In the evening, I go back to my flat, also by Uber, and I read comments in different newspapers. Publicists make a point, march was peaceful. Last year, demonstrators ignited one flat, there was famous battle of Empik… I read this, and I wonder: where are we as a country, as a nation, if satisfactory to us is the fact nothing was ignited and demonstrators were not fighting with police?

This joy of some sort covered terrifying events in Kalisz, which is probably a provincial town looking from the perspective of Warsaw, the biggest city in Poland; not worth attention. But in this very place, demonstrators burned Statue of Kalisz, known also as the General Charter of Jewish Liberties. In a symbolic sense, they refuse to acknowledge Jewish rights. Grzegorz Ryś, archbishop of Łódź, called it a few days later, “pure devilry.” I cannot describe it — thinking about that is terrifying enough.

When I hear march was “peaceful” I wonder: is racism ever peaceful? In Poland two teenagers with joints are arrested, but this — allegedly — minority shouting the name of a terroristic organisation responsible for the death of hundreds of thousand Black Americans, the name I cannot calmly even say?

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Bezpłatny fragment - Notes of a Polish Negro

From Home, In Which Nobody Knows My Name

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