cutting up our moral calling card

My childhood memories are dotted with golden-hued afternoons and evenings spent at my grandfather’s house. It was an imposing brick structure built in the 1700s, complete with creaky floorboards and a terrifying basement. My grandfather, who had arrived in the United States in 1952, having been deported from Poland to a Soviet work camp in 1940 and spending the intervening twelve years as a displaced person, bought the place after starting a successful business and living a version of the American Dream. But even with that very American origin story, my memories of his house are very Polish. As I kid, I would sing the “goose girl” song in Polish to party guests. My cousin and I were sure that

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