When I was in grammar school (we called it that because we learned grammar in every year of school back then), we never had to go to school on February 22. We all knew it was George Washington’s birthday. We all celebrated it. He was the first elected president of an amazing democratic experiment; it was worth celebrating.

And we never went to school on February 16, because it was Abraham Lincoln’s birthday. Everyone knew this.

Then, someone had the bright idea to no longer celebrate their birthdays. Instead we’d celebrate on some nebulous, vague date that would give people a long, work-free weekend in a dreary month. Unlike in Sacramento, where February is beautiful, blossoming springtime, it’s the most awful, wintry month in temperate climates like the northeast. So I guess that change sounded like a good idea at the time.

The results, of course, have been predictable: No one knows the birth dates of our most famous presidents anymore. 

Today I saw a clip online about how confused people are across the country — some states call it President’s Day (celebrating only one unnamed president), some Presidents’ Day (more than one), some celebrate it in February, some in December, some not at all, etc etc…. No one knows anymore why it’s a holiday, or when. All because a long weekend sounded like a good idea.

I believe in honoring a person, especially a revered, famous person, on the day they were born. No other day or date has that meaning for the person. 

A long weekend is nice, too. But let’s not pretend it’s in honor of someone who was born weeks before, or later. It’s a simple sign of selfishness. We don’t want to have to get up for work on Monday. Let’s acknowledge that for what it is. 

If I ever become president, and the country decides to honor me, I hope they do it on my birthday. And don’t forget to mention my name.

For more than a quarter of a century, I spoke French almost exclusively — all day long with all my students at the college (I taught by immersion & used only French), then back home with my kids, with whom I’d never used English. With no time to go out and be with friends (being a mostly-single parent, professor, business owner, etc), my life happened only in French, all day, every day. For years.

And then my kids grew up and moved away, and I retired. Suddenly, the few interactions I had each day — the handyman, the bagger at the supermarket, the clerk in the Post Office — were in English. 

And now there’s Covid, and I have practically no interactions at all. In any language.

Culture shock. Like when you move to another country and everything’s suddenly different — including how you express yourself. It just doesn’t feel right anymore. 

Covid has certainly produced its own type of culture shock. Habits that have always been firmly, societally ingrained have become foreign. It no longer feels right to shake someone’s hand. To hug anyone. To speak face to face, unmasked — especially in English. 

They say that retirement can be one of the biggest stressors in an adult’s life. One of the biggest changes. Maybe. I’m sure that a pandemic ranks right up there, too — along with changing which language you use with your kids. Your friends. Your students. 

Maybe someday they’ll learn that, aside from the well-documented benefits to the brain, being multi-lingual makes you more able to handle the unknowns of a pandemic with aplomb. I hope so. That would be a nice gift to have given my kids. 

I never knew my grandparents could speak English. They never did, when the families got together. Nor did I ever know a white-haired person who spoke English without a thick foreign accent. In New York City after World War II, they were all from ‘the old country’.

But after the interminable War ended, no one in the US wanted to speak — or wanted their kids to speak — anything but English, the language of victory, of peace. Of success. So I could never talk with any of my grandparents, other than to say (in Polish) “Please pass the butter” or “It’s cold outside!”

To me as a kid, ‘Grandmother’ or ‘Grandfather’ were just words. Those old people didn’t talk to me, and they lived far away — no Interstates back then, so going from NYC to eastern Pennsylvania was a massive, difficult trip. Their vague, distant figures meant nothing real to me. They were just the dark-clad old people who populated the background of our family get-togethers. They had special names — Babci and Dziadziu in Polish — but other than that, were not special to me in any way.

Now, I’m about to become a Babci. 

How does one learn any new skill? Normally, by repetition. Practice. Hours spent on the piano bench or at the basketball court. So I imagine most people learn to be grandparents by interacting with their own grandparents for many years. But I couldn’t interact with mine. The language barrier was complete. 

So a brand-new learning experience awaits! On-the-job training, as it were. One involving cuddling, and cooing, and smiling (and  crying, I’m sure), and lots of learning. And more importantly, lots of making up for lost opportunities. 

I can’t wait!