Karyn With a Whine

Face flushed, a stranger will excitedly point to whatever identification I present - be it driver’s license or blind carbon copied email - to my last name, the elephant in the room. On cue, I automatically spell my names - first and last - for virtual unknowns to not only save time, but also embarrassment for whichever poor soul thinks he/she (though is usually a he) can prononce Polish, also known as the most elusive Slavic language on the planet. The mastery of my own proported mother tongue is limited. Words like “milk” (mileko), “please” (prosze) and “dirty pig girl” (swinia) come naturally to me; other than that, I’m like kielbasa without the sauerkraut. 

Palms are raised by my hunky dory American interpreter to signal silence as my mouth begins to utter the first of two K’s.

“Let me take a stab at it,” they’ll say, a wicked grin encompassing their sly mouth, as if my last name were a juicy sirloin steak, “I took Spanish in sixth grade. Languages are my thing.”

I’ll shrug and give a small smile in return, prepared to enjoy the show (Coke and popcorn optional). What invariably happens next is a complete and utter butchering of any semblance of a surname, along with a large, gulfing sigh that traditionally accompanies a case of gastrointestinal upset.

“Po… Po… Posero9uasdfkausdro9awer-ski!”

(Always the ’ski,’ mind you. Damn you, Kelly Kapowski.)

I give a sympathetic shake of my head that no, that’s not right, usually met with an accusatory glance that I’m some sort of smart ass for possessing such carnal knowledge. At this point I feel tempted to share a pierogie recipe for the sake of appearing authentic, but I refrain. Mostly because I don’t have one.

“Pul-eh-vah-chek” I’ll say (or type, if the inquiry comes electronically), enunciating each syllable and vowel with the precision ofa linguistic goddess. “The W is pronounced as a V,” I explain to my mystified guest, watching their eyes slowly grow to mammoth proportions when the top row of my teeth touches my bottom lip. “V.” I start to explan the roles of the C and the Z, when –

“Well!” they chuckle, slapping one Joe Six Pack hand on their right kneecap, cutting me short to express their disinterest in Slavic dialect. “That. Is. A. DOOZY!”

It’s as if I’m not acutely aware that it’s easier to recite the alphabet backwards and miserably drunk than pronounce the conglomerate of consonants and vowels that is my last name while dead sober. No, I need convincing that it is really that tough, and do I have a cold beer, preferably Budweiser, to cool their panicked ego?