As one grows older, the tendency is to reflect on one's life and to see what paths brought you to your current destination. Recently I have been pondering why my thought process had veered so far from my family's destination.
I was born and raised on the far southeast side of Chicago, in a community aptly named South Chicago. Virtually everyone in our neighborhood was Polish and Roman Catholic. My family was the quintessential South Chicago family. Between my mother's side and my father's side, I had one older brother, fourteen aunts and uncles and twenty-seven cousins. Each one was 100 percent Polish. We were all devout Catholics who attended mass every Sunday, went to confession, received Holy Communion, and attended parochial school. But somewhere along the way, I took a fork in the road that set me miles apart from the rest of my relatives.
I became an atheist. Despite my devout Catholic upbringing, I began to have doubts about Catholicism and religion in general around the time I graduated from high school. By the time I was twenty-one, my skepticism had transformed into full blown atheism. Why the change? Unlike many non-believers who were once deeply religious, there was no trajedy or trauma in my life that shook my faith. I attribute my change to the way my brain is wired. As far back as I can remember I have always observed the world through a cynical and skeptical lens. In more graphic terms, I have always had a sharply tuned bullshit detector.
While my adult years have been spent as somewhat of an outlier when compared to the rest of my large family, I have always remained on excellent terms with each and everyone of them. The difference has been in lifestyle. God and religion remain a strong focal point in their lives. In contrast, God and religion have as much relevancy to me as Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster.
There is a second divergent path I have taken away from my relatives. This one involves ethnicity.
As I previously stated, everyone on both sides of my family is 100 percent Polish. I grew up in a neighborhood that was overwhelmingly Polish. We lived in a two flat owned by my widowed paternal grandmother. She spoke very little English. My parents, my brother, all my aunts and uncles, and many of my cousins spoke Polish. They listened to Polish language radio stations, read Polish language newspapers, listened to Polish music. My brother even played in a polka band. It was to say the least, a rather insular world, like having a Polish village drop down in the middle of Chicago.
Once again my questioning mind was revving up. I remember being around six, or seven, or eight and wondering why everyone around me was speaking Polish, listening to Polish music, eating Polish food. After all, this was the United States of America, not Poland. It made no sense to me. It wasn't like I was ashamed or embarrassed by my ethnic heritage. It was the simple fact that I saw myself as an English speaking American. Why would I want to assume I lived in another culture and spoke another language? This foreign land ten thousand miles away hand nothing to do with me.
So the two staples in the lives of my relatives--religion and ethnicity--had zero influence on my life. I had no interest in being mired in ancient traditions, myths, legends and superstitions. It certainly is no crime to be religious or take great pride in your ethnic origins. But for me, all that matters is the here and now. Rather than tradition and myths, reason and logic are my priorities. Supernatural entities and long buried ancestors do not dictate who or what I am.
I have taken my own path and have never looked back.
