My Father’s Tongue

My Father’s Tongue

My name is Wladyslaw Burzynski.
My customers call me, George. I am de’ chef
from Poland. I came to dis’ coun-try terty’ years ago.
I wanted to believe dat’ what the Communists told me
about America was wrong. I worked tree jobs:
stretching in a tannery, cleaning a government
building, cleaning another building. I didn’t take lunch
so I could go to de’ next job, you know.
I open de’ restaurant on my honeymoon wit’
my modder’ and my wife. I working dis’ job
seventy hours, uhh, per de’ week since Octohhhber’
nine-teen-eighty-tree.’

I have nuh-ting’
except for de’ debbbt’
and two children
because I move
de’ restaurant to new
location to de’ bigger place
and safer neighborhood
becoz’ my clients were afraid
to come to me. My customers
are wonderful, but many of dem’
are wit’ de’ angels and maybe some
wit’ de’ devil, too. Simetimes’
I am tinking’ dat’ I only make
de’ money on der’ funeral
reception now. But dat’s’ okay.
Dat’s’ de’ life. My dream is oh-
ver. I see de’ tunnel
with lights coming.
De’ middle people
are my customers.
Dey’ haff’ trouble.
I don’t know if
middle class survive.
You step in de’ shit
you have to git’ out
yourself. I understand
why I am working all my life
for de’ shit and nuh-ting.’

I pay de’ tax for me and I pay de’ tax for G-E.

I have nuh-ting’
except two children
who love me.

http://peterburzynski.blogspot.com/2011/10/my-fathers-tongue.html

This poem describes what many fathers and mothers are feeling. This young man does a perfect job describing the great sacrifice that the working class people have already made...