Come December, festive lights, music and adverts make us all suitably emotional about Christmas before the actual day, when the reality often involves getting annoyed with everyone after just an hour in the same room. This year there is an unexpected hit making millions of people teary: a commercial about – wait for it – the experience of migration.
The three-minute-long film, entitled Angielski, was made for Allegro, an online auction website in Poland, and tells the story of an elderly Polish man named Robert who is beginning to learn English. The camera accompanies him taking his first steps, trying to painfully learn the basics – “I am; you are; he/she is” – and peppering his house with Post-it notes to expand vocabulary beyond the rather unparliamentary phrases he learned from a TV action movie.
The unexpected plot twist comes when we finally learn the reason behind his determination to learn English. Spoiler alert: in the final scene, he flies off to Britain to spend Christmas with his son’s family, where in a truly tear-inducing moment he meets his granddaughter for the first time, telling her: “Hi. I am your grandpa.” By this point, we – the viewers – are all in tears, sobbing quietly, and cursing the scriptwriter for taking us on this unexpected emotional rollercoaster ride.
However, there is yet another plot twist: unlike the sweetest, fictional stories of animals indulging themselves in Christmas trampoline jumping, or cartoon characters cloning themselves to deal with festive preparations, Robert’s story reflects the real experience of many migrant families living in Britain.
In the migrant community I know best, it is estimated that every year about 20,000 children are born in the UK to Polish mothers, often with partners of other nationalities or ethnicities. Since they enter the world here, for many Britain will forever be their home.
Polish parents usually go to considerable effort to introduce offspring to their heritage, so that they identify not only as British but British-Polish – or Polish-British. It is common for children to be sent to Polish Saturday schools, on top of their Monday-to-Friday compulsory education, to develop a sense of belonging to their second homeland overseas. But visit one of the more than 160 Polish Saturday schools and you will see that when the pupils talk among themselves, between classes, they do not necessarily use Polish but often perfect English, with no trace of a foreign accent.
Their grandparents usually live overseas and get to see their family on the rare occasions when they pop over for a couple of days, be it a short holiday trip or a Christmas visit. Other than that, they rely on phone calls or Skype, trying to overcome the language barriers to express their love. Often, just like Robert, they decide to learn English to make it a real two-way effort.
What we are seldom reminded of is that migration is a story of separation and personal sacrifices. When you miss important moments in the lives of other members of your family, or your contact with friends weakens, you see the hidden cost of migration. No higher salary or standard of living can compensate.
By saying that, I am not asking for pity – in the end, migrants themselves make this decision – but for an understanding of the lengths that people go to in order to assimilate into British culture, and of their long-lasting attachment to their other home. The latter does not in any way weaken their relationship with Britain.
This Christmas I will go home to Poland, but pack in my luggage some typically British items: crackers, mince pies, a jar of cranberry sauce, and mincemeat to use as a filling for what would otherwise be a traditional Polish cake. I want to have this bit of Britain with me on Christmas Day.
If you joined me on my trip to the airport in the runup to Christmas, you would find more stories like Robert’s, showing migrants simply as humans and people with emotions. With a bit of luck you might even hear, over the carols, a simple utterance: “Hi. I am your grandpa.”