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ANČIĆ
by Stella Ancich

A - Ančić, the last name I was never given until it was watered down by those before me. When

my great-great-grandparents came to America, they were asked for their last names and instead of caring about the spelling, it was misspelled. Stings of embarrassment that nobody would know how to spell their names in this new home. A slight error maybe, but all the same effects. At that moment we were no longer connected to our family back in Croatia. The different spellings would legally classify us differently, our connections severed from who we once were so close to. I will always be an Ancich, but never an Ančić.

N - Nuance, dancing around the topic of talking about my grandfather’s family. The empathy I

inherited from my mother doesn’t help me; I look for every little shift in body language and the air in the room. My grandfather’s family is a topic that leads to good conversations, and bad memories. His father died before I was born, and his mother died when I was about three. They are more conversation topics than relatives to me. I know them the same way I know characters in a book, through stories and words. Hearing stories of my great-grandfather’s bad Croatian opposing my great-grandmother’s textbook proper Croatian. The stories of places I’d never been, and my grandfather has always said he wants to take us; his plans always fall through even with thorough planning. Sometimes I wonder if he’s avoiding it. I’ll never truly know my great-grandparents, or why my grandfather is one of the most unpatriotic and proud Croatians I know. I want to know all the answers; this is true in everything I do. But there are answers nobody is meant to know or answers nobody can answer anymore. If I ever tried to ask my grandfather about his past I doubt he’d remember it properly, or even have the energy to hold that type of conversation. So I’m left to piece together the bits I can get from random conversations and all the shifts of body language and tone when the topic is brought up.

C - Children, none of mine will carry my last name. When brought up to my family, most of them

disagree when I say I would like to keep my last name when I am married. “That’s not normal”, “Your kids will have such long last names if you combine them”, or “Nobody wants a last name people struggle to pronounce” are all responses I’ve heard. Until my great-grandparents died, my heritage was almost treated like taboo. Nobody wanted to talk about being Croatian as if it was embarrassing. My grandfather was taught no more Croatian than the swears of his father and uncles as they drank. A built-up hatred for the language that took years to tear down, and all that’s left for me to hold is a last name I’m not allowed to keep.

I - Ioche, a word coined by author and poet John Koenig, meaning “The anxiety of being an

individual; the realization that you've never felt comfortable being you—leaving you to question if you'll ever look in the mirror and feel comfortable with the person staring back at you—questioning every decision, or feeling that you've had about yourself.”. This word reminds me of my ancestors, those who immigrated here and those who remained in Croatia, those who came generations before them; forced to tattoo themselves to keep each other together. The human experience is so complex yet common, everyone experiences similar things and the differences are how we react and how our environment shapes us. Being human is often one of the only things that keeps me tied to my ancestors, and that’s a great comfort.

C - Catholicism, the religion buried so deep into our culture that it  was one of the few things kept.

Had I been born in Croatia two centuries earlier I would have been one of the many young women that were tattooed with symbols of protection and identification of my people. It was a tradition created to not lose our people to the Turkish Muslims that invaded Croatia for years to come. But I was not born in Croatia two centuries ago. I was born in Salem, Oregon, in 2006. I was never Catholic, but my father grew up in the Catholic church, raised in a private school taught by strict nuns nobody liked. Eventually, the church became a holiday activity for his family and he attended a public school. Soon he grew bored of the incomprehensible hymns and uncomfortable pews, and my father left the church to find new faith with my mother. 

H - Home is something everyone in their lives hopes to find. Many search for it in their friends and

family, something they created and pulled together. Others look towards their culture and heritage, finding a home in what has been a part of their family’s lives for millennia. I haven’t decided where I truly want to look, but I’m getting to that age. Exploring new things, discovering myself and who I want to be in my life, is what I’m supposed to be doing. It's an overbearing weight, but all those who have come before me managed to do it. They did it and now I’m here because of their perseverance. If they can do it, why can’t I? If they can carry on our name, why can’t I? 

Author's Note: I’m just a senior at Decatur :)

Author Bio: I’m just a senior at Decatur :)

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