Did you study?

Are there reoccurring events in your childhood that you hated doing, but, now, as an adult, you are glad you did? But, if asked today to relive them, you’d rather chop off a limb? No? Well, screw you. But if you answered yes, then read on.

My siblings and I always dreaded THAT call. Twice a year, we prayed that the phone wouldn’t ring, but like many of my other prays these too went unanswered. You see, being a newly immigrated Hungarian, whose parents were relatively active in the Parish’s non-religious activities, qualified me to partake in various activities I voluntarily wouldn't have chosen. Two of the most feared events took place in March and October. The activity of which I write is reciting poems written during two tumultuous times in Hungarian history, or poems written later to commemorate those same events, specifically the 1848 and 1956 revolutions.

It is the latter’s happening that Hungarians are remembering this week – it’s 50th anniversary. But before there was a 50th, there was a 37th, 38th, 39th, and, well, you get the point. My siblings and I were there “celebrate” them all.

You see, Hungarians are big about reciting poetry. And the fact that Hungary’s most celebrated poets lived, participated, and wrote during some climatic, history-altering events only reinforces and therefore legitimizes the requirement that Hungarians living across the Atlantic (me!) be required to do the same.

According to my dad, who attended Hungarian schools in Slovakia, he, as child, was made to regularly recite poetry for class. As in homework, like for a grade. Ouch! But although he tells of hating to do it, its rather interesting how his hatred of something in his own childhood didn’t prevent him from making his own kids relive his misery. I guess another reason to not have kids.

So, twice a year my siblings and I would memorize a popular poem – often one about death, nationality, and Hungarian pride – and stand in front of a room full of Hungarians and nervously recite the poem. Lucky for me (and my sister), I was pretty young, so she and I were allowed to recite the poem together, as in she would do a stanza then I would do one, then she, then me, and so on. Then we would bow in unison. We had it perfected. My bother, on the other hand, who is 5.5 years older than me, was not so fortunate. He was required to recite the poem by himself. (Though, because he didn’t give a shit about this stuff, he half-assed the memorizing aspect of poetry recital and always took a copy of the poem with him on stage, which was frowned upon by those hardcore dorks.)

Oh, have I mentioned that in addition to the applause of the audience (suck it), the reward for our efforts was to receive a free lunch or dinner provided by the Hungarian Parish? It’s no wonder my parents liked us participating in the programs – they didn’t have to pay for 3 kids’ food. Cheapasses!

So, looking back to that part of life, I am “somewhat glad” I was made to partake in what many Hungarians go through during their childhoods. But like I said above, I would rather chop off my arm before I even think about getting up on stage again.