The love stories of Alexandria, VA. That's how this was supposed to go. As I was sitting in my hotel room last weekend in Pittsburgh, PA, I knew the next "spring into action" moment was going to take place. I sent my husband a text saying I called a hostel in Poland at the Ukraine border and he knew that meant - here we go again. More money going out to people we don't know and countless hours of my time spent stressing over how many more people could use me fighting for them. As with the pandemic, nothing was going to stop me from jumping in.
This time, however, it's different. These are my people. My Slavic people. How do I watch my brothers and sisters being slaughtered on television without having every breath of my being squeezed out of me in anguish? It has to stop. I'm going to make it stop. I'm going to scream from my Twitter account @ing every person who might be able to make a difference.
Growing up in a household where you learn Polish in your daily lessons while you're picking up crocheting as a 5-year-old, you become proud to be Polish. You become proud to be Slavic. My Great Aunt Kay always had a very straightforward way of saying things - "we take care of our own."
Well, Kay, it's my turn to fight. To take care of our people. You taught me well and I will make you proud. I have to. There is no other option.
Mary K Leonard