Kościuszko was never loud, never gilded.
An engineer, he built freedom stone by stone, trench by trench,
more mason than general, more architect than conqueror.
He fought for America, then bled for Poland,
but never belonged fully to either.
He carried liberty in his pocket like a compass,
offering it to all who hungered,
even those enslaved, even those history ignored.
Poland remembers him as a failed uprising,
America as a foreign helper.
But the truth is larger —
he was a bridge,
a man between worlds,
a man who knew that margins are where the real battles live.
I grew up in Florida,
the peninsula that America laughs at,
a child ostracized but indispensable.
Now I walk toward Poland,
the Slavic child the EU scolds,
but cannot do without.
In both places,
I feel the echo of Kościuszko:
understated, underestimated,
and yet unyielding.
He is not my idol —
idols are for worship.
He is my companion,
a reminder that freedom is rarely polished,
never granted from the center,
always carved from the edges,
by those who refuse to be dismissed.