When I was little, it wasn’t uncommon to have a dinner featuring foods from over 15 different countries– more, if you count dips and sauces.
I was raised to put fish sauce on my eggs, soy sauce in my Ramen, truffles in my pasta, and curry on my tuna. My hot cocoa came from Mexico and was served alongside my mom’s Indian tea and my father’s Turkish coffee.
It wasn’t just food that was multicultural. We were, too.
My dad is Indian, my mom is Mexican, and their friends are from, quite literally, all over the world. In any picture from my childhood, you’ll see a diverse variety of clothing items; parkas and ponchos, turbans and ties, scarves and sashes, seed beads and sequins alike. The differences were endless.
A dear friend of mine once, while looking through old photo albums, asked if my first birthday party was a costume party. It took me a few minutes to realize what she meant, because I didn’t see any “costumes” in the photo.
My grandma wore a sari because, as she once confessed, she hadn’t worn anything else in decades and didn’t want to learn how to use buttons.
My grandpa wore a bolo, cowboy boots, and a poncho, because that’s what he thought dressing up meant.
My uncle wore a sash because it indicated his rank, and my aunt wore a scarf because she said no real lady was ever without one. My great uncle wears a kilt because, as his wife says, he’s “traditional”– and my other great uncle, from another side of the world, wears a large wrapped cloth for the same reason but for a different tradition.
Of course, none of those people are really my uncles or aunts. It’s a courtesy title for someone who is basically family.
That’s as hard to explain as the clothes. Everyone asks if I was adopted when they see me hug someone with a different accent, or more narrow eyes, or lighter or darker skin. It always takes me a moment to answer because I have to solve the riddle of what inspired the question.
These people raised me. I speak like them and act like them, and I almost always forget that I look different.
Over the years, I’ve run into quite a few people who were raised like myself. We’re in a sort of excessively-cultured club. I’ve noticed that, for better or worse, we all have similar habits (okay– quirks) developed from years of being highly culturalized.
Here are seven of the most noticeable:
1. I will eat whatever you put in front of me, in whatever method you choose.
It’s a running joke that you could serve a pile of mud to the kids in my family. If you told us that it was traditionally eaten by wiping it on our arms and licking it off, we’d start immediately and be covered in mud before you could say it was a joke.
Mmm, dinner.
2. I sometimes forget how to say something in English, even though it’s my native language.
Part of being around so many cultures is picking and choosing foreign words that say it better, or in a more fun way.
Today, I spent a good 15 minutes trying to explain what “Esprit de l’escalier” means. It literally translates to “staircase wit” I think, and it refers to that comeback that pops into your mind after you leave a conversation.
Last week, I blanked on how to say “peanuts” in English because “cacahuates” is just more entertaining to say. It’s almost entirely replaced the English version of the word in my vocabulary. I had to resort to describing them, which was unsuccessful but at least comical.
Ca. Ca. Wah. Tehs. You know. Elephants snort them, and they sometimes wear top hats, and you snap them open like dry clams.
3. I’m obsessed over the top of my head and the bottom of my feet.
All cultures have rules about these headwear and footwear. I find myself asking, when I am invited to a special event,if there’s any special requirements for my feet or head. It’s a weird question, but I’ve been a part of enough conversations where someone was criticized for shoe or hat choice, that I’ve made it a habit to ask.
4. I have infinite solutions.
They don’t have Benadryl or Windex in a lot of places, and they manage fine. When you grow up with such solutions, you develop a wider understanding of purpose. So few things have single purposes– most can be used for a variety of things.
5. I have a weird collection of superstitions that I don’t believe, but take very seriously.
I don’t leave the broom standing up at night. I don’t walk over someone’s outstretched legs or take someone’s picture without asking. I don’t do shadow puppets or let kids play with keys, and, before you ask, I don’t know why.
These are habits, built from overnight stays in homes were those things were considered bad luck. It seems disrespectful to change now, and it doesn’t hurt anything to keep the traditions in place.
So I do.
6. I use colloquialisms and regional names, even if I don’t really have a right to.
I never know when I’m using a word that only locals to an area would use. Just as an example, it’s easy to start saying “the States” or “State side” instead of “the United States of America”, but it makes people think you aren’t from here.
7. I’m always shocked.
Because I’ve always access to the authentic versions of things, I can be surprised by imitations or frustrated by limitations.
I recently was asked to buy boots in Southern California, but the part of me that will always be Texan just couldn’t buy poorly-assembled fake-leather boot-shaped things. When I couldn’t find real boots, I was surprised. When someone tells me there is only one type of mango, or when movie stores don’t carry internationally acclaimed foreign flicks– I’m stymied.
I try to remind myself that variety and authenticity would add to the price significantly and that, sometimes, it just isn’t accessible, but I always end up looking shocked.
Slow down, you’re talking nonsense! What do you mean you’ve never eaten more than one type of mango?
I make the same facial expression when I find that someone was raised with a primarily single culture. It fascinates me because I’m not even quite sure I understand how it would work. Of the cultures I was raised with, I don’t know where one starts and another begins, so I can hardly imagine living within boundaries that I can’t even see.
Here in the melting pot, everything is mushed together. It’s colorful, and sometimes smells weird, but it’s pretty cozy.
What’s it like where you’re from?
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This post is long because I started with the title, which is unusual for me. Instead of combining the list into 3 or 4 items, I built all 7 list items out. The title is a play on the book “The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People”, and all in all, I’d say it wasn’t witty enough to be used as a starting point, but I committed early on.
Do you start your posts with titles or with content?
Did you grow up in a melting pot, too?
