Over a few too many glasses of homemade horchata, my next door neighbor confessed to me how jealous he was of my culture. To be part Mexican, he concluded on a sugar-high, was to be part of a rich history.
Less than a year later, I spoke at an event that introduced me by saying how blessed I was to be part of a culture like India. To be part Indian, they said, put a bevy of traditions and stories in my mind and on my doorstep.
After I moved out of my house, I became part of more cultures.
Wrapped up in green latex and wearing a ring of legend, I clinked wine glasses with Yoda and toasted to the tight-knit culture of geekdom.
“Stronger than blood, shared culture is. The color of loyalty, green is.”
I moved from state to state, and shifted career goals, and changed colleges– and through it all, I ran into Americans who were appreciative or envious of my links to deep culture.
The funny thing is– they share a rich culture with me, too. Few people mention it, but they are linked to me through a culture as deep as geek is green.
They– we– are Americans.
I love the classic, creepy Santa holding a can of Coca-Cola. I love the very idea of old diners. I love platters of food that serve more than one person can eat. I like that we call them “Lumberjack Slams” and the “Rootie-Tootie-Fresh-N-Fruity”.
I like that we smile too much, and that we’re ridiculed for thinking everything is awesome.
I like baseball and how seriously we take it. I love how adding the word “American” to anything makes us like it more. I love our flag– bright and beautiful– and I love our country– united.
Sometimes I cry tears of happiness through our National Anthem.
I smile every time I hear the song, “You’re a Grand Ol’ Flag”, or see a classic license plate. I am charmed by the glamour of Old Hollywood and the eerie calmness of a Norman Rockwell painting.
My mom looked just like the teachers in those old paintings– prim and patient. My big brother, in the picture above, looks just like the kids in the Christmastime commercials.
(Except, of course, the fact that my family is brown.)
Still, we are American and we are very proud of that fact. America opened its arms to my parents, hugged them in close, and offered them a piece of Americana pie without any catch at all.
They didn’t have to give up their other cultures. They didn’t have to live generations of the culture before being allowed to own it. They didn’t have to offer their life, or give up their religions, or pick up a new religion, or think a certain way in order to be included. They didn’t have to prove that their kids could be American– we were just born into it.
They became Americans, so I could be an American– and I am very proud of that fact.
It’s not a popular culture at this moment in history, but no culture is popular every day.
The night after the horchata story, my mom’s car was spray-painted with a less than kind word for “Mexican”.
The week after my speaking engagement, the world was buzzing about some atrocity in India and how it was a “culture infected”.
5 minutes after my toast with Yoda, a car full of Canadians egged us for being “loser geeks”.*
None of those incidents affected my thoughts on how beautiful my cultures are, though. It simply doesn’t matter what other people think.
I’m an American and I am proud to be part of such a welcoming, prideful, colorful culture.
So if I happen to run into an American who wants to pretend that they don’t share this bond with me, I don’t take it like an egg to the face. I just remind myself that every culture has it’s moments and I focus on enjoying my own quiet slice of (sugar-free) apple pie.
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Have you done the weekly photo challenge yet? I’d love to see pictures of your cultures! Weekly Photo Challenge: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/04/26/photo-challenge-culture/
* I only called out the Canadian-ness of the egg-throwers because, for some reason when I re-tell that story, people assume I mean American kids– not Canadian adults. In this post, that seemed like it would be confusing, so I clarified. But I lived spitting distance from Canada for years and every Canadian I met face-to-face was absolutely, wonderfully brilliant. As I mentioned in the comments, it was a kind-hearted Canadian who fixed up my costume and made my whole day bright again.
