I always used to get jealous whenever somebody I knew had to speak to their parents in another language because I wanted so badly to have this “other” culture outside of being “just an American.” To this day I hold fiercely onto any fragments of my heritage, however small they may be. I will complain loudly about how much I hate pierogis and sauerkraut, traditional German food—even though we maybe have them only twice a year. I try to sing along with the Polish side on my family every time they sing “Happy Birthday” in Polish, but I hardly know the words. I pretend like I feel at home in Frankenmuth, Michigan, a somewhat campy German town we visit every year or so; I will tell you backwards and forwards the story of my dad’s relatives getting locked in a barn by Nazis when they went back home to visit family, and I feel attached to that Little Mermaid statue in Copenhagen for no reason other than the fact that it’s Danish. (It is in Copenhagen, right? I’m not even sure...) But other than these little teensy examples, I don’t feel like I have much of a culture, and I’ve always regretted that.
This is about as close to my Danish roots as I get.
Most of my family came to America in the nineteen-teens (if that’s even an expression). My dad’s grandparents, who spoke only German, settled in Brooklyn with two of their children, and my grandfather came shortly afterward. I have always loved thinking about them living there and imagining my grandfather growing up in such an incredibly diverse environment. My dad doesn’t really say much about his family’s culture. His mother was one of thirteen so he has stories of enormous family get-togethers, certainly, but nothing much about culture. He’s said before that he can remember his grandfather sitting in his armchair and barking at him, half in German to give him his newspaper. He was mainly afraid of him, and he says he can never remember his dad speaking to either of his parents in German. It seems like, at that point, everybody was just hurriedly trying to become Americans and leave their former cultures in the dust of barbeques, baseball and the Fourth of July. I know even less about my mother’s family’s immigration story. All I hear about is that her big Polish-Catholic family seemed to have all appeared out of thin air to settle into the same Dearborn, Michigan neighborhood. My grandmother spoke Polish fluently but never was able to teach it to my mom. My mom said that she was afraid of being called a “dirty Polack” by some of her classmates and tended to pretend that she wasn’t Polish at all. The main theme, I suppose, of my family’s cultural history is “just forget about it.” I’ve always wished that that wasn’t the case.
This is probably what my grandfather's neighborhood looked like. I just wish I knew about his family's history during and before this time.
Reading through the three stories of children of immigrant parents, I realized just how much different cultures can affect the American experience. All three people expressed a sentiment that I didn’t agree with entirely, or perhaps didn’t understand well at all: the idea that they didn’t fit in anywhere, that like Miguel Ramirez said, “I will always be an outsider.” (Anthology, 843) What about the descriptions of their vibrant and strong families? Didn’t they exist completely within them, maybe just being a little different as American citizens? Why would Norma Andrade’s relationship change with her family about which she says, “No space, however small could confine the life and energy of mi familia” (Anthology, 846) just because she is an American citizen? It seemed like the more each of these authors attempted to assimilate themselves into either their family’s and their country’s culture, the more different they felt. I respect that, and I can understand it to a certain extent, but it still confuses me. When Alessandro Melendez, explores the Latino community and black fraternity of Dartmouth he writes, “my worst fear came true: I was not part of any [...] group and never will be.” (Anthology, 858) But what about the community of his family, of the friendship between he and Ben or the strong bond he had with his brother? This may come across as insensitive when I don’t mean it, and I’m having a difficult time wording myself, but I don’t see the benefit in expressing these feelings so futilely and without any apparent pride in their unique position. I think these people could have also lovingly embraced the fact that they are different, fortunate enough to have parents with such a rich culture who left it behind to better themselves and their children, and are able to incorporate the cultures of so many into their lives. As far as experiencing diversity in college, I have loved getting the opportunity to meet people of such different backgrounds, cultures, and lifestyles.
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