The cultural mixup of being American
At home, you often get asked “what” you are. For me, the answer was long but easy: one quarter German, one quarter Polish, one quarter Italian and one quarter Irish. I identify most with being German, since I studied the language (briefly), am closest with my German grandmother and I still have relatives (however distant) in the Black Forest.
Despite my European roots, being a third-generation American in Europe, I’ve learned, makes me one thing: American.
My German isn’t good enough to stand up in conversation. I couldn’t tell you an ounce of Polish history, except that my ancestor was supposedly the illegitimate son of the Polish king sent off to America. I can’t make pasta or tomato sauce or tiramisu. I don’t really like Guinness.
But my favorite dessert is my mom’s apple pie. I’m a proud sorority girl. Growing up, I played soccer, tennis and lacrosse. I went to high school football games every Friday night. I got my driver’s license the day I turned 16 and I went to Las Vegas for my 21st birthday.
When I told my grandma that I was moving to Europe, she sighed and asked me why I was going back to somewhere that my ancestors worked so hard to leave. I have no French ancestry, so I wasn’t searching for any connection, other than reviving my love for pain au chocolat.
It’s a tricky thing, coming from a cultural melting pot. All Americans all have immigrant ancestors, usually dating back to some other continent or a culture that we often recognize only through our last name. And even that often becomes Americanized, with an Anglo-friendly pronunciation, courtesy of Ellis Island.
We often identify with our multicultural mix more than we identify with being American. Because, really, what is America (or Canada, or Australia, or any other colonial melting pot) other than the cultures that make it up? But then again, all those cultures have willingly left their homelands to realize the American dream. Even though we (or someone in our family) chose America, we still attach a hypen and American after our country of origin: Italian-American, African-American, Mexican-American. I find that rather telling: we associate ourselves first with our roots, second with our choice.
We search for our roots instead of being content with our upbringings; we try to find our origins to explain ourselves. But when it comes down to it, being American is all I’ll ever be. Going back to where I’m from has only shown me that I’m only from one place: my home, the place I grew up, the culture that surrounded me for 21 years.
