“Who did you vote for?” I was at a friend’s grill-out in a suburb just outside Athens, Greece. This question came to me in August, 2006, months before the congressional elections that led to a wave of Democratic representatives taking over the House and Senate. To most Americans, this is a rather personal, if not rude question, but apparently I fielded it well. “Not George Bush,” I replied. In his machismo but charming Greek accent, my friend Adonis replied, “Good girl.”
This was a question I was frequently, and to me surprisingly, asked during my time in Greece when I interned for the Associated Press. This question also began what I consider part of a life quest I’ve only begun to pursue.
What defines America and its people? Politicians like George Bush? Big TVs and cars? Stylish metropolises such as New York and Los Angeles? Big people? Traveling overseas tends to make me more self-aware, as people inevitably ask, “where are you from?” At that moment, I give them the simple answer: “the U.S.” But it then forces me to think more deeply about what that means and how others perceive it.
When I think about the countries I’ve traveled to, I am humbled. Greece has an ancient history dating back thousands of years, and present day Greeks continue to brag about their still-standing ancient architecture and hold grudges over battles lost many generations ago. Italy has an incredibly rich history (i.e. the Roman Empire) and attracts international travelers with its huge, ornate churches, among other attractions. Present-day Peruvians are still influenced by the ancient Incan culture, an empire that spanned the better part of the western South American coast for many years.
So I am left with the question of how to define America. Our country is so young. While traveling outside of the U.S. has led me to a rough draft of a definition, I naturally look inward at my own family and its history. While it isn’t as rich as a whole nation’s history over thousands of years, it is nonetheless important and defining to me.
I’ve only heard the anecdotal, abridged version of my family’s history, so my knowledge of the real story is rather limited. My paternal grandmother’s ancestors came through Ellis Island during Ireland’s potato famine, and they eventually ended up in East Chicago. My mom still talks about a wedding she went to in the 1970s with those relatives. My dad tells me that the aftermath of that wedding included my mother eating cake she had stepped on and my dad brushing her teeth for her. Needless to say, the Irish Catholic side of the family lived up to its stereotypes and beyond.
My paternal grandfather’s family came from Germany, which to this day has influenced our family’s prudish but prudent spending habits. My maternal grandparents came from Wales and England (we think), and had a modest Pennsylvanian upbringing.
I know my family is only a small part of a microcosm that is American culture, but that nonetheless helps me begin to answer my question. In the end, though, I still feel empty and that I am missing a bigger part of The American definition. When I traveled to Peru this summer, I was with a group of teachers. I became close with three of those teachers, who were infinitely interesting people with unique stories and perspectives on America. Mel was born in England, spent her childhood in South Africa, came to America for college, and has lived in near the East Coast ever since. Diego was born and raised in Venezuela, then moved to the U.S. with his mother when he was 13 so that she could pursue a master’s degree. When asked about my own family history, I gave a quick version of it. I jokingly complained about its lack of flavor, but without a second thought, Diego just looked at me and said, a bit dully, “Congratulations, you are American.”
In Diego’s case, I think there are a lot of inequities that he has faced that I probably will never experience, which is sad. Diego and many other more immediate immigrants have a more authentic family history, and thus, a more cultivated perspective on American culture. Diego’s stories and others’ make my family history seem boring. And in a lot of ways, it is. I imagine a lot of other Anglo Americans share a similar family history (maybe minus the Chicago cake incident).
Traveling abroad can be a very uncomfortable experience. Not in the terms of rustic lodging or lack of sanitary bathrooms, but in terms of finding and defining yourself with such conditions as your backdrop.
While I will continue to grapple with my question, I always fondly think of one friend’s answer to my question. I don’t consider it the complete or final answer to my question, but an interesting part of it.
My friend Katy, who I met in Costa Rica during a conservation project in 2008, and I were talking about American politics and Obama. While she was intrigued with the thought of a black American president and questioned whether we were “ready for it,” I said I thought we were ready, but that I hoped we could come together and end the polarization that George W. Bush had brought to our country. And then, a surprising answer from her: “One thing I wish Britain had that the U.S. has is a sense of unity. No matter what happens, Americans will come together for a cause and fight for it. They can depend on one another. We don’t have that (among the countries) in Britain.”
One beautiful theme we do have in the U.S. in unity. I guess we aren’t called the United States for nothing. For better or worse, we can, and often do, come together as a force, and a strong one at that. I can only hope that others around the world similarly define the U.S.
No comments:
Post a Comment