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It's funny: I decided to register for a Latino studies class to fulfill the race and ethnicity requirement, but it turned out to be really valuable. A lot of the things we learned in the beginning of the class were completely shocking to me because American history books leave out so many crucial events and ideas, but now I'm used to just believing that many of the things that I learned about American history in my pre-college days were simply hooey. It also makes me think of fairly abstract things that I've never considered before. I always enjoy this type of thought even if it becomes frustrating sometimes.
The readings for class centered on Latino sexuality this week. There was one reading in particular that really got me thinking: "Playing with Fire." It's an analysis of two interviews that Patricia Zavella conducted about Latinas in America to prove that the American stereotype of Latinas is largely incorrect. According to Zavella, Americans generally consider Latinas to be virginal, pure women--which makes sense because of our knowledge of their strong cultures that usually incorporate a commitment to Christian ideals. Zavella argued that this is incorrect; many Latinas in America, although at least somewhat religious, have sex before marriage.
The case that interested me most was that of a girl named Mirella, a Chicana who was brought up according to the ideals of Mexican culture. She knew that she was supposed to think of sex as a "dirty" thing, but as she got older, she realized that she didn't feel this way. She dated two white men before meeting Ray, who was Chicano. She described all three of these relationships pretty thoroughly. Basically, her first two relationships operated with little trust and even less acceptance from the guys' family members, whereas her relationship with Ray proved to be different:
"Now that I've dated Ray, I realize that they can understand your culture. With Ray, I don't have to teach him anything, and he knows what I'm saying when I talk to my mom in Spanish. And he's got this little saying, he calls me "mija" (my little daughter), which I think is the cutest thing. It gives me the neatest feeling. And I could see my mom's face light up, the first time I took him to a quinceañera. Ray can dance and everything. I'm happy when I go out with him."
I think it's really great that people who identify with any culture can find comfort in other people who identify with the same culture, people who understand customs and reasoning for things that perhaps can't otherwise be described. But it really made me question my nationality and my culture.
I could say that I'm Russian, Polish, Sicilian, and Italian, but what does that mean? I'm so far removed from all of these cultures that I might as well just pretend that they're not a part of me. Sure, I enjoy Italian and Jewish food, but does that mean that I'm Italian and Jewish? I like Chinese food too, for the record.
I think the fact of the matter is that, after a certain amount of time, after a certain amount of racial mixing, all we can really call ourselves is American. This is where I was born. This is where my mother, my father, and all of my grandparents were born. The only things that have been successfully passed down from generation to generation are spaghetti and matzo balls. I am thankful for this fact, but it does not mean that I associate closely with either of these identities.
There is no one in the world (save for my brother and sister) who could completely understand my "culture" as Ray understands Mirella's; it's too complicated now, or too simple. I can't decide which. All I know is that I've lost any sense of culture by being a product of too many. In my book, "no culture" is pretty much synonymous with "American." So am I American, or am I just culturally lost?
I wonder whether the only people who are able to understand where I'm coming from are the people who are as far removed from their family trees as I am, but I think it's more complicated than that. I don't think that I will ever find anyone who totally understands my complexities, the complexities that have been present throughout my entire life--whatever that means. And I wonder whether we will ever reach a point in this society in which we are all so genetically convoluted that none of it matters. What will our children's children's children say about their nationalities, and how will they feel about their culture if no generation ever leaves America? Will my great-great-grandson say that he is Italian, Sicilian, Chinese, Lebanese, Russian, Polish, Greek, Finnish, Spanish, and Ethiopian? Wouldn't it be easier for him to call himself American? Wouldn't it be easier for him to sample food from every kind of restaurant than to try to squeeze in every culture's cuisine during every religious holiday--if any religion even finds its way to him?
Professor Satterfield delivered Monday's lecture, a lecture centered on language and linguistics of Latinos. She said that, according to a number of studies, the language and customs of a culture tend to dissipate by the time that the third generation of children in America is born. This means that, in my family, whatever language and culture existed way-back-when was already gone before I was conceived.
Maybe (definitely) I'm a pessimist, but I can already feel the effects of all these things. I already feel as if there is no one religion that can calm the conflicting ideas that I have due to the conflicting cultures that have come together to create nothing and then to create me. I already feel as if there is not one type of person who can fully understand me. And although this is perhaps not the ideal situation, it works for me in some strange way--as long as people don’t question it.
I’m thankful that I have friends of different backgrounds because it allows us all to be whatever we are without challenging the beliefs (or lack thereof) of anyone else. As long as we can all feel comfortable being different, we can all feel comfortable being together. But what does that mean when this divide lies within a single person? Does one culture dominate over another? Should it?
Despite my uniqueness, I know that I'm not different. I know that many people share the cultural ambiguity that I possess. But I'm wondering how it will change when no one (or the vast minority of people) can identify with a single culture. What will we call ourselves, and will we believe it when we say it?
The readings for class centered on Latino sexuality this week. There was one reading in particular that really got me thinking: "Playing with Fire." It's an analysis of two interviews that Patricia Zavella conducted about Latinas in America to prove that the American stereotype of Latinas is largely incorrect. According to Zavella, Americans generally consider Latinas to be virginal, pure women--which makes sense because of our knowledge of their strong cultures that usually incorporate a commitment to Christian ideals. Zavella argued that this is incorrect; many Latinas in America, although at least somewhat religious, have sex before marriage.
The case that interested me most was that of a girl named Mirella, a Chicana who was brought up according to the ideals of Mexican culture. She knew that she was supposed to think of sex as a "dirty" thing, but as she got older, she realized that she didn't feel this way. She dated two white men before meeting Ray, who was Chicano. She described all three of these relationships pretty thoroughly. Basically, her first two relationships operated with little trust and even less acceptance from the guys' family members, whereas her relationship with Ray proved to be different:
"Now that I've dated Ray, I realize that they can understand your culture. With Ray, I don't have to teach him anything, and he knows what I'm saying when I talk to my mom in Spanish. And he's got this little saying, he calls me "mija" (my little daughter), which I think is the cutest thing. It gives me the neatest feeling. And I could see my mom's face light up, the first time I took him to a quinceañera. Ray can dance and everything. I'm happy when I go out with him."
I think it's really great that people who identify with any culture can find comfort in other people who identify with the same culture, people who understand customs and reasoning for things that perhaps can't otherwise be described. But it really made me question my nationality and my culture.
I could say that I'm Russian, Polish, Sicilian, and Italian, but what does that mean? I'm so far removed from all of these cultures that I might as well just pretend that they're not a part of me. Sure, I enjoy Italian and Jewish food, but does that mean that I'm Italian and Jewish? I like Chinese food too, for the record.
I think the fact of the matter is that, after a certain amount of time, after a certain amount of racial mixing, all we can really call ourselves is American. This is where I was born. This is where my mother, my father, and all of my grandparents were born. The only things that have been successfully passed down from generation to generation are spaghetti and matzo balls. I am thankful for this fact, but it does not mean that I associate closely with either of these identities.
There is no one in the world (save for my brother and sister) who could completely understand my "culture" as Ray understands Mirella's; it's too complicated now, or too simple. I can't decide which. All I know is that I've lost any sense of culture by being a product of too many. In my book, "no culture" is pretty much synonymous with "American." So am I American, or am I just culturally lost?
I wonder whether the only people who are able to understand where I'm coming from are the people who are as far removed from their family trees as I am, but I think it's more complicated than that. I don't think that I will ever find anyone who totally understands my complexities, the complexities that have been present throughout my entire life--whatever that means. And I wonder whether we will ever reach a point in this society in which we are all so genetically convoluted that none of it matters. What will our children's children's children say about their nationalities, and how will they feel about their culture if no generation ever leaves America? Will my great-great-grandson say that he is Italian, Sicilian, Chinese, Lebanese, Russian, Polish, Greek, Finnish, Spanish, and Ethiopian? Wouldn't it be easier for him to call himself American? Wouldn't it be easier for him to sample food from every kind of restaurant than to try to squeeze in every culture's cuisine during every religious holiday--if any religion even finds its way to him?
Professor Satterfield delivered Monday's lecture, a lecture centered on language and linguistics of Latinos. She said that, according to a number of studies, the language and customs of a culture tend to dissipate by the time that the third generation of children in America is born. This means that, in my family, whatever language and culture existed way-back-when was already gone before I was conceived.
Maybe (definitely) I'm a pessimist, but I can already feel the effects of all these things. I already feel as if there is no one religion that can calm the conflicting ideas that I have due to the conflicting cultures that have come together to create nothing and then to create me. I already feel as if there is not one type of person who can fully understand me. And although this is perhaps not the ideal situation, it works for me in some strange way--as long as people don’t question it.
I’m thankful that I have friends of different backgrounds because it allows us all to be whatever we are without challenging the beliefs (or lack thereof) of anyone else. As long as we can all feel comfortable being different, we can all feel comfortable being together. But what does that mean when this divide lies within a single person? Does one culture dominate over another? Should it?
Despite my uniqueness, I know that I'm not different. I know that many people share the cultural ambiguity that I possess. But I'm wondering how it will change when no one (or the vast minority of people) can identify with a single culture. What will we call ourselves, and will we believe it when we say it?