by Samantha SheetsDuring my second year of high school, I was forced to take a foreign language class. I was assigned to Italian 1. Most of the students seemed to grasp Italian rather quickly as it was similar to Spanish; the language most of them spoke at home. Making the class fast paced. We jumped from learning the alphabet, to full sentences within a week. Between that, the pronunciation challenges and the accent marks, everything I was being taught went straight over my head. I was confused and felt lost. Each day, I was terrified that I would be called upon to answer a question that I did not know the answer to. The unpleasant memories of my remaining two years in that class flood back easily; I can recall how on more than one occasion when I was called on and tears filled my eyes. I was embarrassed. Everyone else in the class could form essays from the words they learned while I could not even ask how someone’s day was. My Italian teacher pitied me. He figured I was never going to learn the language at the pace of the rest of his class. Rather than help me, he avoided calling on me. That’s when I got my new nickname: “The American.” The nickname came with many perks. I was excused for not understanding an assignment and was graded less harshly than the rest of the class. At the time, I was grateful for the special treatment. All I had to do was attend class every day and he would give me a passing grade. Looking back however, I am appalled. Fast forward to last Thanksgiving. I am sitting across the table from family members who I rarely see; everyone is eating turkey and a variety of side dishes. We are talking with one another in only one language: English. It is the only language any of us knows. Sure, my siblings were also forced to take a language class back when they were in high school, but after they floated across the stage at graduation the language vanished from their minds. Being the antisocial person I am, during the Thanksgiving meal my eyes turn to my phone. I scroll through and see photos of friends how they are spending their holiday. Aside from complaints about having to work on Black Friday, I see that most are with family eating dishes I’ve never seen or heard of. These are not the foods I view as typical Thanksgiving dishes, but dishes that originated from different cultures. Foods with myriads of spices my family would never dare to use from recipes that have been passed down through generations. Dishes like pozole and cochinita pibil. I could neither pronounce the food, nor name one ingredient. As I study the photos, it becomes more obvious that these people know their heritage and are proud of it. Meanwhile, I sit with my family not knowing my own. Sometimes people ask me, “What’s your nationality?” I shrug. I do not have a concise answer to provide. I know that my last name, “Sheets,” is German. So this is the only aspect of my heritage I have some idea about. I do know I am from the United States, as are my parents. My father was born in Brooklyn and mother in Boston. I think my grandparents were born in the U.S. as well. Aside from that, the only roots I’m familiar with are the ones growing out from my dyed hair. My family has offered guesses. They say we likely have Irish and French Canadian origins. But those are just guesses. We have no firm knowledge of our heritage. My “origin” nation’s flag is not hung up in the family car, nor can I return there for summers to visit extended family. I am American. This nation has been my only home. I do not even have a passport because where would I go? All the family I know about are located in different parts of the United States. I never had the incentive to learn another language because I couldn’t imagine who I would be able to communicate with. I’m now in my second year of college and I’ve been strategically avoiding the required language credit. I fear taking a foreign language will lower my overall GPA. I fear that learning another language will be an immense struggle and what I learn will be forgotten after being unused. This piece is not a boo-hoo article about how I do not know who I am because I’m white. I am grateful my family did not have to immigrate here under difficult circumstances. I am grateful our family is not split up between borders. I am grateful I do not have to question when we might see each other again, especially in light of recent threats to make moving across borders even more difficult than it already is. All this does not change the fact that my culture is limited. Our food has not been passed down through generations. I do not have stories of what it was like back in the “home” country, because this is my home country. America was founded in 1776, built from the ground up by people who immigrated here and brought their own backgrounds into their new lives. American history itself is relatively new and its traditions and foods originate from other countries. America celebrates different nations and the people who have migrated from there. But when you have not emigrated from anywhere you aren’t a part of the celebration. I cannot fully enjoy the Pulaski Day Parade because I do not know what life is like in Poland and I am not Polish. I can take part in the event as a supportive bystander, but I am not a part of their community. My family and I are not religious either, so even religious holiday’s that bond families and friends together through commonality are not present in my life. Like our food, we are bland. When asked my nationality, I am not ashamed to shrug and announce that some part of me is German among other guesses. I am not ashamed to state that the nickname “The American” is bona fide. But I am very aware that having no other culture to look back to makes America feel more like a location rather than a culture itself. That being said, I am not unpatriotic. I may be German, but I am truly American. This uncultured culture is my culture.
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