The more my daughter and I learn about different cultures around the world, the more I am reminded of how saddened I have always been when thinking about my culture—or, rather, lack of culture. Growing up in a white, lower-middle class family in America, I had a vague notion that my great-grandparents on my dad’s side were German and that he liked sauerkraut. My racist uncle—well, one of them; I have a few—even called him “kraut.” Fun, right?
But I never really had a sense of culture growing up. We had Christmas at one grandma’s house, Christmas Eve at another’s, which involved eating and presents. That’s it. We never did anything religious aside from bedtime prayers, nothing relating to any specific culture—my mom’s side was made up of “mutts” from all over the world—and when I started to really learn about culture in college, it made me feel like we’d been left out of something amazing.
