“Your dad is black.”

“What? No he’s not”

“Yes he is. I saw you with him. He’s black.”

“Last time I checked, I’m not black. I’m SOUTH African, and my dad is not black.”

“oh okay… wait, so why aren’t you black?”

This was a conversation that epitomized my childhood. At a very young age, I learned the power of labels and segregation. I learned about the ignorance that surrounded racism. I learned about the need for people to place divisions on others and categorize accordingly.

It is perhaps, for this reason, that I feel repelled by immersing myself in one culture or ethnic community. I can’t say that I feel any deep connection to any of my ethnic backgrounds: South African, Russian, Austrian-Hungarian, Lithuanian and British. These are ethnic backgrounds that feel so far off to me and have had no influence on shaping the person I am. I do not speak Russian. I have never been to South Africa. I can’t even properly identify where Lithuania is on a map.

Growing up my group of friends ranged from Puerto Rican to Native American to Chinese to Indian. I tended to stay away from ethnic cliques in my High School and just roamed around with those who felt as out of the loop as I did. Yet, perhaps it is my lack of culture that has made me extremely interested in other people’s cultures. I love traveling to different countries and experiencing new things. Just the other day, I went to the Chinatown with my friend who is Chinese and tried chicken feet. This is not abnormal for me. I’ve tasted so many unique foods and have traveled to as many different countries as I possibly can. So although I don’t identify with a single culture, I feel as if there is no lack of culture in my life.

Some people may also feel a strong connection to their religion in place of their ethnicities. My family is Jewish and although I was brought up going to Hebrew School and had a bat-mitzvah, I also feel that I am detracted from my own religion and interested more in other people’s beliefs. Although at times religion can promote a lot of good in the world, I believe it can be equally as destructive and is another social construct that can keep us divided.

So once again, I felt that I did not fit in with the adamant Jews that went to my Chabad.

Where do I belong? Good question. I tend to feel that I belong with anyone who shares a similar open-mindedness to me. I like surrounding myself in a culture of people who don’t care too much about culture, if that makes any sense. I gravitate towards people from different walks of life, but also share a similar sense of acceptance of others.

A song that I believe fits my beliefs perfectly is Imagine by John Lennon. In his wise words:

“Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace ”

The song perfectly depicts how I have felt towards group divisions. If we look past the color of our skins, past the name of the “god” we pray to, past the language we speak, we are actually very similar in the end.

When I first meet a person they always ask, “Who are you and where are you from?” I say, “My name is Aamir and although my family is Pakistani I was born and raised here in Queens my whole life.” The first thing they always say is, “Pakistani? Really? You don’t look it.”

I can’t really consider myself to be Pakistani for a number of reasons. First of all, I was born here and not there. Secondly, I have never gone there. My mom and dad’s family were able to immigrate because both of my grandfathers worked for the U.S. embassy in Pakistan and no one has gone back since! My parents like to joke and push the blame on me by saying that “It costs a lot of money and we can’t afford it because we need to put you and your brother through school.” Thirdly, I can’t fluently speak Urdu which is Pakistan’s official language. I can understand it nearly perfectly and can communicate well with my grandparents but if I try speaking in Urdu it just doesn’t sound right. Fortunately there’s an acronym for a group that kids like me belong to. It’s called ABCD and it stands for American Born Confused Desi.

I used a strange word “Desi” that has developed into a word that defines people who originate in the Indian subcontinent. These Desi people are people from India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, and Bangladesh. There is a general Desi culture which brings people from all of these neighboring countries together. This culture can be stereotypically be defined by one song that has seeped into the mind of any Desi person in the world. The name of the song is Kuch Kuch Hota Hai http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qOa5t_es0s8. It’s not very surprising that this song is from a Bollywood movie (Indian cinema) of the same name that has defined the industry for a generation. To understand the scale and importance of this song to Desi culture the actor in the song Sharukh Khan is now known as King Khan, the superstar of Bollywood. Everyone knows this guy as an icon of Indian cinema. His movies have a big role in defining this Desi culture that many people, including myself, have grown up with.

A very important point, which is the most confusing part of this culture, is the difference between Desi culture and Desi reality. Going back to the song a bunch of contradictions arise. First of all it’s a love song. My parents’ marriage was arranged! It’s not just my parents, almost all of the Desi parents I know have had arranged marriages. This really confuses me considering that every Bollywood movie is primarily a love story. People think of these movies as fantasies and in real life do the exact opposite of what happens in the movie. The second thing that’s confusing about this song is that there are two girls and one guy and they are all out on the field singing about this love triangle that they are in. In real life it’s considered shameless to have pre-marital affairs and someone would kill that guy for making two girls fall in love with him. It’s these things that I really don’t understand.

I am confused. I strongly hope that there are actually other kids like me who grew up with all this culture in their face that resulted in their confusion. I find it very difficult to come up with a straight definition but American Born Confused Desi sounds pretty good to me.

Living in a diverse community often ignited fear within my mother. She worried that the whirlpool of diversity would suck in our culture and give back lost traditions and diluted values. To prevent her fear from turning into reality, my mom made every effort to prevent her children from this subtle tornado. I grew up in a culturally enriched environment, where my language, dressing, food and values were carefully delivered.

My family has indeed become successful in their undying struggle to keep my culture alive within me. I stand today incapable of living my life without a heavy impact of my Pakistani culture. My ethnic background truly dictates my lifestyle and gives me an identity. I mix Urdu and English when I speak. Despite speaking Urdu with an accent, I make sure to practice the language with a wide range of difficult vocabulary. I don’t need a translator to speak to my grandmother. There’s a unique sense of warmth and joy in being able to understand her loving words on my own.

I have my moody days when I either listen to American or Pakistani music. Listening to the music of my country introduces me to the thoughts and mindsets of my Pakistani people. I get to experience the expression of love, friendship, family, and poverty from a different corner of the world. I can relate to my parents and my fellow Pakistanis on the level of music and expression, despite being distant from them.

My closet is divided into sections of American and Pakistani outfits. The clothing of my culture has a distinctive style too. Colorful cottons and silks are heavily embroidered with jewels and gems, as decorative needlework floods the borders of outfits. Colors play a crucial role in the clothing of Pakistan. As seen in Pakistani movies, the bright colors of clothing signify the festivals and celebrations of the culture. This includes Eid ul-Fitr(celebrating the end of the holy month of Ramadan), Eid ul-Adha(day of sacrifice), Basant(Kite festival), and even marriages. Pakistani marriages are a three-day ceremony, Mehndi, Barat and Walima. Mehndi is the henna ceremony, which traditionally consists of yellow, green, and orange clothing. Barat is the main wedding day on which the bride wears red to symbolize the bond of love that she is creating with her beloved. Walima is the ceremony held by the groom’s family in celebration of the entire marriage. All sorts of bright colored clothing with jewels are worn on this day.

Although I appreciate and respect all of my traditions deeply, Mehndi, henna is a cultural custom that I’ve grown extremely fond of.  Henna is art on its own. Its dark dye and elaborate designs are very appealing to the women of my culture. Henna is just like jewelry in Pakistan. Along with earrings and necklaces, Pakistani women ornament themselves with henna on celebrations. Dark colored henna would be like an expensive necklace. The importance and love of henna is sewn into every Pakistani tradition. The first day of a wedding is a Henna ceremony, on which henna is put on a bride and groom. Older Pakistani women use henna as a hair dye as well. The brownish red color of henna dyed hair is preferred over the whitening hair of old age. Many Pakistani people use henna as a cooling reagent. Elderly people cool their hands and feet down by putting henna on them.

Growing up, I was obsessed with henna. Missing an opportunity to have henna put on my hands would really depress me. I was just so fascinated by the henna designs and color. My eyes would gaze at the swirls and curls of flowers on my hands. The color of my henna always concerned me, also. I made sure I kept the henna on my hands for the longest time, because that would give my hands a darker color. I tried all these remedies of lemon and sugar water on my hands because I wanted my henna color to be dark. I would compete with my cousins to see whose henna came out the darkest. According to old tales, dark henna meant true love in the future. Although the concept of true love was blurry in my head, just the fact that my henna was dark and that I would be getting this “true love”, amazed me. Luckily, my henna would always turn out to be the darkest amongst my cousins. I’d run around the house showing my hands to my aunts and uncles. Eid and weddings were joyous not because they were a celebration, but because I had henna on my hands.

I must bring to notice that this account of henna is extremely biased. As a girl, henna is jewelry to me and I’d love to adorn myself with it any day. To most boys however, henna isn’t as appealing. My brother would always run away from me when I had henna on because he found it smelly. He made sure he didn’t touch me because he didn’t want any dye on him either. Men don’t find much interest in henna because it is after all, a women’s accessory. Nevertheless, as a groom awaits his wife on his wedding night, he expects to find a beautiful woman not only ornamented with jewels, but with henna as well. The henna on a bride is different this time around in her life, for the color on her hands is for her husband. The henna on a bride is in the name of her groom. Her effort to beautify and ornament herself with henna and jewels is in celebration of her wedding, her union with her husband, and her eternal happiness.

I like to think of my culture as my identity, really. I am American, like everyone in this nation, but I’m different because I’m Pakistani. I’m different because I speak Urdu and adore Henna. Luckily for me, my henna will always speak more for my ethnic background than any jewel ever will. Your treasure chest of jewels will never reveal your true identity. Your diamond ring, your pearl necklace, and even your gold watch won’t tell me where you come from. My priceless henna, passed on from an endless thread of tradition, defines me. It tells you my cultural background. It tells you that I’ve adorned myself for a celebration, possibly my own marriage. It tells you that I’m happy.

Henna on a bride.

Pakistani Bride.

This blog topic actually started out as pretty challenging for me—my ethnicity doesn’t actually play much of a role in my day-to-day life, unfortunately.  My dad is German and Irish and my mom is Polish and Italian, but we really don’t observe any ethnic customs.  I also happen to come from what my younger brother described as “The whitest town this side of the Mason-Dixon line”.  According to the 2000 Census, Seaford is 96.80% white, 3.71% Hispanic, and 0.15% black (and the percentages only get smaller from there).  So as you can see…I don’t exactly belong to an “ethnic community”.  I’ve been pondering this topic for days, and just a few hours ago I finally decided what it is that brings my family together.  I was in my dorm’s kitchen making chicken salad while watching the Giants football game on TV.  I don’t even know what I was thinking about, but then it hit me—it was so simple, I was amazed it hadn’t hit me before.  My family’s dedication to football is our custom.

Now, it may seem kind of trivial, but let me explain.  Football really is a cultural thing in my family.  It’s a way to bring us all together, and not just physically—it bridges the gaps between generations.  I’ll start with my father.  He was born in 1945, 5 days before Franklin Roosevelt died.  He grew up with black and white TV, McCarthyism, the space race, and JFK (in other words, the stuff that seems light years away from what my younger brother and I grew up with).  Then my oldest brother Tommy was born in 1965, my sister Leslie in 1967, and my middle brother Chuck in 1969.  My dad got divorced from his first wife sometime in the 70’s and married my mom, who is almost 16 years younger than him, in 1991.  I was born in 1993 and my younger brother Brian came 2 years later.  Yeah, we’re kind of like the Pritchetts from Modern Family.  But like the Pritchetts, we all miraculously find a way to come together, and our way is football.

My dad, my older siblings, and I are all ridiculous Giants fans (the Giants were the only New York football team when my dad was a kid).  My younger brother Brian, my brother-in-law Rob, and my nephew Robert are equally dedicated Jets fans.  The fact that we all don’t root for the same team is really what makes football season so much fun for us.  On most Sundays throughout the season, everyone except my brother Chuck (who lives in Ohio) gathers at my sister’s house to watch the Giants and Jets games.  We really treat each game like its own special holiday.  Leslie and I will bake, Rob and Brian endlessly discuss fantasy football, and my dad tries to keep us all from going off the deep end.  The taunting, cheering, and shouting is pretty much non-stop during the day.  It’s really quite a circus.  Sometimes we’ll also call Chuck to keep him in on the action and discuss the previous day’s Ohio State college football game.  We all know that whichever team wins that day gets bragging rights for the entire week; or, in the case of the 2007 Giants, the Super Bowl win is still used for bragging rights.  One of my favorite family memories is how insane we all went when the Giants won the Super Bowl.  My niece Kaylee and I were chanting “Go Eli!” at the top of our lungs as we all saw the improbable become reality.  I really appreciate those Sundays even more now that I live in the dorm, because so far I haven’t been able to watch any of the games with my family; I miss getting together and spending the entire day living and dying by football.  I love the fact that my four siblings and I, who theoretically should have very little in common, are brought together by our ridiculous passion for football.

One song I think describes the sense of unity my family finds in football is “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.  Coincidentally, it was also used this year in ads to promote the new NFL season.  The verses are playful banter, which reminds me of the teasing my siblings and I love to do to each other during games.  The chorus is simply, “Home, let me come home/ Home is whenever I’m with you”.  That really describes my family to a T—no matter how far away we may be from one another, we always feel like we’re right at home together when we’re watching football.  I felt it today when I watched the Giants by myself—when I was jumping up and down and cheering when the Giants scored the winning touchdown, it felt like I had my family right there beside me.  I knew my dad was laughing because it was so unlikely, Leslie and Tommy were shouting their heads off, and Chuck was saying “YEAH!”  So as you can see, the Jennings family takes football very seriously, but for a good reason—to us, football is home.

Home- Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

This was my family's Christmas card photo last year

First off let me say that I was born to a Filipino Family. My mother, father, and my brother were all born and raised in the Philippines, as well as all my aunts, uncles and several of my older cousins. As a result, when they all moved to America, they moved into a small Filipino neighborhood here in Hollis, NY. This soon came to be my neighborhood. As I was raised there, I inevitably became immersed in the Filipino culture. As a child, if anyone asked, I was Filipino. I wouldn’t even tell them that I was Filipino American.  When famous Filipino boxer Manny Pacquiao, won his matches, I applauded and cheered like a fan of a team that won the Superbowl. When a famous musician or actor appeared in a movie or song, I always barked to my friends about how my people were so awesome. I took pride in everything Filipino.

However, everything is different now that I’m older. I realize that I’ve never been to the Philippines nor do I know of its history. Embarrassingly enough, during a review session in my U.S. History class, my teacher randomly asked me what the independence day was for the Philippines, and I humiliatingly sat in silence with the “I don’t know” gesture. Heck, I can barely speak the language! This all raises the question: Am I really Filipino?

The answer to that question is yes. I am Filipino by ethnicity. I understand the culture, the language (despite being unable to speak it), and all the habits and subcultures. But because I understand these things does not necessarily mean I am Filipino. Culturally, I am American. I was born and raised with Filipino values and traditions, but I grew up in America. I went to an American school, watched American television, played American games, and listened to American music. I know American history, sympathize with American people, and celebrate American heroes and traditions. I belong to the American community.

One of the most important icons in the American community is the statue of liberty. The statue of liberty is representative of our freedom and our pursuit of happiness. Lady liberty is forever standing in New York, greeting those that come in. A long time ago, when immigrants sailed into the harbor, the Statue of Liberty came to be their beacon of hope. When they saw the statue, they knew that they were in America and that a new life of opportunity awaited them. In films that depict the end of civilization or the destruction of modern society, the director often chooses to show a sunken Statue of Liberty. They do this because the statue represents America itself.

Now when someone asks me what I am, I tell them that I’m American. Of course, right after we both laugh it off, I tell them that I am Filipino. I still believe that I belong to both. I am, rightly named, Filipino-American. I still take pride in my Filipino background, and I still cheer like a fool when Manny Pacquiao gets a win. I celebrate both Filipino and American traditions, and I embrace both cultures. As so, I’ve adopted the unique language of “Taglish,” (Tagalog and English!) something I can use to jokingly communicate to those like me. Maybe I’m just a confused individual. Either way, I know who I associate with, and I know who my family is. Put together, it’s just good ‘ol wonderful cultural diffusion.

Growing up, and being born in the United States, my native Bengali parents always wanted for me to carry on the traditions and cultural values of a Bengali. Although I was born in the United States, I have incorporated the values of my culture into who I am today. Through the continuous exposure to these traditions and my adaptations to this community, I myself have become a part of this community that I initially did not consider myself a part of because I was naïve and thought that to be a part of a community, you had to live inside of it.

I’m always excited when it comes to exploring new things and going to new places but this upcoming December, I am even more excited because for the first time ever, I am going to my country, Bangladesh. Every time I tell a fellow Bengali that I will be going to Bangladesh for the first time this December, they are always amazed at the fact that I have never actually been to my home country. Even though I have heard many negative things about the living conditions and the political corruption back home, I will take the adventure as a learning experience where I can truly appreciate my culture and traditions. Hopefully, when I get there, I will finally be able to read and write

What I appreciate the most about my Bengali heritage is the role that family, especially parents play. My parents have taught me mostly everything I know about my heritage as they are always afraid that I will get engulfed by the American lifestyle and completely forget about my origins. I often jovially joke around with my parents, always criticizing the movies they watch because they are often ludicrously fake with the sound effects and there is too much excessive dramatization but I know that it is a part of who they are.

Once piece of art that particularly come to mind when I think of my country and my origins would be a song by George Harrison from The Beatles. Although the song is not sung in my native language, it reminds me of the freedom struggle that we had to go through in the early 1970’s to achieve our independence which we finally got on December 16, 1971. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZZ96J_PVbk

On a VERY IMPORTANT side note: GOOO YANKEES!!!!!!!!!!!!