I apologize for not blogging more regularly! My two excuses are: 1) we haven't done anything bloggable; and 2) we forgot to take pictures even if we did. Having said that, I did do something bloggable today, and no, I didn't take pictures. But I did have something I wanted to share with my world after my experience today. Hence, I am blogging. It's a bit different than my usual blog.
Today I went to Heritage Festival. The various ethnic groups represented in Edmonton erect tents in a local park and offer for sale samples of their food and crafts, while their assorted musical and dance groups perform. It a huge festival with over 50 different cultures participating, and I absolutely love it. Today's experience is what prompted this VERY LENGTHY blog! So read on....
I've lived in a culture where dark skin was common and white skin was the minority. That created a subculture of whiteness. If I met another pale face, skin colour alone was reason enough to smile and say hello. Their reply may have been in Swedish or German or with an Australian twang, but our lack of pigmentation was enough to create a cultural bond.
Currently I live in a different country than the one in which I was born and raised. There are a whole lot of other people groups that can claim the same. There are many that were born and raised in Canada but still identify with the country in which their parents or grandparents were raised. I saw them at Heritage Festival today. I should be able to do the same - join up with all the other transplanted Americans and celebrate our heritage. But what exactly would that be? We can hoot and holler about our country's birthday three days later than the Canadians, and we can eat turkey six weeks after them. Other than that, what's really different?
When it's necessary - at a world exposition, for example - both Canada and the U.S. can come up with the perfunctionary "cultural" pavillion. We dutifully exhibit our aboriginal culture, complete with native food and dances and art. And after that? Well, we start showcasing the cultures our ancestors brought with them from somewhere else.
I watched the Iranians spontaneously break into dance outside their booth today - took a break from cooking and selling stuff just to party together. There was no choreographed dance, yet they all knew the moves. The Congolese people did the same thing, grooving together and singing along in unison with words no one else would understand. These peoples have culture, a shared heritage of song and dance that only they truly know and understand, unique to them and their country of origin. We don't have that. I don't have that.
I miss that unity. I miss at least being bonded for a moment or two through sharing a skin colour. Today I explored the traditions of my Swedish grandmother, the origins of my Irish maiden name, the location of the Ukrainian village of my husband's ancestors. And there was a certain satisfaction in being of not just one cultural heritage, but of those and several others. Yet I didn't identify with any of them. No shared language, no common dance, no familiar music.
So with what culture do I identify? As I am wandering through the Heritage Festival or the world exposition, what sounds, what sights, what words would draw me in, would excite me, would cause me to join in the festivities with strangers just because we are of like mind? And then it came to me. I do have a cultural heritage with which I strongly identify. A culture of thousands of years of traditions deeply loved and treasured by those who share in it, but often no more than a passing curiosity to those on the "outside". A culture of values, of music, of history, even a dance of sorts. What am I? I am a Christian. An evangelical Christian. A Pentecostal Christian.
If I heard the latest Hillsongs United chorus, I would be drawn to the "pavilion". If they played "The Old Rugged Cross," I would sing along. When the people stood to their feet, raised their hands high, and closed their eyes, I would join in - no choreography needed. With these people, even though they are strangers, I belong. I get it. I get who they are and what they're about, where they've been and where they're going. I am one with them.
My Christian culture is deeply satisfying to me. There is no other cultural heritage that so profoundly defines me as a person. Ultimately, there is no other culture that even matters to me. In the end, this is the only culture that will remain, the only culture that will bind together forever those of us who are identified by it. In this reverse culture we are joined by a common future more than a common past, an expectation of a homeland we haven't yet reached rather than a land we have left behind.
Maybe it’s not such a sad thing after all, not having an identifiable cultural heritage. Where I’ve been doesn’t matter as much as where I’m going anyway. So for now, I enthusiastically embrace my Christian culture, and when I get to our homeland, I’m joining with my people to sing and dance and talk and laugh and eat – forever.
Currently I live in a different country than the one in which I was born and raised. There are a whole lot of other people groups that can claim the same. There are many that were born and raised in Canada but still identify with the country in which their parents or grandparents were raised. I saw them at Heritage Festival today. I should be able to do the same - join up with all the other transplanted Americans and celebrate our heritage. But what exactly would that be? We can hoot and holler about our country's birthday three days later than the Canadians, and we can eat turkey six weeks after them. Other than that, what's really different?
When it's necessary - at a world exposition, for example - both Canada and the U.S. can come up with the perfunctionary "cultural" pavillion. We dutifully exhibit our aboriginal culture, complete with native food and dances and art. And after that? Well, we start showcasing the cultures our ancestors brought with them from somewhere else.
I watched the Iranians spontaneously break into dance outside their booth today - took a break from cooking and selling stuff just to party together. There was no choreographed dance, yet they all knew the moves. The Congolese people did the same thing, grooving together and singing along in unison with words no one else would understand. These peoples have culture, a shared heritage of song and dance that only they truly know and understand, unique to them and their country of origin. We don't have that. I don't have that.
I miss that unity. I miss at least being bonded for a moment or two through sharing a skin colour. Today I explored the traditions of my Swedish grandmother, the origins of my Irish maiden name, the location of the Ukrainian village of my husband's ancestors. And there was a certain satisfaction in being of not just one cultural heritage, but of those and several others. Yet I didn't identify with any of them. No shared language, no common dance, no familiar music.
So with what culture do I identify? As I am wandering through the Heritage Festival or the world exposition, what sounds, what sights, what words would draw me in, would excite me, would cause me to join in the festivities with strangers just because we are of like mind? And then it came to me. I do have a cultural heritage with which I strongly identify. A culture of thousands of years of traditions deeply loved and treasured by those who share in it, but often no more than a passing curiosity to those on the "outside". A culture of values, of music, of history, even a dance of sorts. What am I? I am a Christian. An evangelical Christian. A Pentecostal Christian.
If I heard the latest Hillsongs United chorus, I would be drawn to the "pavilion". If they played "The Old Rugged Cross," I would sing along. When the people stood to their feet, raised their hands high, and closed their eyes, I would join in - no choreography needed. With these people, even though they are strangers, I belong. I get it. I get who they are and what they're about, where they've been and where they're going. I am one with them.
My Christian culture is deeply satisfying to me. There is no other cultural heritage that so profoundly defines me as a person. Ultimately, there is no other culture that even matters to me. In the end, this is the only culture that will remain, the only culture that will bind together forever those of us who are identified by it. In this reverse culture we are joined by a common future more than a common past, an expectation of a homeland we haven't yet reached rather than a land we have left behind.
Maybe it’s not such a sad thing after all, not having an identifiable cultural heritage. Where I’ve been doesn’t matter as much as where I’m going anyway. So for now, I enthusiastically embrace my Christian culture, and when I get to our homeland, I’m joining with my people to sing and dance and talk and laugh and eat – forever.
2 comments:
That is the most amazing blog yet! It brought tears to my eyes! I claim the same heritage, and can't wait for the party that won't ever end. Love you.
Amy
BTW- We can't make it up there this August, but how would you like some company for Christmas?
Oh man! I wish I wrote that. That was absolutely awesome. The verse that comes to mind is that our citizenship is not here but in heaven. That is amazing that we have a culture that anyone can be a part of...not born into. Thank you for a good word. And, I might just repost it on my blog...giving credit to the author of course. Love ya.
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