[AtLast]

Homeward Bound through our Cultural Beginnings & Customs

How many times have we heard..You can never go home? As I was walking my dog yesterday at a neighborhood park yesterday, I was struck by all the languages and ethnic dress around me. Kids and parents in the playground, some in just T’s and jeans, others in veils and saris, skull caps and hoodies. All laughing and enjoying a fine day. Some practicing for their soccer or baseball/softball teams.

I realized that I picked this neighborhood with so much more than affordability and closeness to services such as rapid transit in mind. When I walked into my little 1940’s bungalow 6 years ago during an open-house, I sear I heard it say.. This is where you live. It is similar to my early childhood home not far across the Bay, fifty some years ago. My neighbors are just as then, a myriad of races and ethnicities in a working-class town. We talk to each other over fences and exchange vegetables and fruit from our gardens. My Spanish is getting better and the Turkish family nearby is getting less and less afraid of dogs. And I know I will never learn Turkish!

I was reminded of how I was raised in an extended family speaking Italian and English with neighbors from Mexico speaking Spanish. Some Russian and Chinese were mixed in as well as Jews, and Japanese, Chinese, African and Americans. Mixed-race couples that could not legally marry were also in the mix. Then, there was my maternal Grandfather born in Chile that spoke 5 languages and played several instruments by ear at the neighborhood gatherings where friends and family danced their old country dances. Even the Jewish families that I always thought had such sad eyes and hid the numbers tattoed on their wrists. And we kids tried to figure out how come we all had different faiths. There was one God, right? Or, in the case of the Native family a couple of blocks over, many Gods & Goddesses that loved us all.

When I work in my front yard garden, I see all the flavors of my childhood neighborhood pass by and I know I am home. For so long, I had to go where the work was and looked around me at something foreign to me- everyone speaking English, with white skin and degrees from schools I certainly never would have graduated from. It always felt wrong, and even frightening. I always wanted to go home.

I am home again. No, my family of origin is all gone except for one older sister and newer generations that I have to struggle with to pass our history on to (but, some are coming around). But, I smell the old recipes of my childhood neighbors as I walk here. And simmer my Grandmother's recipes to add my cultural taste. They buy ingredients from the many small stores that have cropped-up catering to their ethnicity just as my mother and grandparents did when going to North Beach (SF) stores in the 40’s & 50’s. They send money to relatives back home like my Grandfather did. Always knowing family comes first. No matter where they might be.

I would really like to know other members coming home stories in terms of their cultural background… so, join in! Many of us that are first or second generation from other countries have different childhood memories of home. Let’s share them!

I put this in the Fluff/Humor/Chat area in hopes of it being a more light-hearted conversation. Just sharing our background and how we have been able to re-connect with home in personal ways.