101 Love Letters: 2 Culture

It is becoming clearer to me that, worldwide, culture is being lost.

In just one or two generations it can disappear – poof! – just like that – now you see it, now you don’t.

At age 20, I travelled through Europe.

I noticed such a strong sense of culture in each of the countries and could feel the differences as soon as I crossed the border.

Upon arriving in Spain from France, I just felt to take off my shoes.

It was a ‘shoes-off’ kind of feel in that culture... at least that’s how it felt to me.

Really, it wasn’t quite that... when I think of the dancing, it’s a heels type of shoe, and a bit further south, into Africa, the shoes would come off.

Anyway. The change was there. A more relaxed and vibrant, casual feeling, than France.

It was always exciting to start using a different currency, each country’s image and colours being a part of its character, just like their unique languages... I’d get the currency sorted and the phrase book out.

Going back to Europe years later, I found that the Euro put a stop to the way currency voiced a part of each country’s character. And more English was used.

Sure, it’s easier.

But is it better?

So that’s the experience of travel – a superficial point of view.

How about the experience of one’s own cultural heritage?

My grandmother, pure Hungarian, 100%, married my grandfather, another pure Hungarian 100%. Although of course, nobody is pure anything... really. Austria, Hungary and all those Easter block countries changed borders all the time and then there is always the milkman interfering with the genetic line. My saliva test does show that I’m 50% Jewish Hungarian. So that’s apparently settled.

So she and my grandpa, moved to this country, not long after surviving WWII because the Soviets had brought in communism and that wasn’t much fun. They came here with nothing and experienced racism upon arrival. So they didn’t teach my dad, who was 3 at the time, Hungarian. They felt it would save him from the racism they experienced, if his first and only language was English.

As I grew up, she cooked the most delicious Hungarian food and she and her husband, spoke Hungarian to each other and they put on traditional music from time to time. I felt the culture but didn’t quite feel I was part of it... I was excited about it, but never properly learned the dishes, even though I’ve improvised in the kitchen from time to time, on paprika, sour cream and sauerkraut themes.

Dad still had the Hungarian feel. I wondered if the long socks and sandles was a link to his Hungarian-ness... kind of like they’d wear in Germany if you were a yodeller? That’s not quite Hungarian, but it’s a vibe.

It’s a small link.

Sort of.

So Dad is gone. It’s been about a year now since he died.

He was the last 100% Hungarian in our line.

I’m 50/50...

My son is 25/25/25/25 (Hungarian, British, Dutch, Italian).

What’s next?

I feel a sadness come over me as I think of my ancestors grieving about the loss of their culture in our lineage.

I wonder about so much migration, intermarrying of different cultures... I’ve always thought it was great, interesting, adding so much variety and freedom. But now, I feel I’m seeing through a wider lens.

I see a watering down of cultures that have stood the test of time, throughout our worlds.

I feel that there is also a possible intentionality to this, by those that create the wars, hard times, and necessity to flee one’s home.

It doesn’t feel natural, in my bones, I feel, to be living in a country that is not one’s own, marrying someone from a country that is not one’s own... and watering down our culture more and more.

I’m not sure I even know what it is to be from here, Australia.

I used to want to travel the world, learning the dances from every country. Traditional dances. What would be Australia’s? A bush dance?

I love bush dances.

Whilst the watering down is occurring there is also a movement of celebrating culture, through the arts.

This is so important, I feel.

To dance.

Sing.

Cook.

Connect.

And play, in culturally specific ways.

What about my other 50%?

It’s mostly English/Irish/Scottish.

I have to admit, even though I’m less the last two than the first, I feel in my heart a deep connection to the Celtic parts – or perhaps I’m in denial about the English part of me.

The English. Well, they’ve really not been very good amongst the world’s playground. They’ve been the bully. And the cheat. I’m pretty sure they’ve got a lot of unresolved trauma that’s driving that... I reckon culturally, they’d do well, to heal that.

Anyway, I digress.

Sometimes I wish I was 100% something, so I could ‘go home’ and be there and just rest amongst ‘my people’.

I’ve never felt Australia was home.

Sure, being born here makes me technically Australian.

But the footy, meat pies and ... not sure what else... Ned Kelly? ... none of that resonates.

Perhaps being Australian, is about realising we are all having ‘an experience in a body’ and that culture is an ephemeral thing and what’s important is far deeper, is the fabric of love in our hearts, that connection with the land, the birds and each person that our path brings us closer to.

Thing is, I love my cultural roots, my ancestry.

And I miss them.

I miss the lands, all that makes up the cultures of those lands, that my ancestor’s used to inhabit.

And yet I forever shall be split.

Like an orphan. Away from an absent mother and father and in a foreign home.

I love Australia. Yet I’m a visitor here.

Yet I’m from here too.

It’s a strange one.

Perhaps my soul is yearning for some other planet I’m from. Who knows.