Thursday, March 28, 2024

Strung between two cultures

February 13, 2013
	<p>Nagy</p>

Nagy

Editor’s Note: Views expressed in guest columns and letters to the editor reflect the views of the author, not the views of The State News.

A close friend recently said to me that I don’t seem to embrace my heritage. I, of course, denied it. But he was right.

I’m the first U.S.-born member in a family of Romanian immigrants.

My heritage has caused me pain, joy, confusion, frustration and has given me a driving spark. While some people spend most of their lives figuring out who they are, I’ve tried to figure out what side of the culture line I stand on.

Growing up I was too American for the Romanians and too Romanian for the Americans. My culture made me different, and my lack of being able to speak Romanian made me an outsider at family gatherings.

I got pretty good at figuring out what was being said, but I could only follow conversation, never join it. So, all the weddings and funerals and times I went to the Romanian church for Easter were spent twiddling my thumbs and pretending to sing the church hymns so the pastor would stop looking at me funny.

Any time I was spoken to directly, it was an awkward attempt at getting me to join in on the conversation — which never worked. A long-winded conversation in rapid Romanian was interrupted by a childlike-slow English, “And what do you like to do?” It was all so excruciating.

There are people in my family who I’ve never gotten a chance to truly speak with, and with some of whom I’ll never get that chance. I remember sitting on my great-grandmother’s lap when I was a little girl and hearing her soothing voice sing the soft words of a Romanian lullaby.

When I was older, she called me from Romania to wish me a happy birthday. She couldn’t speak English, but she had learned how to sing “Happy Birthday” for me.

I cried on the phone, because, for once, I felt connected. I’ve never had a conversation with my grandfather on my dad’s side because he doesn’t speak English either. It’s ironic because out of all my family members, I feel closest to him. We’ve got the same souls — stubborn, determined, independent and strong.

“Te iubesc.” Romanian for “I love you.” That’s about as far as I can get, but it’s not far enough.

I think I never was taught Romanian because in some way my parents wanted me to be as American as possible and never know of their hardships.

Maybe passing on their language would have been a reminder of the things that made them different and made them targets when they were young and immigrated to the United States.

In some ways I’ve resented being Romanian. I’ve resented not being able to say anything, let alone anything meaningful, to some of the most significant people in my life.

I have been shut out of conversations because Romanian was used around me so I wouldn’t understand what was going on.

I felt stupid and judged as my mother had to explain to every single extended Romanian family member who tried to talk to me that I couldn’t speak the language, and they all looked at me with the same judgmental look.

I instantly was pointed out as the one who didn’t belong. I always found myself moving closer to the corners of the rooms where we gathered so I wouldn’t have to deal with even more questions from people who really didn’t care about anything I had to say because I could only say it in a foreign language.

If someone managed to ask me something, a spotlight was thrown on me because the conversation had to switch languages.

But worst of all, I felt ashamed of myself because I never would rise to the standards expected of me.

Sitting down and hearing the extended family talk about how this person’s child was a doctor and this person’s child was a lawyer and this person’s child was wildly successful in business and made something of herself was more than I could bear.

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On the other hand, I take a certain pride in being Romanian. It’s what instilled my work ethic and tough skin in me, and I certainly wouldn’t be the person I am without it.

I’m on the edge of two worlds, and I can get the best and the worst from both. I can share cool cultural facts with my friends and know about a part of the world I didn’t grow up in. Sometimes isolation turns to inclusion and vice versa.

I don’t think I’ll ever work out where exactly I stand. Maybe I’m just meant to straddle the line between the two, or obliterate the idea of it all and create a culture just my own.

Julia Nagy is a guest columnist at The State News and a journalism sophomore. Reach her at nagyjuli@msu.edu.

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