My skin fits me

by Barbara Cagle 2003

“You don’t eat squash?” questioned my friend at her parent’s dinner table one evening. This was my first exposure to the concept that we were different. Living in the south, I suppose it would be expected to like things like squash, collard and mustard greens, or okra and tomatoes. But not me. I was different from my school friends and I wanted to know why. The experience opened the door to questions that led me to a lifelong compulsion to learn as much as I could about my heritage.
I was about 10 when I discovered that our family wasn’t like the families of my friends. My best friend, Sharon, was from a family that might be considered typical in southern America. Her parents were blue collar workers that maintained a perfect little house, in a perfect little neighborhood, with a perfectly ordered schedule.
It was very different at my house. Weekends were a test of patience and a flurry of activities. Laundry, cleaning house, shopping, mowing the yard, grab something from the fridge and off we went. Each in a different direction it seemed. Sure, we had our chores like cleaning our room, but very often it would be forgotten as our Dad announced an unscheduled outing. It might have been an afternoon movie, an evening play or some event in town. There were ice-cream excursions, cookouts at the beach, berry picking in the woods, overnight trips to Valdosta to visit grandmother.
Then there were the stories. Dad liked to tell us about his childhood and some of his tales were tall indeed. But we seldom heard stories about mother’s early days. So, I began to ask. I asked where she grew up, what it was like and why she left. Her answers often surprised me and I learned a lot, including why we were different. I also learned that the differences were not bad, just different.
I learned that the reason we didn’t eat squash, for example, was because she had never heard of it in Germany. She didn’t know how to cook it. The same was true of greens and other southern favorites. I learned about incorporating all those things that made us different into a new lifestyle for me and my children. I discovered that schedules were good things, but the ability to deviate from them was essential.
My mother’s childhood in Germany consisted of many traditions and an upper class lifestyle due to her father’s occupation of Medical Practitioner. We were taught proper manners and how to conduct ourselves at gatherings. We attended the theatre, art galleries, dance classes and charm school to further our cultural horizons. We learned how to dress and which wine goes best with which foods. We learned to drink responsibly and had our first wine with Christmas Dinner at the age of 12. None of us ever got involved with those school crowds that preferred drinking and other ‘verboten’ activities. We learned that education and a good book were the salvations of life, next to our faith and that “a good education is the measure of the man”, as she would often remind us.
We learned to ‘make due’ with what we had because of her experiences in the war and we learned that our home was special and to be cherished, not taken for granted. She taught us that we could make a pretty home, no matter where we found ourselves living and that no matter how bad things might get, we still had our manners and could offer a smile to passers by. We learned about our heritage and most memorable were the traditions we held at Christmas time, traditions we still follow as adults with families of our own.
Our father taught us that it was ok to eat chicken with our fingers, sometimes. He showed us the fun of being a kid in southern America and how wonderful fresh picked berries were on a warm summer afternoon. He gave us a love of music and in so doing gave us a gift we still cling to. He explained why we all talked so much, it was an inherited trait. He handed down his strong faith, gained from his father who was a minister. Most of all they taught us to be comfortable in our own skins, so to speak.
My parents instilled in us their beliefs and customs, handed down over the years. We all love German sausages and sauerkraut, but shy away from squash and greens, and that is ok. We all love Christmas and are usually the talk of the neighborhood as our lights go up and several trees adorn our homes, and our traditions share the joy of the season with everyone who sees our yards or passes us, smiling as if we have great secrets we could share.
I look at my girlfriend and her life, so like that of her parents. She cannot accept changes, to her home or her schedule. Her holidays are centered on buying presents and the flurry and stress we only hear about. Her big extravagance for the holiday is a pumpkin pie while our tables are filled with dozens of special dishes like stolen and red cabbage with Lebkucken and Pffernuese.
I have wondered what my life might be like had I been raised by different parents, but the imagery escapes me. I am the product of my mother’s culture and love of the arts and my father’s practicality, spontaneity and love of learning. I talk too much and sometimes too loudly. I tend to go overboard with holiday festivities. I am obsessed with learning all I can and experiencing everything I can. I have a faith that has guided me and sustained me through many hardships, and I have come out on top. Sharon is still struggling to find out who she is, especially now that her parents are gone which makes me grateful for the strong heritage and a diversity of cultures that shaped me into who I am today. I don’t know who I might be without these influences, and I’ve decided my skin fits me just fine.