The Nature of Cultural Identity

Critical Thinking Paper 1

Rural Route number 2.  Cochrane, Alberta, Canada.  That’s the address of the 20+ acres where I grew up.  Before I turned 10, I could only go into our yard as far as the well, not for fear of kidnapping, but for coyotes.  It was a wilderness and I grew up wild.  

The Millers

The oldest of 3, I was often left to my books and the outdoors.  Our traditional family did not really seek out traditions, but we did have a few repeated activities that evolved out of our habits and interests.  We were nearly always outside, but Sunday evenings lent themselves to a homemade pizza dinner and CBC’s Road to Avonlea.  Sabbaths were for church and, until we went to school, our once-weekly trip into Calgary. 

We had a lot of space and didn’t use it all, so it was not uncommon to find transient families or campers occupying the far corner behind the barn.  These people, whose names I can’t remember, became like family for the time they stayed.  

We were isolated from the world and from each other.  It was rare to find us all in the same room at one time.  There were parts of our property where we could scream without being heard.  

In the summer, I would make my own paths in the woods and find forts in the fallen trees.  They seemed to tower over me until I grew up and saw them for what they really were: prairie scrub brush and poplar.

My culture was the one I found in stories.  I was convinced that a secret passageway existed somewhere in our house and that every unaccounted noise was an adventure waiting to be found.  I wasn’t wrong, either.  Our homestead bordered Crown land that was used to fulfill Treaty 8 for the nearby First Nations Cree and Stoney Plains communities.  

I lived there 18 years, in the room under the western peak.  From it’s vantage point, I could see the snowy Rocky Mountains, and I knew them all by name. 

Mount Rundle, Banff National Park

My roots are deeply set into the fertile foothills of Alberta.  Even when I moved away for University, my heart stayed at home.  I missed the mountains and the security of our house at the end of Willow Way, but living in Central Alberta opened me up to wide blue skies and the freedom of unfenced fields.  

I lived in Lacombe for six years.  In that time, I finished school, got married, and stayed in the province’s smallest city while I taught grade school.  In that landscape, there is nothing to love except the people.  The citizens of Canada’s farming towns are so hospitable that random acts of kindness don’t make the news.  They are the rule rather than the exception.

From there, my educational interests took me to a new place, nearly 3000 kilometers from home.  Berrien Springs is where I will live for two years and eight months of my life, but being in the U.S. has strengthened my cultural identity as a Canadian.  It’s nearly the first thing out of my mouth when I meet someone new, sometimes even before I share my name. 

Cultural identity defines the linking traits and associated behaviors of a group of people.  Sometimes it is what one chooses, and other times it is part of an assigned stereotype.  

I am Canadian.  I grew up with knowledge of Peacekeepers instead of an active military, but I do believe in a reasonable use of force and defense.  We have troops in Afghanistan until 2014 and also intervened in the recent Libyan civil war in cooperation with NATO and the U.N. 

There are, however, parts of the Canadian persona I cannot identify with.

I enjoy watching ice hockey, but I’ve never played it.  I have Irish roots, but do not drink, and I grew up minutes from the Rocky Mountains, but have never downhill skied.  

Despite my lack of experience in Canadiana, I hold the core cultural values dear to my heart.  My best friends growing up were African-American and First Nations.  I visited a working residential school.  My church hosted services in five different languages.  My choices of cuisine, art, and entertainment demonstrate a love for diversity.  All that is different is what defines Canadians and makes Canada beautiful.  

I do not want to continue growing up the way I have already grown.  I don’t believe that rigid adherence to the culture of my youth is feasible or desirable.  My grandparents grew up in a generation of WASPs and I had to defend my choice of marrying a man whose pigment differed from mine.  I also know that the family of two we make is much more enmeshed than the one I grew up in.  I enjoy sharing my love of books and the outdoors with someone who will continue the adventure with me.  I want to be different from, more involved than, and curiouser in my maturity than in the family I grew up in.

Cultural identity is subjective and there is no such thing as a pure form.  Rather, it's a beautiful muddied mess of blended borders and shared histories.  I think it needs to be a “pick-and-choose” approach where women and men coming into their own decide which elements of their childhood culture they identify with, and which they can leave behind.  

Cultural identities merge and distort over time.  They cannot be defined by the snapshot of one place or one moment.  I recently visited Disney’s Epcot park in Florida.  The World Showcase of 11 nations was both enlightening and enraging by turn.  I learned that there is too much to encompass in the word “culture” to represent it as one point of reference.  Mexico is more than margaritas and Italy more than food.  Modern-day Morocco does not look like an alley out of Aladdin and not all U.K. residents love British rock and The Beatles.  Samurais are not the only residents of Japan, nor vikings the only history of Norway.  Besides all that, Canada is so much more than Toronto and snow.  And the Montreal Canadiens is not our nation’s only NHL team. 

The Calgary Flames

The nostalgic approach to culture tends to disregard much of what is true and changing.  There is value in recognizing the known indicators of a culture, but not limiting the individuals to what can be defined by a stereotype.  It is important to see the forest, or the culture, for the trees.  That is, the people and their choices create a new and emerging sense of belonging and community that often coalesces into culture.  

By that token, one can belong to and identify with many “cultures.”  I am a citizen of Canada, but i have taken that passport all over the world.  I was a child in the 80s-90s,  but am not a digital native.  I love the music of the ‘60s and, worse still, New York City sitcoms of the ‘50s.  I am a Seventh-day Adventist Protestant Christian.  I compulsively cook and consume curry.  I run as fast and as far and as often as I can: I finished a marathon.  I feel more at home in a tent than under a roof, but if I had a volume of 18th century correspondence, I might never go outside at all.  I see the world through many lenses, and one of them is attached to a camera.

I belong to a culture of contradictions, paradoxes, and people.  Really, I do not have just one culture that is mine.  My identity is what I choose to pursue and the elements of each cultural influence that I allow to influence me.