On Culture: January 13th, 2024

My therapist once asked me 

What is your culture?

This was over zoom during our first session together. Her name was Natalie and I found her on some website. I liked her because she seemed sweet and I felt like I could talk to her honestly. I’m writing in the past tense because I’ve since paused (completely stopped) our meetings. I felt like she was too sweet, like a friend. But one I had to pay.

She asked me a series of questions like this

Where did you grow up?

How many siblings do you have?

Are your parents together?

The usual. I was prepared for these. I was not prepared for

What is your culture?

A question I don’t think anyone had ever asked me before. 

I said something completely ridiculous. 

A Thai food restaurant.

That’s what I said. 

Natalie paused.

What do you mean by that?

Uh, I guess um so like I don’t have a big family. My moms side of the family lives far away in Maryland. I wasn’t close with my moms parents. And my dad’s side of the family is small, an aunt, an uncle and two cousins. Two grandparents. So my culture growing up was I guess. Eating Thai food every week.

Okay.

I could tell this was a wrong answer so I suddenly felt the need to overcomplicate it as one does in therapy.

Basically, I didn’t grow up with religion really. We didn’t really have many rituals. But, there was a place we would go every week, a thai food place in Los Angeles when I was growing up. My dad and mom actually went there separately before they ever knew each other. So they started taking me when I was a baby. And we would go every week. Everyone knew us, my dad would take me into the kitchen and the cooks would pinch my cheeks. It’s the one thing I remember from growing up that felt like a slice of a culture. I guess. It felt like a church, in a way. The ritual of it.

Natalie paused.

I paused.

This was not the answer she was expecting, and this was not the answer I expected to come out of my mouth.

My culture is a thai food restaurant? Interesting. News to me too!

But, culture can be an interesting thing to discover. For some, their roots may not be a question. Their roots are clear and strong and powerful. I come from this place. I come from these people. I come from this religion.

I didn’t know where I came from, my moms side of the family is italian and my dads side in polish, but those cultures were never exposed to me growing up, not really. So there I was questioning everything. 

I don’t know if I know what culture means coming from a discombobulated family and past. It was never shown to me. It was never taught to me.

So the best I could say was a Thai food restaurant. Because it felt like a culture to me growing up. It was the one place my family went every week. It was the one place we all agreed on. It was where we shared conversation and peace, for a moment. It was apart of my youth. It was a strong tie. A root. For someone who doesn’t have many roots to trace to. 

I’m only now questioning my roots. Questioning where I come from. My great grandparents. My culture whether it was shown to me or not must be more than a thai food restaurant. Because, there is something powerful about real roots. It makes you feel more alive and connected to the world. 

You are a part of this place and this person and you are only here today on the planet because of a culmination of multiple people’s experiences. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about my kids and their kids and their kids and their kids. At what point will they forget about me? At what point does my existence (that shaped their existence) become something never think about? Unfortunately, probably pretty soon. And that’s lonely.

So when Natalie asked me. I felt lonely in my response. Nobody was standing behind me. There was no image that came to my mind. It was a table at a restaurant that in my mind is some sort of seed. Planted. But leading to nobody and nothing. 

I want to be less lonely in culture. For some, I’m sure this is a bizarre desire. For many, culture is a gift that’s given to them the second they’re born. And to live without culture would to be live without anything. So when I think about roots, I think about dead ends. I think about me planting those roots. Tending to them, raising them. But, wondering who planted my seed. Who am I a root to? 

I wonder. 

When you’re younger, you think you are who you are based on what people tell you. Who they think you are. And as you get older, you stop looking to other people to find yourself. You start looking inward. At your roots. The soil underneath you that you’ve been standing on your entire life, but are only now beginning to question. 

Who laid that soil?