This isn’t really a Halloween post, but I’m sure you can find plenty of those elsewhere.

Right now I’m thinking about clashing cultures. Hugo wrote a good post on this subject that prompted a little soul-searching for me; and then I stumbled across this article that served as an extension of Hugo’s post and my reverie. This lil post is only a result of combining the two.

On my mom’s side, I’m a second generation American; on my dad’s side, third generation. I don’t go along with the [ethnicity here]-American hyphen thing. I consider myself an American. End of story. (On earth, anyway. In heaven, I’m pretty sure things aren’t viewed the same way. Don’t worry, this isn’t a last-minute patriotic election rant, either.)

However, I can’t deny my ethnic roots, as much as I’ve tried to and would like to permanently bury them. Impossible, I know, because ethnic pride runs deep on both sides. My mom is a full-blooded Samoan (with a little Tongan and even German thrown in for good measure, or so she tells me); my dad is half-Filipino and half-Samoan. That makes for an interesting mix, which has unfortunately led to barely any acknowledgment of my Filipino heritage, and a dominance of my Samoan heritage, again on both sides.

I only know a few words in Samoan, and no Tagalong. I grew up going to a church that was Samoan-based in the language and in the church membership. My mom never taught me the language, and I do regret that because it’s a beautiful tongue and I love hearing all the women in both sides of the family employ it in casual conversation.

It’s my father who impressed upon me and my siblings the importance of attending college, getting our degrees and getting into fields that would generate large incomes. (All of us kids have bucked that last part and are either unsure about what career we want or we’ve entered fields where a good income isn’t necessarily assured. Disappointing, of course, for my parents, but my dad still urges us to find good paying jobs to support ourselves.) My mom, whether from her culture’s laidback attitude or because she didn’t really attend college herself, couldn’t care either way, so long as her daughters wait until after college before we find husbands. (Again, we’ve let our parents down on this part. One of my sisters just got married this past February and hasn’t graduated from JC yet.)

So the intersection point between expectations, assimilation and ethnic culture was lowered, you could say. That doesn’t mean our parents love us any less. They might not like the paths we’ve chosen for ourselves, but the only thing that separates any of us from each other is physical distance.

And me? Yes, I’ve had issues with my Samoan heritage. I disliked many of the things I saw take place in my childhood church, which my parents still attend. Cultural traditions and family business often came first before God, and the gossip circuit is still alive and well. All of these things disillusioned me about Samoan churches in particular. In a more general vein, I can see that ethnic-based churches serve a purpose here in America, but most of the members of my generation weren’t born in Samoa. We were born here. American traditions and culture have much stronger binds than Samoan ones. That’s just the way it is.

But do I hate my Samoan heritage? Nope. Does it drive me crazy sometimes? Oh, yes, especially when my mom invokes her island childhood to point out to her stubborn children that her word is law under her roof.*

It’s taken me several years to come to terms with my ethnic roots. I haven’t even started exploring the Filipino side of my family yet. Yeah, I am a liberated woman, in more ways than one. I identify myself as Samoan to those who ask about my nationality, but I’m still American first. The olive skin and islander attitude are just parts of the proverbial icing on the cake.

*(My dad sometimes talks about the “Samoan way” of doing things when he’s trying to get us to do things as he likes them done. For instance, about a year ago a couple from church dropped me off at home after the Sunday evening service. My dad was waiting for me at the door. “You should stand in the doorway and see them off,” he told me, getting annoyed when I seemed to pay him no heed. “C’mon, it’s the Samoan way.” My reply: “Sorry, I’m only three-quarters Samoan.” He, of course, was not very happy with me after that.)