Culture

I am worried that this is lacking, in this country, but more importantly, in me.  So many times I find myself and those around me looking to OTHER cultures to identify with.  We are fascinated by THE OTHER. 

Latino cultures seem to have such vibrant color, such spice, and that steaming hot salsa running through their veins.  Black cultures--African Americans, people from the Caribbean, and sundry other places--have blues, jazz, and hip-hop; slavery and repression fueling them, pulsing through them.  The gay culture has banded together under a flag filled with rainbow colors and togetherness.  Some bigot calls them a fag, and the community owns it, turning that defamation into an affirmation.  

I am white, really white, blue-eyed, upper-middle class, and I grew up in Small Town, CT.  

Boring.

I long for a culture to call my own.  Culture, which seems, in so many ways, synonymous with color.  Flavor.  The spice of life.

Judging by my hometown and my skin, I am the nutrition-less, flavorless, over-produced and empty slice of white Wonder-bread.  

But if I identify with my italian culture, my irish culture, I can be feisty, worldly, culturally rich.  It doesn't matter that, in truth, I am mostly English--and my blaring, white skin shows it--I want to be more like my spicy side.  

It has more depth.  More flavor.  More color than the bland little ol' white girl from Little Town, New England.