A Different Type of Mixture

I once read an essay written by a girl, who just like me, was a blend of different races and customs. Her story made me think about my own heritage; it made me think how similar her outlook on life and other cultures was to mine. I am just like her, a mixture of different ethnicities and races. As a result of my multicultural heritage I have never had a problem with adjusting to different cultures or ways of life. My father was born to Hindu parents in Zanzibar, a small island off the coast of East Africa where nearly ninety percent of the islanders were Muslim. My mother was born and raised in Poland, a country in the middle of Europe where almost ninety nine percent of the population is white Catholics. Everyone with a slightly different (darker) skin tone or hair color was considered to be an outsider. And here, in Poland I was born. Surrounded by loving family and friends, I did not feel any different from others. Soon I realized that my “mixture” gave me a unique perspective on people of different cultures, races, faiths and life itself. Therefore, my ethnicity became one of the most significant influences, experiences and opportunities in my life. It gave me an exceptional tolerance to everything that is “different”. Also, it has taught me to never judge a person based on their race, ethnicity or religion. Throughout my life and life experience I have learned to assess a person as a whole; I have learned that every person can enrich my life.

Of the many experiences in cultural integration that I have experienced as a young man, the one that sticks out the most is a family friend’s wedding that I attended in 2003. It was a traditional Hindu wedding ceremony. This type of ritual usually takes place outside, on the ground, under a canopy known as a mandap. Because it was impossible to do so in February when snow still covered the land, they build a mandap inside the huge ballroom. The groom and bride were sitting inside, on colorful mats. According to tradition in front and center under the mandap a priest put on the sacred fire. Later the couple said their vows keeping their hands above the fire; they made food offerings into the fire and in the end the couple circled the sacred fire seven times. All these rituals legalized their marriage according to the Hindu custom. All this took at least four hours, which were very wearisome to me.

Sitting in the dark corner, I was watching the dancers in their vibrant clothes, using movements of their hands, eyes and bodies to tell a story. In India there are many different dances specific to the region of origin. Although they differ in their language and gesture, they all are draw upon stories and poems that tell about the lives of the Hindu gods. The dance I was watching expressed love and devotion to Krishna (one of the many Hindu gods). Classical Indian dances are an ancient Hindu art which was only known by them, the Hindus, or those who were interested in the culture. Although I am part Indian, I was never enthused by the art. I never was fond of the music, dance or movies from the country of my father’s origin. My cousin sitting next to me was visibly angry and bored. She did not speak to her parents for making her come to the wedding party and put on a sari; a traditional Hindu outfit. She was looking down, nervously picking threads from her beautiful, hand painted gown. I saw tears in her eyes. My cousin, born to Indian parents but raised in Canada did not belong here. At least this is how she felt. I understood her being torn between two cultures, between two completely different ways of life. In Indian tradition the daughters belong to their parents until they are given off to marry; parents also tend to decide their daughters future. My cousin, raised in a Western society is opposed to this custom, which in this particular moment was symbolized to her by the sari she was wearing.

The dance was almost over. Someone opened the kitchen doors. A strong smell of curry (an Oriental spice) filled the part of the room where I was sitting. I looked towards my parents. My father stood alongside a group of men in white shirts and dark tuxedos. They talked loudly, laughing from time to time. My mother was nearby with a group of women. They all wore saris, all besides her and my grandmother. Neither the men nor the women mixed during the official parties. Besides the polite hello, both genders keep their distance. My mother often broke that unwritten rule.

Suddenly, I felt hungry. The smell of curry was still present in the air. I imagined a plate full of rice, chapatti and chicken curry. The dancers still occupied the middle of the room. I wanted the performers to stop. Irritated, I looked towards them. In their bright, colorful outfits the dancers were finishing their act. I watched as they gracefully walked off the stage. I could not be any happier. I applauded. The buffet table was ready in minutes. I was one of the first in line. With satisfaction I put the first bite into my mouth; when I ripped another peace of chapatti I saw my grandmother desperately looking for a fork and knife. In my grandma’s European culture it was unimaginable to eat a meal without using silverware. Her big blue eyes at least doubled the size when she saw her daughter and grandson eating with their hands. My grandmother stood there in total disbelief. In the meantime someone brought her some utensils. She sat nearby and slowly began to eat the exotic food.

Two hours later the wedding was almost over. My parents and I went to say goodbye to the newlyweds. Dressed in traditional Hindu wedding outfits, the couple looked exotic and beautiful. The bride wore a red sari, her hair was covered with the same red material. She had a long golden chain stretched from her ear to her nose. Her hands were covered with henna decorative drawings. The groom wore red and white kafni (long shirt extending to the knees) with pijamo (oversized leggings). They stood there smiling and saying polite “thank you” and “goodbye” to people leaving mandap. For a moment, I swear, they looked to me like characters from an old Hindu paintings; unrealistic, stunning and beautiful.

On the way home I looked toward the city of Pittsburgh. The spectacular view of the three rivers uniting into one, the dozens of bridges and the cloud piercing skyscrapers were spread before my eyes. My thoughts shifted. I began thinking about my cultural diversity; I thought about all the people who continue to celebrate their culture and traditions even though they are thousands of miles away from home, their place of origin. Although I am part Hindu I can not fully identify myself with this culture which is only a small part of me. I also can not categorize myself as a Pole even though I was born and raised in Poland. Sometimes I wonder if by staying in the country of my birth I would be able to expand my horizons, to accept the “unknown” and the “different”? But Poland gave the opportunity to learn how to be accepted into the society of “pure white” Catholics as a half Hindu nonbeliever. This skill – knowing how to be accepted - also helped me in my journey in America. Most people believe that a person must have roots, the country and culture tied to one’s identity. For me, my roots are spread throughout the world; they branch out in all directions, attached to four distant continents. My heritage gave me the unique experience of overcoming cultural barriers. It gave me the opportunity to learn how to accept “different” and “unknown” as well as how to be accepted.

A Different Type of Mixture-Draft 1

Sitting in the dark corner, I was watching the dancers in their vibrant clothes, using movements of their hands, eyes and bodies as a secret language known to some. I was not one of them. Although I knew about India and its culture I never was fond of the music, dance or movies from the country of my father’s origin. My cousin, sitting next to me was visibly angry and bored. She did not speak to her parents for making her put on a sari and come to the wedding party. She was looking down, nervously picking threads from her beautiful, hand painted gown. I saw tears in her eyes. My cousin, born to Indian parents and raised in their culture did not belong here. At least this is how she felt. The dance was almost over. Someone opened the kitchen doors. A strong smell of curry filled the part of the room where I was sitting. I looked towards my parents. My father stood alongside a group of men in white shirts and dark tuxedos. They talked loudly, laughing from time to time. Mom was nearby with a group of women. They all wore saris, all besides my mom and grandmother. Neither the men nor the women mixed during the official parties. Besides the polite hello, both genders keep their distance. My mom often broke that unwritten rule.

Suddenly, I felt hungry. The smell of curry was still present in the air. I imagined a plate full of rice, chapatti and chicken curry. I was really hungry. The dancers still occupied the middle of the room. I wanted the performers to stop. Irritated, I looked towards them. In their bright, colorful outfits the dancers were finishing their act. I watched as they gracefully walked off the stage. I could not be any happier. I applauded like never before. The buffet table was ready in minutes. I was one of the first in line. With satisfaction I put the first bite into my mouth. I ate by hand, like real Indians do, without using utensils. And when I ripped another peace of chapatti I saw my grandmother desperately looking for a fork and knife or even a spoon. In my grandma’s European culture it was unimaginable to eat a meal without using silverware. Her big blue eyes at least doubled the size when she saw her daughter and grandson eating with their hands. She stood there with her big eyes and open mouth in total disbelieve. In the meantime someone brought her some utensils. She sat nearby and slowly began to eat the exotic food.

I never had a problem with adjusting to different cultures or ways of life, mostly because of my multicultural heritage. My father was born to Hindu parents in Zanzibar, a small island of the coast of East Africa where nearly ninety percent of the islanders were Muslim. My mom was born and raised in Poland, a country in the middle of Europe where almost ninety nine percent of the population is white Catholics; everyone with a slightly different (darker) skin tone or hair color was considered to be an outsider. And here, in Poland I was born. Surrounded by loving family and friends, I did not feel any different from others. Soon I realized that my “mixture” gave me a unique perspective of people of different cultures, races and faiths as well as of life itself. Therefore, my ethnicity became one of the most significant influences, experiences and opportunities in my life. It gave me an exceptional tolerance to everything that is “different”. Also it has taught me to never judge a person based on their race, ethnicity or religion. Throughout my life and life experience I have learned to assess a person as a whole.

Two hours later the wedding was almost over. My parents and I went to say goodbye to the newlyweds. Dressed in traditional Hindu wedding outfits, the couple looked exotic and beautiful. On the way home I looked toward the city of Pittsburgh. The stunning view of the three rivers uniting into one, the dozens of bridges and the cloud piercing skyscrapers were spread before my eyes.

A Different Type of Mixture-Draft 2

It was nearly six o’clock in the morning. It was chilly outside. The sun, still a little shy, peeked trough the hills giving hope for a warm, sunny day. For a moment I stood in this early spring sun; I felt pleasant warmth on my face. On the way to a local YMCA I opened my car’s windows. I could hear birds chirping and felt the morning’s cool breeze flow by my face. In moments such as those I forgot how much I disliked the boring, rural area which for the last four years I called home.

The swimming pool was almost empty. That is one reason why I enjoyed swimming so early, especially that day, when I would be surrounded by crowds of people at the Indian wedding I was to attend; Where I would greet dozens of people who after the wedding ceremony I would never see again.

Two hours later I was drinking coffee with my family. Behind the steam coming from my cup, I saw my father’s happy face. His happiness came from the fact that he would be around people of the same culture as him, a culture which he had little contact with, except for events such as the one we would be attending that day. Besides some breakfast, I knew that my dad would not eat anything else for the whole day to save room for the Indian food. To him it was not just the pleasure of eating, but the reminder of the fond memories of his childhood. Although my father spent more than twenty five years far away from his family and his customs he still treasures those tiny strings which attach him to his longing past.

My mother was already drinking her second cup of coffee. I believe that she never really understood my father’s desire to cultivate his traditions.(….) For her, eating ethnic food was as far as she would go to participate in different cultures. My mother almost never involved herself in religious congregations. She considers that as the terrible waste of her time. I remember, couple years ago, my father’s scream when he found his statue of Shiva (one of the Hindu gods) working as a toilet paper stand in the bathroom. My mother up to today does not understand why, after that incident, my father did not speak to her for several days. He did not understand her lack of belief in a higher power (…)

Suddenly, I felt hungry. The smell of curry was still present in the air. I imagined a plate full of rice, chapatti and chicken curry. I was really hungry. The dancers still occupied the middle of the room. I wanted the performers to stop. Irritated, I looked towards them. In their bright, colorful outfits the dancers were finishing their act. I watched as they gracefully walked off the stage. I could not be any happier. I applauded like never before. The buffet table was ready in minutes. I was one of the first in line. With satisfaction I put the first bite into my mouth. I ate by hand, like all the Indians who surrounded me. And when I ripped another peace of chapatti I saw my grandmother desperately looking for a fork and knife or even a spoon. In my grandma’s European culture it was unimaginable to eat a meal without using silverware. Her big blue eyes at least doubled the size when she saw her daughter and grandson eating with their hands. She stood there with her big eyes and open mouth in total disbelieve. In the meantime someone brought her some utensils. She sat nearby and slowly began to eat the exotic food.

Two hours later the wedding was almost over. My parents and I went to say goodbye to the newlyweds. Dressed in traditional Hindu wedding outfits, the couple looked exotic and beautiful. On the way home I looked toward the city of Pittsburgh. The stunning view of the three rivers uniting into one, the dozens of bridges and the cloud piercing skyscrapers were spread before my eyes.

A Different Type of Mixture-Draft 3

I once read an essay written by a girl, who just like me, was a blend of different races and customs. Her story made me think about my own heritage. I am just like her a mixture; a mixture of different ethnicities and races. As a result of my multicultural heritage I have never had a problem with adjusting to different cultures or ways of life. My father was born to Hindu parents in Zanzibar, a small island off the coast of East Africa where nearly ninety percent of the islanders were Muslim. My mother was born and raised in Poland, a country in the middle of Europe where almost ninety nine percent of the population is white Catholics; everyone with a slightly different (darker) skin tone or hair color was considered to be an outsider. And here, in Poland I was born. Surrounded by loving family and friends, I did not feel any different from others. Soon I realized that my “mixture” gave me a unique perspective of people of different cultures, races and faiths as well as of life itself. Therefore, my ethnicity became one of the most significant influences, experiences and opportunities in my life. It gave me an exceptional tolerance to everything that is “different”. Also it has taught me to never judge a person based on their race, ethnicity or religion. Throughout my life and life experience I have learned to assess a person as a whole; I have learned that every person can enrich my life.

Sitting in the dark corner, I was watching the dancers in their vibrant clothes, using movements of their hands, eyes and bodies to tell a story. In India there are many different dances specific to the region of origin. Although, they differ in their language and gesture, they all are draw upon stories and poems that tell about lives of the (unknown to me) Hindu gods. The dance I was watching expressed love and devotion to Krishna (one of the Hindu many gods). Classical Indian dances are an ancient Hindu art which was only known by them, the Hindus, or those who were interested in the culture. Although I am part Indian, I was never enthused by the art. I never was fond of the music, dance or movies from the country of my father’s origin. My cousin sitting next to me was visibly angry and bored. She did not speak to her parents for making her come to the wedding party and put on a sari; a traditional Hindu outfit. She was looking down, nervously picking threads from her beautiful, hand painted gown. I saw tears in her eyes. My cousin, born to Indian parents and raised in their culture did not belong here. At least this is how she felt. I understood her being torn between two cultures, between two completely different ways of life. In Indian tradition the daughters belong to their parents until they are given off to marry; parents also tend to decide their daughters future. My cousin, raised in a Western society is opposed to this custom, which in this particular moment was symbolized to her by the sari she was wearing.

On the way home I looked toward the city of Pittsburgh. The spectacular view of the three rivers uniting into one, the dozens of bridges and the cloud piercing skyscrapers were spread before my eyes. My thoughts shifted. I began thinking about my cultural diversity; I thought about all the people who continue to celebrate their culture and traditions even though they are thousands of miles away from home, their place of origin. Although I am part Hindu I can not fully identify myself with this culture which is only a small part of me. I also can not categorize myself as a Pole even though I was born and raised in Poland. Sometimes I wonder if by staying in the country of my birth I would be able to expand my horizons, to accept the “unknown” and the “different”? But Poland gave the opportunity to learn how to be accepted into the society of “pure white” Catholics as a half Hindu nonbeliever. This skill – knowing how to be accepted - also helped me in my journey in America. Most people believe that a person must have roots, the country and culture tied to one’s identity. For me, my roots are spread throughout the world; they branch out in all directions, attached to four distant continents. My heritage gave me a unique experience of overcoming cultural barriers; it gave me an opportunity to learn how to accept “different” and “unknown” as well as how to be accepted.

A Different Type of Mixture-Process Memo

As with most of my papers I had a hard time finding a topic which would be interesting enough to write about. Finally, I decided to write about something which was very familiar to me: my race and ethnicity. Born as a mixture, of different ethnic backgrounds allows me to better understand problems and setbacks of people of diverse nationalities. Because I attend many different celebrations I decided to write about one of them – Hindu wedding. But I found it really difficult to write about the event which I attended and to describe it to readers, the way I had seen it, exotic and colorful.

Writing this paper and finding information about all necessary details (like sari, kafni or mandap) were very special to me. It allowed me to become more familiar with the cultural heritage of my father; it allowed me to better understand my cousin and her objections to Hindu traditions.

The process of writing this essay although easy at the beginning brought frustration during the second draft when for an unknown to me reason I decided to write about the hours before the wedding celebrations. I lost track of what was really the main topic of my paper, and what was important. Fortunately after a conference with my teacher I was able to better develop the introduction to my essay as well as improve the ending.

I hope that many years from now I will be just as proud of this essay as I am today, and that my cousin will still talk to me after finding out that she was one of the characters in this essay.