White.

I have always felt very white.

You know...

White as in boring.

White as in bland.

White as in heritage-less.

Every time I had to check the box on a test or survey that said "White," in my mind I said "Blah."

My whole life I have envied those who are non-whiteys. Right or wrong, I envied their traditions, their cultures, and the unbreakable connection they had to their past. I envied their strength that came from overcoming cultural adversities and injustices. I envied their food, their music, their dance, their stories. I remember sitting at speech meets or storytelling festivals and hearing the history of a people, and wishing that I had that kind of connection with my past, with the struggles of my ancestors.

I remember wishing I had been born a little less white. That I had been born to a culture a little more interesting.

Then I met Michael.
Michael was white too.

I remember the first time I saw Michael's home. When I had mentioned earlier that day that I would be in his neighborhood, he told me to stop by. Wanting desperately for Michael to fall in love with me, I was open to ANY invitation he might have offered -- though I casually responded with "we'll see." That evening I went to his condo. It was a beautiful urban/modern building, with the pipes exposed in the ceiling and a completely open floor plan. In the middle of the floor, in total chaos was a stack of blank CDs and cases. When I asked, Michael explained that his family had found a recording his rugged-sailor grandfather had made using a small hand recorder.

The recording was the story of when his grandfather's sailboat had been run aground on the shores of Mexico. At the moment of the incident, the ship was being run by his friend who, though he wasn't drunk, he wasn't too smart either. The ship and all of its passengers (the wives of the sailors and a few other guests), were stranded. Michael's grandfather, being a man on a mission and a bit of a hero, told the other passengers to stay with the ship. He took two Pepsis and set off across the blazing Mexican desert to find the help they needed. Though his grandfather didn't have any modern means of capturing, preserving, duplicating, and sharing his stories with his family, he one day managed to record this memory. And now, years later (and conveniently on an evening when a young, female storyteller would be stopping by his condo and he assumed would be outrageously impressed with his effort), Michael was copying this recording to CDs to send to his aunts, uncles, cousins, and other family memebers who would all be touched to receive such a treasure.

I was captivated by the story. What an adventurer. What a hero. What a great story of his family history...
Then, after I was finished being captivated, I became slightly envious.
I remember wishing I had been born a little more adventurous. That MY grandparents had been a little more interesting.

Just two weeks ago I had to do an assignment for a storytelling class I was taking. I was supposed to interview a family member, ask them stories about various memories, memorabilia, family history ... "Blah, blah, blah" is what I was thinking. I was FAR too busy. I mean, it was one thing to ask them the question, but then I would have to sit there and listen to them to go on and on and on about the olden days. Needless to say, I was not pleased with the assignment. I decided I would call my mother. She would require the least amount of "chit-chat" before hand -- whereas if I called my grandmother I would have to tell her ALL about my life and how the newly-wed couple was doing, yada yada yada. So I called my mother when I was driving home from work one afternoon. I knew that the drive was only 12 minutes and I wanted to have a time limit in case things got out of hand. When she answered, I started the conversation in the most un-enthused voice I could muster:

"Mom, I have to ask you some questions but don't feel like you have to REALLY answer them. I just need something I can hand in tomorrow."

She agreed to my terms and I began firing off the questions.
Where did you grow up?
Can you remember any stories your parents or grandparents told you?
What were your favorite family traditions?
What is your most prized possession and why?
I accepted only one or two word answers, cutting her off if it seemed a particular answer was going to cramp my busy schedule. She briefly mentioned that her father told her stories of growing up the son of norwegian immigrants, trying to tame the wild Minnesotan north woods. She mentioned Christmas morning and eating lutefisk and lefse Christmas eve. As far as her most prized possession, it was a trunk. An old wooden trunk that sat in our home since before I can remember. Because the "most prized possession" question required it, (and also because I was curious why, of all the things my mother owned, an old trunk would be her favorite), I asked,

"Why?"

"Well, it's the trunk your great-grandfather carried when he came over from Norway. All of his worldly possessions were in that trunk. I know you're busy, I'll have to tell you more when there's more time."

At this point, I had just pulled into my driveway. We disconnected and I sat in my car for a moment.

All those years I had used that trunk as a place to color, or do homework. A table where I ate frozen pizza, a foot rest. All those years and I had no idea that the trunk had originated in Norway and was the only thing to make (what I am assuming was) the treacherous journey to the United States and then the northern woods and lakes of Minnesota. I had no idea that that trunk was a piece of my heritage... a piece of me.

I was sad. All of these years I had been wishing for culture. All of times I had cursed my "whiteness." All of the times I had wished there was more to my family history, for more adventure in my past... And it was probably all there; the food, the music, the dance, the adversity, the triumph, the whole time. I had just never asked.

My norwegian grandfather and his bride have since passed away; many of the stories, many of the pieces of my heritage probably passed with them. However, I know that some remain in the memories of my mother, her sisters, and those who are still living who knew them best. I know that if I want to truly satisfy my need for an understanding where I come from, it is up to me to seek and discover it.

As we are now fully immersed in the holiday season, where family gatherings abound, I urge you to take a few moments and ask the questions. Learn the stories that make you who you are. Preserve them, tell them, share them.

If I have learned anything in my adult years it is that if there is something in your life you are displeased with -- something you wish were better, something that leaves you unsatisfied ... It is always your fault. And you are always the only one who can make the change to create the result you desire. Today, I am still white. I still check the White/Non-Hispanic box when asked to do so. I'm still unsure of what "white" means, but I feel confident I know where to go to figure it out.