The Coffee Table

347

Revel in the Salad Bowl

My husband’s mother came to the United States from war-torn Germany. She married an American GI—my father-in-law.  I never met her—she died before I met my husband—but I’m told she spoke several languages. German was her native tongue. 

My paternal grandfather came to the United States from Lithuania. He married a Lithuanian woman. My father’s first language was Lithuanian, although by the time I was aware of this, he could only remember the curse words.  

Whether or not my grandfather and mother-in-law were welcomed with open arms, they each made a life in this country; took jobs, paid taxes, raised families.

On my mother’s side, my “American roots” go back pretty far. Aaron Burr is reportedly an ancestor. But he is not one of the truly original Americans. His people, too, came from elsewhere. 

When our three children ranged in age from 6 to 14, we moved them from Louisiana to New Mexico. Culture-shock ensued. The climate, the landscape, and various human tribes were all new to us. White skinned people were distinctly in the minority.  

The teachings were many: Point with your lips; pointing with fingers is rude. Don’t play string games before the first frost. Owls signify bad news coming. Understand the ubiquitous question, “Red or Green?” (asking which chile sauce you want on your food). But I must confess, I averted my eyes when students butchered a sheep outside my office window.

All three of our kids graduated from Gallup High School, and it was beautiful. Introductory remarks in many languages. An abundance of colorful native dress. My children thoroughly immersed in a community where cultural differences are respected. It never occurred to them to think “White is inherently right.”

My oldest has been to five continents and is now an Australian citizen. My youngest has been to four continents and her chosen profession is Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages. All three are productive progeny of immigrant ancestry.

But you don’t have to travel far to experience cultural differences. Shoot, this city-bred gal can walk across the road and learn about farming and rodeo. The difference between Eureka Springs and Berryville, just 15 minutes down the road, is immense. Not that one is better than the other—just different. I move easily between the two, with friends on both sides of the river.

When I was in elementary school, I learned about the USA as the “Melting Pot,” the land where people came from all over the world to blend into a new nation. But since then, I’ve heard a better description:  The “Salad Bowl”—where we come together, but individuals are still recognizable as unique cultural elements. If you toss spinach with green leaf lettuce, broccoli heads, slices of carrot and sprinkle in dried cranberries or walnuts, you will not create a chemical change. You can still identify each ingredient. Much tastier than if we put all the salad fixin’s in the blender and press “puree.”

Survival of the planet depends on folks respecting differences in people from other cultures while simultaneously recognizing the commonality of our humanness. So, the next time you think about the “immigrant problem,”—whether those immigrants are escaping war-torn Germany, Russian repression in Lithuania drug wars south of the border, or the ravaging of a Pacific Island by climate change, thank your lucky stars you live in the Salad Bowl. Chances are, unless you are Native American, any other reaction hasn’t a leg to stand on.