Days Go By

 What would it mean to celebrate my cultural heritage? 

My wife gathered up all her creative impulses and shared them with a receptive crowd at Oaktoberfest, our city's tribute to German roots and beer. And polka and beer. And bratwurst and beer. And souvenir T-shirts and beer. Not unlike the annual  festivals held in cities like Munich, Berlin and Mountain View. These events are not dissimilar to the celebrations of Cinco De Mayo that break out across the globe, primarily in Estados Unidos, where anyone who can lift a cerveza can be an honorary Mexican. 

Saint Patrick's Day used to be my opportunity to shine on my blarney stone and go Bragh for Erin. I made quite a fuss about my roots back in the old country: The Emerald Isle, Ireland. Then somewhere along the line my mother did a bit of genealogy for my older brother's fiftieth birthday and discovered that what we though was a load of Irish turned out to be a bit of Scottish and a whole lot of English paste holding a wad of white European together. For his part, my older brother was content to shift gears and take on the whole Robert Burns Night with its haggis and whisky. He does draw the line at wearing a kilt, however. 

Me? I watch my wife of the Baumgardner clan embrace the enormous nouns and glottal stops that are her birthright, along with all those stein-carrying denizens of the Bay Area willing to put on their Oktoberface. I wandered through the crowds with full knowledge that for most of these folks this was only a day trip. I know that my wife and my mother-in-law will continue to share German phrases and stories throughout the calendar year. A celebration of their ancestry. 

This is not my experience. I might decide to feel bad about the relative void in my life without any sort of festival marking the significant accomplishments of those who came before me. Except every holiday or party that venerate white guys like myself that litter the calendar pages. So maybe I should be satisfied with that.