What I am?

I am German, well; at least I thought I was until recently. What does that mean exactly? To be German or *insert nationality here.   I was born to a German immigrant. Does that make me German?

Recently while speaking to my father, somehow we found our way to the subject of nationality. My father spent his fledgling years in Langendiebach Deutschland (Germany) and came to the USA in his mid-twenties.  When I say I am German, my father will correct me, “Nein, du kommt aus Amerika. Du bist ein Amerikaner.”  I struggle with this, because he wants me to be American but I want to identify with my German heritage. When he scolds me, I say, “I am German too Dad, because, you are German.”

 Please do not think he does not love Germany and his German heritage, he loves his homeland.  Often returning to visit, his is no shame in Deutschland but pride in being American that leads to my reprimand.   I ask him to tell me why he wants me to say I am American and he shakes his head and slowly then will begin to spin the tales of his early life in Germany.

He was a young man living in East Germany during World War II and some nights the memories of those days long past flood his slumber leaving him bolt upright in his bed, hands cool and clammy and sweat pouring from his brow. Still after almost 50 years in America, he recollects the horrors of the war.  

My father, his mother, my grandmother (meine Großmutter), escaped the war torn land with my Aunt Brigetti, (meine Tante) still warming in the womb and Uncle Hans (mein Onkel) to West Germany. With help from family friends, they stole away in the middle of the night, with the cold biting at their backs.  Being the eldest and a boy, the responsibility to seek out shelter at night fell on my father. Sometimes they found a farmer or other kindly family that would provide a warm bed in the house or barn.  Sadly, many nights did not afford such luxury.  He speaks sorrowfully when he recounts those bitter cold nights, sleeping in abandon bombed out buildings praying for a rat to come close enough to catch so they could have a few scrapes of meat for supper.  His tales are for the benefit of the listener, always censored. The most horrific memories only escape in his dreams.  He does not want to speak ill of his homeland, but you see the immensity as he narrates the terrible things that transpired. His eyes always become heavy and his voice thick he will shake his head slowly back and forth, as he travels back to that moment in time.  When he has finished the memory, run his hand through his thin hair, swiping it to the left and then smiles and boast that he has good memories too. 

 These stories, the good ones, he tells with a smirk of mischief lifting the corners of his smile.  Brightness reenters his eyes as he shares the details of the beauty of the wooded area that was near his home. The fresh piney smell of the Tannenbaum (Christmas tree) standing high in the front of their home.  Pushing his little sister down a snow embankment whilst she was still in her buggy, this always brings a hearty laugh as he mimics the expression of horror on his baby sister’s face. He finishes this particular story with a big smile and a reminder of the whipping that followed. “It was worth it!” he still claims.   He also will speak of his first job and the delightful treats he learned to create as a baker’s apprentice.  Might I add, they are indeed delicious and you have not had apple strudel until you have had his melt in your mouth!   He loves Deutschland, but he loves America more. 

  I suppose that is because we, Americans, as a nation like to identify ourselves with the heritage of our ancestors that we lose sight of the greatness of our own motherland. We do not understand the privilege that comes with being a U.S. Citizen.  My father is correct in that I was born in America, and that makes me American.  I guess however, I wanted to fit in with the American culture and say I am “German-American” or, as I now often see “European-American” also known as Caucasian, or simply White.  I think the concept of the melting pot is too vague for our liking. It is as if just being American is not enough.  

My father says, “American born Americans are not proud to be American.  They need to be proud.  To understand that being American is sehr gut (very good).”  I admit, sometimes forget what a great nation I live in.  Let us not fail to recall more people immigrate here than anywhere. Surely not because it is a bad country to live in, it is a land of opportunity. We have more rights and privileges than most inhabitants that reside in other lands.  Still our freedoms are not enough. Always demanding more with less and less contentment.   

Many Americans gripe about what is fair; it is part of our privilege. We have become a nation of the opinion that all must be fair or our complaints rise and ride on a wave that develops into a typhoon of ungratefulness.   My father would tell those that grumble, and I have heard him do it, “be grateful” albeit usually spoken in German.  He distinguishes the truth about the ideas of a nation of total equality; it negates liberty.  He poses the question that makes many politically correct Americans uncomfortable.  “Why should a lazy man eat the food of the man working hard to provide for a family, how is this equal?”  he continues  “One man works another is fed off his earnings.”

 His reasons stem from more than abstract ideas of equality but from life experience.  Was it fair when the soldiers evaded his home and took everything? Food, valuables not because they were in need.  His family would gladly have shared. They took because they had license.  That is not equal to the man of labor he philosophizes. In the United States, he reminds me, opportunity comes not as a hand out but as a hand up. A working man’s hand that reaches out to help those in need. A hand up is not the same as a hand out, it is opportunity, not charity.   
   

In my heart, I know he is right, but still I find myself falling into the communal trap of discontentment. His appreciation for the greatness of this land is a perspective that I cannot grasp.  I was born to the opportunity of United States citizenship.   I have no other experience, but greatness to compare.  My father keeps me in check. I learned at a young age and to this very day adhere to his ways in these matters.  He taught me when a flag is present and the pledge is spoken, that I am to cover my heart and stand at attention.  “Never look away from the flag,” he would whisper in my ear all those years ago.  When the National Anthem plays, we stopped whatever we are doing, stood, cover our heart and sang along and careful to show respect. He would say, “Many died for you to live in a free country what is a moment of your time to respect that life?”   He is inspiring in his patriotism. 

I questioned why one may feel the need to say I am German-American, Italian-American, French-American, African-American, when most of us that identify with those labels have never stepped foot on the soil of the nation we claim as our own.  Why do we not say I am American, and then stop? 

I look at my father and see pride swell as he announces that he is an American. He has never said he is German-American, even though the term is more correct for him than me.  Many years he worked to obtain proper legal documentation to vote, to call himself a citizen, to be a part of something I had as a birthright.  I have heard him take in large breaths and sigh audibly when he hears the Einwoher (citizens) that are born in these United States speak poorly of our homeland.  It hurts him.  He understands what so many of us do not. He knows what it is like to be denied the honor of citizenship of the USA.  

His pride in country, rivals most that are born American. He reminds me that our land is great. He makes me proud of this country, flaws and all. I think that while I am of German ancestry, my father is right (mein Vater ist richtig), I am American.