A Thousand Words: Family History

Read my latest post on The Nervous Breakdown:

The stories start right after Sunday lunch.

We are all crammed around our tiny kitchen table – me, my brother, my parents, my fraternal grandmother, and my maternal grandfather. The table only fits four, so my Dad is sitting on the office chair brought out from the living room and I am sitting on a small, red leather stool that’s usually in the hallway. I am wedged between my brother, my grandfather, and the dishwasher.

Our Sunday lunches – golden chicken soup, Wiener schnitzel with potatoes and cucumber salad, brownies – start late and end quickly. Toward the end of the meal the others know what is coming and they start to scramble towards the living room right after the last bite of dessert.
It is probably my position at first – too far from the door with no obvious escape route – that makes me the perfect audience for my grandfather’s stories. Later I feel too polite and too invested to get up and leave with the others.

So I load the dishwasher and sit back on my little red stool and prepare myself for a long afternoon.

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It feels good to be a winner

I've just gotten to the point where I can sit down and think about this week's election and what it means... Of course, I realize what it means for America as a whole - finally, an intelligent president, who can pronounce "nuclear" and who didn't win by casting one half of the country as "elitist" or "right wing" or "religious" or whatever else Karl Rove thought would get people's blood boiling. Yuck.

Since I didn't grow up in the U.S., I don't have the background or the experience to fully appreciate the fact that the country elected a black president. Of course, I understand that it's a HUGE deal, and I am proud of my fellow Americans, but really, in 2008, this should be the norm.

What I think about more - selfishly - is how this election made me feel personally. I got teary-eyed when I cast my ballot - this was my first presidential election since becoming a U.S. citizen. Sure, I voted in primaries, and I went to the caucus this spring, but still, this was the "biggie" that I've been waiting for.

I have no illusions that Obama will be a miracle-worker, or that all of our problems will be solved overnight, or that he won't make mistakes. I also know that my single little lonely vote didn't make or break this election. But the fact that I got to participate - and now have the right to gloat and/or to complain - is an awesome feeling. It really made me feel like I was finally a part of the country, a member of a nation, not just someone who happens to live here and carries a U.S. passport.

I am a bit of a cynic and I don't fall easily for "change" and "hope" and other campaign slogans. But I totally admire those who do and for a while, it was nice to be carried away by that.

P.S. I just found out that the guy who is building our built-in bookshelf placed the Nov. 5 edition of the Journal Tribune under the shelving unit for future generations to find. It has Obama on the front... How super cool is that?

Secret Immigrant Behavior

A couple of years ago, when I was fresh out of college and living in my first apartment, my parents came to visit from Hungary. Opening a kitchen drawer, my Mom was surprised to find months' or even years' worth of Hungarian snacks, spice mixes, and other food stuff stashed away.

"Why do I keep sending you all this when you don't use them," she asked me. I didn't really know the answer - or didn't want to admit - that it just felt good to have all those familiar flavors right at hand, even if I didn't want or need to use them. The shiny packages of meatloaf mix, the crinckle of the chocolate pudding powder package, all reminded me of home.

Eventually I began to understand that all of us immigrants are hoarders in a way. We might be well-adjusted, we might fit in, and there might be nothing about us that screams "I am not from here." But I bet that ever immigrant in every part of the world has a drawer like mine, packed with stuff from home.

It doesn't have to be food - I also hoard magazines from Hungary, a package of tissues my childhood friend's mom gave me when I had the sniffles during a visit to Budapest, and a sweater that was last washed in my parents' washing machine at home. I haven't worn it - or washed it - since in hopes of keeping some of that familiar smell intact. It's fading now, but if I burry my nose in it for a couple of minutes, I can still get a faint whiff.

Another characteristic of this behavior is buying things in your home country that are available in the US, because you believe that your country's product is superior. Now that my parents are living in America, I think they are slowly beginning to exhibit traits of this secret immigrant behavior as well. They just returned from a visit to Hungary and they brought back things like pots, dessert forks, shower gel, and deodorant. I admit - the deodorant was for me. That, along with bags full of Hungarian cookies, chocolate, and spices all made the trip in suitcases and I know that my Mom will be hoarding them until the next holiday or birthday when she will sneak them into our packages. I can't wait.

I suppose there is nothing wrong with this hoarding. But I feel silly admitting the melancholy I feel when I eat the last Pilota cookie from Hungary, or when I run out of my favorite deodorant. It feels odd that my identity and how I define who I am are somehow tied to such ordinary objects. I mean, what does an old plastic grocery bag from Kaiser has to do with who I am? But somehow, it does.

So I try to treat my secret hoarding drawer and the stuff in it matter of factly: it is there, it serves a purpose, it makes me feel better to have one, and anyone who doesn't like it can get over it. All right, so I am a little defensive about it. I protect it from my hubby who likes to throw away unused stuff and I will not publicly admit its existence.

It will be our secret.