Who am I? That's sort of a loaded question.
There are a lot of thing from my house back in ND that I could show you all to show my identity. But it's really far away, and I honestly don't think my parents are tech savvy enough (like, at all) to take, upload and send me pictures. So, I will attempt to find replications on google, and for everything else I will just describe.
My roots are important to me. There are things I will never forget: The Czechoslovakian lullaby my Grandma Wiletta used to sing to me and my cousins before we went to sleep. My Grandma Alice's strong strong German accent (which she firmly denies having) when she tells a story. My Grandpa Paul telling me how the Empress of Russia convinced a bunch of German farmers to immigrate to Russia and then didn't keep any of her promises (it was 200 years ago and he was still mad about it). Feeling the fabric of my Grandpa Albert's WWII uniform that my grandma keeps in an old chest.
It may not be very interesting or colorful, but it's where I came from.
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| Borscht Soup |
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| Fleischkuekle |
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| Kolace |
My dad is a farmer. His dad was a farmer. We were probably peasant farmers in central Europe 900 years ago. This Superbowl commercials made me cry because it's so true. The weathered faces and the hard hard work and the scarred hands and being tough as nails. It's all true.
I am not a farmer by any stretch of the word. Sometimes I think I wasn't meant to be born out there. Miles and miles with no one around. Up before dawn and chores, chores, chores, and dirty clothes. My legs are full of scars because I refused to wear jeans in the summer. I was not a good farm girl. I hated butchering chickens and sitting out in the blazing sun waiting for the tractor to finish another round and fixing fence all autumn and cutting wood when it was 15 degrees out. I did what I could to get out of it. But it's home. And as I sit here, in the middle of the city, with people everywhere, thinking about what I'm going to wear tomorrow, worrying about what sort of impression I'm making on people . . . I miss home. I miss being able to just go for a walk and just being alone, and I miss my dogs and my cats and sitting on fences made out of railroad ties and just thinking. (This kind of sounds like it's out of a Mark Twain book)
Who I am: I am a reader. (Please please tell me someone else has read A Song of Ice and Fire series). I like to be comfortable. I am a teetotaler. I am not a risk-taker. I like to talk. I wish I had a Pea-coat in every color of the Rainbow. If I won a billion dollars I would still go to school because I like to learn. I'm a self-hating soprano ( I really wish I was an alto). I love that Post-Performance High after a concert or play or musical. I hate Jane Austen novels. I'm overly-emotional. Fruit Juice makes me hyper. A week without a good cry is a week that was wasted.
Which is my identity? Is it my culture or my personality? I'd like to say that it's both.
(( I wish I had more pictures. ))
See everyone tomorrow!
Brianna-
ReplyDeleteI can really connect with your agriculture background. I too am from the true Midwest (none of this Ohio business) and I know the feeling of having miles upon miles of farmland that make up my home. Its amazing what working outside and with animals can shape your life just as how living in a city can. I miss it too so thanks for the post that brought me back!