Ich Bin Ein Amerikanerin

We were watching one of our favorite movies last night, Casablanca. The Germans were the bad guys (naturally). And they got to the part where the German leader stood up and led a rousing chorus of a patriotic tune from his homeland. Laszlo jumped into the fray and struck up the French national anthem, resulting in tears all around and a lump in the throat.

(Artist's Rendering of German Stuff)

The Germans are pretty much always the bad guys. Which makes it tough being almost all German. To this day, I feel a slight revulsion to the country of my ancestors. Maybe this is just growing up as a Baby Boomer. Seeing those images of Hitler and the throngs of people shouting "seig heil" and jabbing their arm in the air. All that turning a blind eye -- or worse -- to a genocidal maniac.

When my son was growing up, he wanted to pretend to shoot people with the umbrella. (We didn't buy him toy guns, but kids do improvise.) He wanted to know who the bad guys were. My husband said the Germans. I took exception, and pointed out that, while my husband is Irish, our son is half German. So my kid shot his umbrella at the Nazis instead.

Of course, my ancestors sailed over here in the 1700's and 1800's, so they arrived long before the taint of either of the World Wars. And the German traditions were pretty much washed out of the gene pool by the time they got to me. This sometimes makes me a little sad, because we didn't have a lot of customs handed down to us. Our menu was often right out of Betty Crocker and was a combination of Depression frugality (city chicken) and 1960's ingenuity (Chef Boyardee pizza from a box). I sometimes imagine it would have been cool to hang out in the kitchen with plump, elderly aunts with thick German accents who worked together to concoct heavenly strudel and dumplings to die for.

As it stands, the only thing left of my Germanic ancestry is swimming around in my bloodstream. Even the name of my birth went away when I got married. There are times when I wonder what part of me is the German part. The dark sense of humor? The depressive tendencies? My secret fascination with lederhosen?

At the end of the day, it's unfair to attribute my weird make-up to any particular country. I'll just call myself an American (sans "Native") and leave it at that.

Given that we are a melting pot, this designation seems appropriate.