Last week, whilst visiting family in Edinburgh, I found myself musing on the defining characteristics of Scottishness, on what it means to be Scottish and where the line is drawn on what is or isn't Scottish; especially after my uncle revealed that haggis was originally an English dish way back when.
As the daughter of English parents with a Welsh grandmother, a Scottish grandfather and an Irish great-grandfather, this is a subject that has recurred throughout my life. Proud of my Celtic heritage, I collected pieces of our tartan and guarded them from lil sis who couldn't have cared less. Despite ridicule from my friends, I knew it was important to me.
This all opens up a much larger question on nationality. Does it matter more where you were born or where you were raised, or even who you were raised by? I know I have a much stronger connection to place I grew up in from the age of 6 than to were I was born and can't remember.
Is your true father your genetic ancestor, your 'sperm donor' as a friend calls hers, or the man who raised you? Mine are the same man but I still feel that parenthood is defined not by genetics but by sleepless nights and holding tiny hands, by drying tears and kissing bumps and bruises better. Love, in essence, is what defines that relationship; being there for you and experiencing your life. By that merit, my hometown is definitely where I grew up.
And just like the relationship in families, no one sees the very best qualities of your home as well as you do, but no one else sees its flaws as clearly either. The protective streak that flares should anyone else mention these flaws proves just how close to our hearts these connections are, whether we profess to loathe these places or not. It smacks of that sibling relationship; I am allowed to pick on lil sis but no one else can or they'll have me to answer to.
Having had such an overt interest in my Celtic heritage, I took England for granted. Other than pride in Shakespeare, Jane Austen and Princess Diana, I barely noticed that I was English until I left. When I set off to backpack around New Zealand at the grand old age of 18, I was a confirmed coffee lover. A Starbucks fan with a hotmail address that confirmed my coffee addiction to all, I had no time for tea, that quaint beverage that old people drink. I was young, part of the iGeneration and I found tea dull in comparison with strong, sultry coffee and all the sugar-laced offerings of Starbucks and co. Until I arrived in New Zealand, began missing home, bonding instantly with any other English people I met no matter how diverse our background and started drinking tea. I embraced the English stereotype because it reminded me of my mum and dad and their many many cups of tea a day. It wasn't even until I returned and I was staggered by English trees that I realised just how much I had missed English trees.
Likewise, when I later attended university and befriended an adorable and minute young Pakistani girl, she developed a taste for spices far beyond the level she had cared for back home. She might as well have included lighter fuel in her cooking so inedible it was to me. And as if poisoning me wasn't enough, she didn't lay off the potency of spices until she'd given herself gastroenteritis.
I rediscovered my love for coffee but even to this day, I drink hot, sweet tea after a particularly hard day or whenever I need a little comforting. And if I miss my best friend? Out come the spices; minus the lighter fuel though...
No comments:
Post a Comment