Talking with a friend recently, she observed that most white Californians fall into an ethnic blackhole. Unlike the East Coast, where Americans proudly claim their Italian, Portuguese, Eastern European or other heritage, Californians find themselves on the fence. Not only do many caucasians sitting out west lack distinctive ethnic characteristics, most don't even acknowledge their roots. Are they embarrassed of their national past? Do those of German heritage want distance from a fascist regime that is now more than a decade vanished? Do French-Americans feel funny owning this elite background while lacking the sexy accent?
Many of us seem to walk the streets of this nation's most diverse community rootless, trailing our crumbling dirt behind us, leaving a path away from us but not toward us. We exist mostly as this country's most obvious melting pot, having melted into an amoeba-like structure void of form. It's no wonder we enjoy a spicy tamale or tangy Korean barbeque, or that we indulge our tastebuds in sultry curries or sweet and sour pork. We want the sexy, provocative story, but not the lurid, humiliating atrocities. And, so, we find ourselves lost, floating through a town of more than 150 languages, a popular port to the world, walking by Tibetan clothing boutiques in our bland Birkenstocks and khaki shorts believing that an era of peace and love could pass as our ethnic heritage. So easily, we grasp onto mysterious religions and their alluring aromas of incense.
Who will we be, white Californians; what past will we claim; what future will we embrace? It is exciting and frightening all at once, but a moment open to all that is possible.
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