Where Does the Pollen Go?

Cultural Pollination. I'm sure this isn't the first usage; I'm not so arrogant as to think that I coined the term. But I've never heard it so before so I'll at least give myself credit for it here.

What is cultural pollination? And what's more, why am I writing about it here?

Cultural pollination is the accepting, sharing, and adapting of cultures dissimilar from your own. It is the evolution of your own traditions and culture by adapting the unique traditions of another's. And it's what I'm being forced to do here. When I researched Sheffield, they did say that they were international. But I equated this with FSU's statement that they are "diverse," and so I didn't take it to mean much. But seriously, I've been tossed into a cultural whirlpool, and I'm drowning. That coming from a girl who is in a multicultural sorority. Perhaps I'm not being clear about the degree of diversity here. Let's see if I can be more vivid.

Let's start with the Asians.* The Judge, in West Side Story, when discussing the influx of Puerto Ricans in a not-so-elegant and intolerant manner, exclaimed "Help! I'm drowning in Tamales!" Well, folks, I'm drowning in wasabi. I mean, seriously. If all of the Asians of Sheffield united and planned to revolt against the British government, they could, in all seriousness, start a small colony here. I'm sure that people thought, when they heard I was moving to England, that the cultural experience would be nil. Well, they were wrong. I've never felt more out of place. I've honestly met more Asians than I have British folks. This may have to do with the fact that all of my flatmates, save one, are Asian. And the fact that my Asian flatmates have had their Asian friends over a few times, and so I've met all of them, as well. The Asian food mart is actually closer to where I live than the Tesco.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. My flatmates are wonderful! The other night, they had a party and made dumplings, and they made vegetarian ones just for me! It was so fun (pictures coming soon!), and I learned how to mix everything and fold dumplings, and I had so much food that I risked exploding if I consumed more. And they are all so friendly!

Now let's get on to our next cultural group, and the real reason that I'm writing this blog. The Middle Easterners. Where do I begin? At the beginning, I suppose, is a very good place to start (Thanks, Julie Andrews!). The first event I went to during Intro (Fresher's) Week, was the social at Interval Bar. It was just a little social for post-grads, and everyone was standing around looking awkward because they knew no one else there. So I'm at a table with my flatmate, and this guy comes up to our table and introduces himself. My flatmate asks him where he is from. "Iraq," he says. "Oh." I said, audibly. Fully formed, perfectly enunciated, round-lipped, I tasted the word as it left my lips before I could contain it. "Why?" he asks, "where are you from?" "America," I say. And everyone can smell the awkwardness, as the silence follows my declaration and everyone looks around nervously and sips their beer. It is in this moment that I realize, though I've met Muslims (and I am, in fact, friends with several), I have never met someone who is actually from the Middle East. Like, ever. (He tried to save the situation by making a joke about how we are neighbors, but it was beyond redemption).This situation is made worse by the fact that I routinely see this guy (his name is Muhammad, which inevitably makes me think of the big stink caused by that cartoon making fun of the prophet). And we never know what to do, so we just look at each other, acknowledge that we've met, and keep it moving.

Situation #2. Pub Crawl number 2 was this past Friday (and it's the reason I did not make it to my Peak District hike like I was supposed to Saturday morning). At our final bar, our resting place for the evening (and my new favorite watering hole because it reminds me of Potbelly's), I met an Iranian; he is the flatmate of my flatmate's class buddy (whew! Confusing). As we were introduced - we basically had the same exchange as Muhammad and I- only this time it was followed by the Iranian's friend saying, "Ah! He hates Americans!" Oh, dear. Then I had to launch into this long (and rehearsed) monologue detailing that I am an American, but I am not America; we're a diverse country, with equally diverse beliefs and viewpoints; it's not fair to hate me for something a few of my fellow countrymen think; blah, blah, blah. And that's when Harry Potter woke from the dead and blasted me with "Avada Kedavra" because that's what happens when you deliver monologues. Nah, just kidding. But he (the Iranian, not Harry Potter) finally confessed that he doesn't actually hate Americans, but that he was entertained by my soliloquy none the less. FAIL.

Whether in jest, or not, this situation is frustrating. I feel like I am a cultural ambassador for America; a representative of what she has to offer the world. And I hate it. Whenever I go out, whenever I meet new people, I'm always thinking "I have to make a good impression. What they think of me is what they'll think of all Americans." Must be on best behavior. I know that I'm being (unnecessarily) hard on myself, but this is, in a sense, very true. People will judge me. They will judge Americans because of me. And vice versa, whatever they already think about Americans they will project on to me.

But I can't complain because, well, I'm guilty of it, too. I went out Tuesday night with my flatmate and a few of our friends, and we discussed the stereotypes that each of us had about the country of origin of the other people there. We represented 5 nationalities (French, American, English, Irish, and Indian). I was honest, in giving my opinion on how I think most Americans feel: the French are a cheese-eating, baguette-carrying, fashion-obsessed, Pepe LePeiu laughing people; the English are snobs; the Irish are alcoholics; and Indians (not Native Americans) spontaneously burst into Bollywood style song-and-dance. Do you know what they ALL, every one of them, thought about Americans? We're fat people, who sit on our front porch in a too-small T-shirt, navel protruding, sipping beer. Ay caramba. I suppose it could be worse; at least they didn't say stupid, right? Right?! No wait, they think that, too (thanks George W. Bush!).

But, the point is, cultural pollination. I'm in a city with a multitude of people representing various nationalities. And the truth is, we all have misconceptions about each other. But we have the unique opportunity to prove each other wrong. I'm learning a lot about other people (and I'm pretty sure that by the end of the year I'll actually BE Asian), and they're learning a lot about me (and, about America).

So where does all this cultural pollen go? In my heart and mind (and occasionally, stomach).

Come on baby, pollinate me!

*Though India is considered a part of the Asian continent, I am excluding it here. There are a lot of Indians, which I naturally expected, but the Asians (Chinese, Japanese, Taiwanese, Malaysians, etc. outnumber them).