Benjamin from Brother’s Campfire here.
Cassa Bassa told me she learns about my culture when I write about things
I never thought about it like that. I was raised in Colorado Springs, a melting pot of cultures due to numerous military bases.
Imposter syndrome is apparently a thing where folks have an internalized fear that at some point they will be exposed as a fraud. I don’t understand this concept at all; everything I have I fought tooth and nail with few freebies. No fraud fear here.
A military brat, I have absorbed a lot from different cultures. In a world of political correctness, there is no way to describe it without offense to some demographic. I will end up doing it anyway and hoping for the best.
I think imposter syndrome should have a different meaning, like taking something like a Holiday from a group and making it your own. For example, I am all over Cinco De Mayo and it has nothing to do with me or where my ancestors are from. I have read enough about it to score free Mexican food from my neighbors. I have also learned smatterings of Spanish to score these lovely delectables from numerous “donors.”
I have literally no fear of being found to not be Mexican, and I will impost as long as I can. (is that a verb?) This should be imposter syndrome if you ask me, but I don’t make the decisions about such things.
Well Cassa Bassa, I don’t know If I qualify to speak of culture, but here is a bit about Thanksgiving.
Our traditions are made up. When I was a child, it was my responsibility to prepare the turkey. I have passed this on to my son who prepared it this year without assistance. He opted to bake it legs down for super moist white meat and he succeeded.
My dad has made a tradition of reading a poem called When Father Carves The Duck.
When Father Carves the Duck (1891)
by Ernest Vincent Wright
We all look on with anxious eyes
When Father carves the duck
And mother almost always sighs
When Father carves the duck
Then all of us prepare to rise
And hold our bibs before our eyes
And be prepared for some surprise
When Father carves the duck.
He braces up and grabs a fork
Whene’er he carves a duck
And won’t allow a soul to talk
Until he’s carved the duck.
The fork is jabbed into the sides
Across the breast the knife he slides
While every careful person hides
From flying chips of duck.
The platter’s always sure to slip
When Father carves a duck.
And how it makes the dishes skip!
Potatoes fly amuck!
The squash and cabbage leap in space
We get some gravy in our face
And Father mutters Hindu grace
Whene’er he carves a duck.
We then have learned to walk around
the dining room and pluck
From off the windowsills and walls
Our share of Father’s duck
While Father growls and blows and jaws
And swears the knife was full of flaws
And Mother laughs at him because
He couldn’t carve a duck.
It is an entertaining bit and a family tradition.
This year, we elected to have Thanksgiving at home and missed this part.
We had turkey, corn, mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, bread rolls, deviled eggs, and stuffing.
White meat and cranberry sauce is almost always my favorite part of a Thanksgiving dinner.
All this made me think of my neighbor from Moscow. She cooked a turkey today and spent several days preparing it just right.
Several months ago, she celebrated the Fourth of July so vibrantly that the air smelled acrid for days.
She is more festive and patriotic than me. Is she an imposter? Absolutely not. She is part of the melting pot, embracing and absorbing the best parts of our culture. She is an American in all respects.
Perhaps one day I can convince her that I think Aleksandr Karelin is the baddest dude on earth so I can get some free food. I doubt it. She has caught me imposting in the past.
Thanks for reading the ramble, I hope your Thanksgiving was amazing!