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National Identity
Finding
its National Identity
By
Roxana Arama
I
was born with ten fingers and
ten toes. My mother was so
relieved when she counted them
that she failed to notice that
I was born without a national
identity.
I
don’t remember when I first
learned that I belonged to a
country, but I do remember
when I learned that my
language was one among many.
One day I asked my mother if
she noticed that our thoughts
didn’t float like clouds
inside our heads, but were
made out of words and it took
us time to think them through.
Of course, she said, people in
other countries think in their
languages as well.
In
second grade, I wrote a
composition about my love for
Romania. It ended with an
exclamation point. I loved my
country, and why wouldn’t I?
It was wonderful there in the
wintertime when we could play
for hours in the snow outside
the grocery store while our
parents waited in line for the
food rations. It was wonderful
there in the summertime, too,
when we could stay out late
for hours before the
electricity turned on for the
evening.
In third grade, I
made sense of that love for my
country. I was supposed to
love everything between the
Danube, the Carpathians, and
the Black Sea, but my
affection had to go cold at
the Hungarian and Yugoslavian
borders. I was encouraged to
extend my love toward USSR,
our eastern neighbor.
I finally put all
the pieces together in fourth
grade, when we started
learning the history of
Romania from the Romans on.
For the first time it was “us”
and “them.” Romanians were
always the good people, and no
matter what, they seemed to
succeed in their historical
endeavors. I was so happy to
be on their side; any other
country was pitiful, always
being defeated, or, in the
best case, ignored by us.
In
the Literature class, we read
stories about the proletariat
fighting the bourgeoisie, the
peasantry fighting the
landowners, and the children
helping their struggling
families to fight against
exploitation and injustice.
Rich people never had kids. We
read stories about the
victories we had in WWII,
where, for whatever reason, we
fought along with the Germans,
but then we helped the Russian
army win the war when we
realized that Nazis were bad.
When we had electricity, I
would watch the TV shows about
the capitalist world on
Thursday evenings. I knew that
we were socialists, which
meant that everybody was
equal. But the poor people in
capitalism: they lived under
the bridges, they were in
black-and white, they had
drugs and guns, they were
exploited. I asked my mother
what she thought about the
poor people in capitalism, and
she told me we would talk
about that when I grew up.
By
then, I knew what it meant to
be Romanian and I was proud of
my people.
Things changed in seventh
grade, after the revolution of
December 1989. We had cartoons
on TV every evening and no
more electricity shortages.
The poor people in capitalism
brought us humanitarian aid:
blankets, medicine, and
chocolate. Then they brought
us their movies, their music,
their clothes, and, soon
enough, their dreams.
We
could buy things now, we
didn’t need to wait in line,
but it seemed that we never
had enough money for buying
anymore. The people who had
been in power before were
still in power now, because my
parents didn’t know for whom
to vote: the old and the
corrupt or the new and the
corruptible. They wanted
things to be pretty much the
same as before, just with more
freedom and with more TV.
Things became confusing. In
ninth grade, I wanted to
become a spy so I could travel
the world. In twelfth grade, I
wanted to become a NASA pilot
so I could travel on board the
Starship Enterprise to new
worlds and new civilizations.
Romania had democracy and
horoscopes, but I wanted to go
to America and beyond.
I
came to America, where most
people barely know anything
about Romania, my country, the
one that goes back 2000 years,
the one that has the bravest
and the most virtuous people
in the history of humankind –
except for the last two
generations or so. However, in
America, I learned that I came
from the land of Dracula. I
have been trying ever since to
pop out of the stereotype.
Here many people believe that
the Americans are the best and
most important people in the
world – which means that the
Romanians are not. Maybe I
should go back and tell the
Romanians that they have been
mistaken all along. And while
at it, maybe I should stop by
France, and England, and
Indonesia, and Rwanda, and
Korea, and Iran, and…
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