“Your assignment is to think about your cultural identity and heritage. Analyze your personal experiences, values, and ideas! Our group discussion will be next class period.”

Cultural identity. The phrase is a sharp, twisting feeling in my chest, like biting into a candy looking like cherry but tasting of green apple. Layers of medicine sweet coatings and sticky sour cores. Not everything is as it seems and the truth is hard to think about, much less look in the eye and stare down.

What is my culture? I live in America, land of the free and home of the brave. The saying advertises sweet green grass behind perfect picket fences and lavender hills dusted with heather blossoms, golden canyons and cobalt blue seas. It promises equality, justice, protection, civil liberties for all. American culture was built on the ideals of those truly trying to build something better for themselves and their people. But that culture was also built on the backs of slaves, hands bleeding and calloused, refused even the most basic human rights. It was built over the bones of native people, whole tribes and cultures torn away and buried beneath Western ideas while unexplained sickness spread over their lands. It was built with the blood of women, expected to remain silent as their bodies were taken away from them, opinions pressed into the backs of their throats. Our perfect postcard is pocketed with gaps, holes in our history that we don’t dare look too closely into. It’s become more visible now than it was before, but it’s always been there. Land of the free and home of the brave. A nice sentiment, sure, a copy-and-paste sort of saying to stick on tacky postcards and mail to distant relatives for the family holiday card. Who exactly still believes it?

What is my culture? I grew up in a home with a Jewish mother and a Catholic father. I remember driving up to LA to visit both sides of my family, greedy toddler hands reaching for viscous gravy and waxy gelt with equal verve. I pressed the patterns of my fingertips into thick carpet while my grandmother lit my mini menorah for me because I was too scared to hold the match. I wriggled in my seat and tapped my toes as I waited to be set loose to dive under the Christmas tree in search of my presents, which were obviously to be counted and compared in size and weight to my sister’s gifts. And as I got older, I remember getting strange looks from my classmates as I reached for the only Hanukkah coloring page because why don’t you just take the Christmas one does it really matter that much aren’t you Catholic too? In middle school, a friend huffed at me when I said I identified as Jewish and pointed out that you aren’t just Jewish your dad isn’t Jewish so you technically belong to both religions. This year, I laughed when I admitted I didn’t know the story behind Easter and my classmates just stared and I heard familiar whispers of wait isn’t her dad Catholic why doesn’t she know the story she isn’t fully Jewish anyways. When did it become everyone else’s job to decide whether or not I’m really Jewish?

What is my culture? I participated in my city’s Pride March over the summer and I’d never been more proud to sport the blue, pink, and purple colors of bisexuality. I cheered and waved my numerous flags and snagged as many beaded necklaces as I could. My friends marched right at my side, each decked out with their own colors and rainbow merch to show their support. I was surrounded by likeminded students, classmates, and family. There was no shame, no debate, no negativity to block out the city-wide party being thrown. But the next week, I came across an article explaining the details of the hoax that was bisexuality. The week after that, I saw a thread of posts mocking and slandering the very idea of pansexuality, calling it “the trendy new bi.” It referred back to the notion that anyone who wasn’t gay or straight was just “fence sitting” and shouldn’t be included in the LGBTQ+ community anyway. A few months later, I was asked, “Are you, like, really bi, or just, y’know, undecided or whatever?” and was expected to answer as though the question didn’t make me feel like my chest was collapsing in on itself. Where did the pride and acceptance disappear to?

“Alright, is everyone ready for our class discussion? You all should have given this some thought over the weekend. I want everyone to be completely honest. What is your culture? Yes, you? Yes, go ahead and share what you were thinking about.”