Virginia's Cultural Mosaic

After reading Choo and Moon’s article about the different facets of one’s own cultural mosaic, I thought deeply about what titles I subscribe to, what cultural norms I hold, and I tried to piece it all together. My primary titles that I hold close to my heart are: mother, wife, white, middle-class, reader, learner.
With my son turning three next month, the title of mother is relatively new to me, the depth of this role has changed me into a more loving and compassionate individual. My son means everything to me. The role of wife conjures up the ideal homemaker, although I work full-time and work on graduate school part-time, so the traditional thoughts about what a “wife” should be I am not. I do not cook every night, I do not have a spic-and-span kitchen, and I do not even own an apron! Rather, I am a wife that attempts to give support and love to her husband, but sometimes fails in asking him enough about his day or keeping him fed. Yes, I have heard him complain about the lack of dinners!

My skin color is white and I’ve always been curious about what really is beneath it. Where did my ancestors come from? What part of Europe or the world did my ancestors create their lives? I’ve always wished my family knew more, but on both sides, vague answers were all I ever got.
My maiden last name is Vogan. I used to believe it was German, because my father told me so when I was young. A German-born woman I once worked with disputed my claim and said that Vogan was not a German surname, that it was Dutch. I went back and asked my father, and he just shrugged. Dad sighed and said, “Maybe we’re Dutch then. But I think there’s a little German somewhere in my family.” My mother has no idea about her ancestry, but she has long straight black hair, dark brown eyes and a warm brown complexion. I’ve questioned her about possible Native American roots. She has no idea. The other rumor is that in the Blue Ridge Mountain area where she was born and raised there could have an African-American somewhere in her blood. But she doesn’t know and unless I myself pry into our past, I will never know. I have contemplated for years finding out more about my family’s history. I resemble my Dad much more, with his clear blue eyes, blondish features, pale skin that burns almost instantly. I’ve always thought the term “white” just lumped a ton of different cultural peoples together in a big pot. I’ve always wished to distinguish myself by claiming one group, or even two groups. My husband has some of family tree completed, and it gives him much satisfaction to say he’s completely Irish on his paternal grandmother’s side.

I associate myself with being middle-class and suburban through and through. I’ve always lived in the suburbs. I was raised in a small town an hour south of Washington D.C. called Stafford. When I went to college, I transferred to Richmond VA to attend Virginia Commonwealth University. Even then, I chose to commute thirty minutes to school because I wanted to stay in a suburban area (Henrico, where I still live) rather than live in the urban environment. Urban areas always seemed exciting but scary to me. Good places to visit, but not to stay and live. I guess a part of me is a country girl, enjoying long yards of green grass, and green, oversized trees. When stress reaches a certain height in me, I close my eyes and I envision a gigantic field of sunflowers. It immediately quiets my racing mind, and gives me the repose I need.

I also associate myself as a reader and learner. Reading a great book is the best activity in the universe. I am so devoted to this title, this idea of being a consumer of information, that it pushed me into the idea of a librarian. Learning new technologies and being surrounded by books feels like the right fit for me. The title of librarian is one that I will uphold and cherish, because it sums up my interests neatly.

Secondary roles that are important me include being a daughter and sister. Although I live an hour away now, I still talk to my family often enough. I do not see them enough, but the hour drive is daunting for someone with no time. Another secondary role I have that has been on lockdown is that of a cancer survivor. At twenty-nine, when I was pregnant with my son, I was diagnosed with ocular melanoma. I still have my left eye, although the vision is not great. It is 20/50, which my eye doctors proclaim is “fantastic.” This cultural role, the cancer survivor, is one that I rarely choose to ponder. It springs to mind when I hear about someone else with cancer, or someone who died of cancer. And, then that awful fear consumes me, and I have to fight hard to put it back in its box. I cannot dwell on this cultural role; I cannot be worried about a reoccurrence. The only thing I can do is keep living life, to stay positive. There is something about cancer that puts a stamp on your heart forever: I do not have the luxury anymore to feel reassured about my health; anything could happen, and at any time, and I do not, and will not, trust my body one hundred percent ever again. Being a cancer survivor is a dubious group membership to belong to, but one in which I feel torn about. I beat cancer! I should feel relieved and ecstatic…but who wants to belong to that group at thirty-two years of age? I can assure you: no one.