We identify ourselves to others through a variety of means.  I have worn these ‘nametags’ among many others at one point or another: Mac, the teacher; Mac from Dover; Mac, Beth’s husband; Mac who went to Muskingum College; Mac, that quiet guy; Mac, the Sunday School teacher; Mac, Drew’s dad;  Mac, that guy who won’t  shut up;  Mac, the coach;  Mac, who graduated Louisville High School;  Mac, Andy’s son;  Mac, that crazy neighbor that might kill himself trying to trim an oak tree while standing at the top of a 20-foot ladder while holding a 10 foot extension saw.

In comparison to most of the world, the United States, at age 234, is pretty young.  In our country’s short lifespan, our population and it’s growth is mostly a product of immigration.  Except for Native Americans, most can trace their ancestry to other nations and continents.  And that ancestry there is what many also have also identified themselves with. Italians, Hispanics, Germans, African-Americans, Chinese,…

I am no anthropologist, but from my observations, but the pattern throughout the last century that I have noticed is that immigrants celebrate and identify their native culture while acclimating to their new home.  The children of those immigrants carry on many of those cultural traditions and pass them on to their own children.  But with each generation, the cultural traditions are practiced less and less as we identify ourselves as Americans more and more.  As a teacher, I will periodically ask a student with a unique last name what ethnicity it comes from.  80% of the time, the student has no clue.  Most students simply see themselves as Americans.

But many of you out their my age or older grew up in a family where a foreign culture still had a strong influence.  Several different Italian friends have told me of their childhood memories of going to their grandmother’s house each Sunday for a big family dinner.

My Polish college buddies, Mark and Mike Masloski, could Polka dance with the best of them. Full disclosure:  those two are elite dancers in just about any musical genre.  They might even be world class at the Waltz!

Many of you out there could tell of your own memories like German potato salad…

Ukrainian Easter Egg decorating…

Greek Weddings…

and Swedish Fish…

Are these really connected with Sweden???

As for me, my cultural memories can be traced back to my great-grandmother, Antoinette Branisel, who came over from Slovenia (a small country which became part of Yugoslavia), around World War I.  She had a thick accent, and could bake a great ‘Potica’ nut roll.

When she visited along with my Aljancic grandparents, we could count on my dad to cue up the Frankie Yankovic music.

My Aljancic grandparents, as well as my dad, are all gone now, and along with that, most of their Slovenian traditions.  I can still pull off a poor imitation of Grandma Sylvia’s special potato salad, and when my kids are in the car with me on a Saturday morning, I periodically will tune the radio station to 88.1 WZIP for some hip polka music.  They love it—NOT!!!  But those cultural traditions of my family are now pretty much limited to my fading memories.

The question is, what is this cultural analysis essay doing in a sports blog??  The answer is that for many Americans, the culture that they associate, celebrate, and pass down to their children no longer is connected to ethnicity.  It’s connected to something that they are passionate about.  For some, it might be fixing cars, or fishing, or embroidery.  But for most that passion would be…

SPORTS!!!!

STAY TUNED FOR PART 2.