In the previous entry, I used the word Krauty. And I am writing this bit because I know that somewhere, someone is waiting to anonymously type a comment that says, "How dare you insult Germans by using that slang? It is a slur and you are a racist jerk!"
Well, first off, I do love the sound of "kraut." Sauerkraut. Kraut rock. Two acquired tastes.
But secondly and more importantly: I am German, so there. Yes, there's Scottish blood on my father's side, but my mother is the daughter of a German immigrant. I grew up in a very German family, even though I didn't realize our Teutonic intensity until after I'd left home.
In my family, we sang "Silent Nacht" and "O Tannenbaum" during the holidays. We called snakes "schlangies" (a cuter form of schlangen) and called the family to dinner in German. Birthdays meant Black Forest cake, my parents' wedding reception was at Zum Deutschen Eck, and I had Opa and Oma rather than Grandpa and Grandma. Grandpa and Grandma are foreign words to me.
There are two big problems with being German. First, the ankles. Show me an old German lady with dainty ankles and I'll show you incredulity. Decades down the line, my ankles will be the size of my current waistline, and I will start wearing those thick tan stockings that squeeze them into sensible shoes. German genetics ain't so kind on that end.
Then there's the little problem of German pride. You can have Irish pride. People like that: hey, leprechauns and potatoes! And you can have Puerto Rican pride, French pride, whatever. But thanks to some truly immoral and horrible events committed by Germany during the past century, you can't really run around yelling "German pride, yeeeeeah! German people are tops! Deutschland, Deutschland, eine kleine awesome!" Questionable taste at best. The closest thing to sanctioned German pride is Oktoberfest, which—let's face it—is about tourists getting sloshed on watered-down Beck's while watching a group of accordionists pump out oom-pa-pa covers of Blink-182 songs.
Well, first off, I do love the sound of "kraut." Sauerkraut. Kraut rock. Two acquired tastes.
But secondly and more importantly: I am German, so there. Yes, there's Scottish blood on my father's side, but my mother is the daughter of a German immigrant. I grew up in a very German family, even though I didn't realize our Teutonic intensity until after I'd left home.
In my family, we sang "Silent Nacht" and "O Tannenbaum" during the holidays. We called snakes "schlangies" (a cuter form of schlangen) and called the family to dinner in German. Birthdays meant Black Forest cake, my parents' wedding reception was at Zum Deutschen Eck, and I had Opa and Oma rather than Grandpa and Grandma. Grandpa and Grandma are foreign words to me.
There are two big problems with being German. First, the ankles. Show me an old German lady with dainty ankles and I'll show you incredulity. Decades down the line, my ankles will be the size of my current waistline, and I will start wearing those thick tan stockings that squeeze them into sensible shoes. German genetics ain't so kind on that end.
Then there's the little problem of German pride. You can have Irish pride. People like that: hey, leprechauns and potatoes! And you can have Puerto Rican pride, French pride, whatever. But thanks to some truly immoral and horrible events committed by Germany during the past century, you can't really run around yelling "German pride, yeeeeeah! German people are tops! Deutschland, Deutschland, eine kleine awesome!" Questionable taste at best. The closest thing to sanctioned German pride is Oktoberfest, which—let's face it—is about tourists getting sloshed on watered-down Beck's while watching a group of accordionists pump out oom-pa-pa covers of Blink-182 songs.
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