"I remember always growing up thinking that being white was the default; the colorless sterile existance that came void of culture, because to me, Mom's twang and Dad's obsession with hunting knives were both more annoyances than culture. I had always wished I had been born somewhere different, anywhere really. And I distinctly recall several ocassions when I had told the other kids my dad was born in Puerto Rico and had spent his childhood on the beach so they wouldn't think I was just another white boy. I was convinced that my tolerance for spicy chicken and rice proved my underlying Spanish heritage, or at the very least, my love for spaghetti and meatballs brought forth my true, Italian ancestry.

But my affection for pasta and my tolerance for spice were both heavily feigned, and Dad's short, six-month stint in Puerto Rico when he was two, was strictly military business, despite my tales of grandeur. Even as a school kid I had dreams of a brighter, more exciting me, with some sort of unique cultural offering to my world, something inherently, effortlessly "Matt" that inspired admiration. Along the way in that childhood, I discovered that my history was enough in itself and did not need to be augmented. The people and places that are attributed to my family are interest and necessity in the American culture just as any other race. This epiphany originated in a very small but profound event in my life concerning grits, the staple food of the south.

Behind the homemade maple syrup and along side the off-brand cereals, perpetualy stood a seemingly never-ending box of Quaker Instant Grits®, which were definitely a manditory part of every Saturday morning breakfast. When I was about 9 or so, when I could still talk to my peers about other things than sex and self-conciousness, I recall a discussion about the new cartoons on ABC that fall, and how the network had become too geared towards a younger audience, when someone brought up Saturday morning traditions, evoking my inevitible comment concerning grits. I described the plate of food, the ever-loved scrambled eggs, the cheerfully buttered toast, the many uses of the pig in various meals, especialy breakfast, and good ole grits, the old-fashioned friend.

Their were looks were of disgust, confusion, disdain, which sparked my own perplexity concerning this unexpected circumstance of disagreement. Anna, my long time crush, devoured my soul and spit it back at me with her cutting comment, the first after what seemed like an hour of awkward silence.

"Grits are gross," she jeered with no regret. I was shocked, abashed, discombobulated, flummoxed, perturbed, all at once. Why? How was it possible? Her tactless comment pierced my world and the heart I wore on my sleeve fell to the floor and splattered with the grits I had cherished for so long. It wasn't until that night, after I had shared this experience with Mom, that I realized the grand implications this would have on my previous perspective of my own heritage.

I am different. I am southern. I am American. And I am proud of my heritage and that we are form such a variety of people. It's such a simple truth really, We don't know our own cultural distinctions until we become the minority. Seeing this bunch, this diverse crew of American sould, I feel the uniqueness of even a foreign birth. My heritage, my culture, my grits... are indeed my offering."

Fin. No proofreading yet though, typos abound.