A common fact that is often overlooked about my life is that I am in fact 100 percent Hungarian.

With that comes the second, and more entertaining fact that my parents are both from the region, and have just recently migrated over within their generation.

Although I was born in Chicago and raised a majority of my life in the U.S. (with the small, few month gap of enrolling in Kindergarten in Hungary) I have a sedentary lifestyle that most others cannot match up to.

There’s always been an exclusive divide and existential crisis within myself regarding my authenticity as an American citizen and my Hungarian heritage. Although not as detrimental as others may have it, I always questioned my legitimacy of claiming the title of 100 percent Hungarian, when in fact I’ve been so idealized and washed by the American culture.

To my peers, I never seemed ‘out-of-the-ordinary’ (in terms relating to heritage, or course—because otherwise there’s always something off about a teen with weird colored hair and poorly applied makeup.) I had participated in school events, dressed within the style of fashions, didn’t have an accent, and never admitted too much about my home life.

Never fear, though, the parental unit’s have done their deeds with making sure both my sister and I never forget our heritage and that they themselves had been raised in what seems like an entirely different world and context.

My father always started his stories with the golden laden, “Back in the old country…” before embarking on retelling the tales of almost drowning in various ravines around the area, being chased in the backyards of neighborhoods by older people carrying rolling pins, or learning Russian in school because of the occupation of the USSR in the 60’s.

There’s more to what makes foreign parents different from non-foreign parents besides the slew of mispronounced words (such as switching out “w’s” for “v’s” so “Vhere vere you last night?!” becomes a common phrase I endured hearing throughout my high school career.)

That’s the first different within having foreign parents, there’s often a misunderstanding of what is okay in this culture versus another one. Most of the time, though, I relish in these differences because compared to my ‘mutt friends’ (which for the time being refers to those who don’t have 100 percent clarity in their heritage—bear with me for the crude terminology) I’ve got it easier.

Take for example the stance and time in which we’re currently in. My friends always complain about having helicopter moms and dads, even while in college. Finding their parents keeping them under wraps and under close eye; monitoring their credit card spending, calling nightly to make sure they aren’t up to any trouble (especially on the weekends), threatening to cut them off from financial support if adorning their bodies with permanent ink or piercings, and implementing curfews while at home on breaks, or forcing them to stay in to spend some family time without technology.

The difference here is in my parent’s culture. Once an individual is in their teens, they’ve got some leverage in making their own choices. My parents themselves always stress that they were already out on their own and fending for themselves at the age of 14 (while at the same age in retrospect, I was crying to my favorite bands and feverishly nervous about attempting to make a phone call to a department store, asking if they had seen a green jacket I had left behind one fateful weekday.)

So in comparison to my friends, once I turned 18, my parents had given me the okay to do as I please. Of course, it’s always been in reason but reflecting now on it, I respect my parents enough to know not to step out of boundaries and to appreciate the freedom I have. I have house keys, so I never have a curfew. But I make sure to tell my mom an estimated time of arrival-- just out of courtesy.

I’ll still ask for permission for things, because after all, I still live at home during the summers and respect my parents enough to not just hunker down where ever I please and leave a nomadic life, stopping occasionally at home to mooch off of some free food before embarking on the next hippie adventure-- no, no, on the contrary my parents belief in allowing us to make our own choices and live a life that is increasingly independent of their radars has allowed me to realize the amount of respect my parents have adorned on me, so as courtesy the same should be given back to them.

The dichotomy may not seem too vast between America and my parents homeland, after all, Hungary is a European country, and many seem to just lump American and European cultures together because of their proximity with the history of colonization and imperialization.

There are some differences though that people may not realize. For example, the setup of towns and cities in Europe are much different than they are here in the U.S. and because of that public transportation is more valued than individual modes of travel.

Because of that, and also the fact my mother came here in her early 20’s, she hadn’t gotten her license until she was 26. My sister and I were headed towards the same fate. There was a severe misunderstanding of the value of having a license. Thank god for the school system and implementing the requirement to take drivers ed before graduating, because otherwise I’d be out of luck. (Of course, that doesn’t stop the fact that my parents aren’t the most avid supporters of having us drive, but we’re taking things by baby steps.

Growing up with foreign parents also meant having BOMB ASS food every night. In fact, just every meal. My parents didn’t often make me lunch, but when they did, you could guarantee there was no Lunchables in there. Even the word PB&J was unheard of and outlawed in my house; as weird as it sounds, it’s simply something not ‘believed in.’ But jellied tongue sandwiches, leftover goulash, Langos, or ANYTHING covered with Paprika? You BEST BELIEVE I brought all that and more.

Bringing over friends for a meal was always an interesting time because there was this newfound glory in showing off what differences I encountered at home. Friends would always gawk and stare at what we ate-- and most of the time they enjoyed it! But it was as fun for us to watch their reaction as it was for them enjoying the food. And people never leave our house hungry. One main ideology in Hungarian (and most Easter European countries) is that you never let the guest leave hungry. And so there’s often lots of, “eat more, eat more! You’re too skinny!” or something of the variety.

There’s also a new aspect of having social media invade this sphere. There’s obviously a generational gap between kids and their parents when it comes to technology, but when it comes to other cultures, there’s an extra step added in between.

Often times I’ll end up seeing tons of posts on Facebook written in Hungarian, mostly poking fun of the culture itself or sharing crude jokes poking fun at the government or people (typical memes really.)

Mixtures of English and Hungarian (can the word Hunglish be branded for that...?) are scattered across my timeline, as well as evidence of my mother reconnecting with old friends via their walls (and the tremendous amounts of comments that stream from the original post.) and not to mention her own album where she portrays all her Hungarian cooking:

At the end of the day, though, no matter how many unusual quirks my family might have compared to the average one (as cliché as that sounds *barf*) there’s no mistaking that my parents love and support me just in any similar fashion of another family. There’s differences in language and culture and traditions, but no difference when it comes to the love between kids and their parents (even if that means the love my parents give can be followed by a flurry of satirical insults-- proven to help me “build character” evidently.)

But with all jokes aside there is no difference in the admiration and adoration my parents give me, that any of your parents might bestow on to you. So yeah, it’s interesting and fun having foreign parents, but underneath all the accents, miscommunication, bomb ass food, weird traditions and quirks, there’s a heart and support system, just like any other family has.