Kas nozīme būt Latviski? (Or, What Does It Mean To Be Latvian?)

If you were to hop on a plane and fly east, across the Atlantic Ocean, past France, Germany and Poland, you would hit one of the smallest, most ambiguous, least-understood countries in Eastern Europe: Latvia. You have never heard of this Baltic state? You’re in good company, for I cannot count how many times in my life that I have had to explain to friends where my ancestors are from, what language I speak to my dad over the phone, and why I disappear for six weeks every summer to be with kids across America and Canada and dress up in funny, multicolored woolen costumes in the blazing summer heat and dance to accordions playing upbeat, twangy foreign music.

To the few members of the elite “Of Course We Know About Latvia” group: You may roll your eyes and nod your heads in offended exasperation, but be wary. You may know Latvia was under Soviet control, that it is a Baltic state, or that the girls are pretty and blonde. While all of the above is true—especially the pretty, blonde girls part—few people understand what it actually means to be Latvian. Being Latvian isn’t about having high cheekbones and grandparents with thick accents. Latvians are proud—not of themselves as individuals, but as a whole, a people. For overcoming the rule of the Soviet Union after 50 years, we are proud of the country and the culture we struggled, succeeded, and are continuing to preserve. That Latvian pride has transferred from generation to generation, and it is what makes us the steadfast, determined group of people that we are today.

How do I meet a Latvian? Latvians are scattered throughout America and Canada, so, in order to befriend a Latvian, you simply have to know what to look for. First, you must find a surname that looks foreign, usually consisting of weird characters and ending in “-iņš” (“Kalniņš,” “Bērziņš,” and “Ozoliņš” are all strong examples). Once you have established that the last name is arguably Latvian, you approach (cautiously—a Latvian may be a proud individual, but is not always inclined for probing questions) and ask the candidate how he feels about pork, sauerkraut, and broiled potatoes. Only a true-blooded Latvian will swell with pride and exclaim, “My people invented that meal!”

What brings such a small, scattered group of people together? Latvians have an innate need to stick together. When our grandparents came over during the communist invasion, all they had were each other. They established communities all over America, from New York to California, and raised their families in cultural emersion. They founded Latvian schools, churches, and summer camps for their kids who, in turn, sought out other Latvians, married each other, and raised our generation of Latvians. We go to the same summer camps, Latvian schools, and churches built by our grandparents and forge friendships with the kids of our parents’ best childhood friends. (We often end up dating our parents’ camp sweethearts!) We have been raised to value the meaning of a community. Latvians across the U.S. and Canada travel far and wide to be together, whether it be for parties, confirmations (which end in parties), or family functions (which are parties in and of themselves). Because we are so widely dispersed, it is not unusual for Latvians to spend twice as much time traveling as actually being with each other.

What do Latvians do when they’re together? We may be a small group of people, but when you walk in on a roomful of Latvians, the crowd seems bigger than Woodstock. The Latvian pride fills the crowded room and resides among the beer bottles and pīrāgi—a strictly-Latvian snack concocted of chopped bacon and onions baked in a fluffy, golden-brown, doughy bread. Latvian women are proud of their pīrāgi and refuse to reveal their secret recipes to each other; even family members understand the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Nowhere does “until death do us part” ring truer than among the Latvian grandmothers of our generation and their pīrāgi recipes.

Although food is a central focal point at Latvian get-togethers, we bond over more than Yuengling Lagers and sauerkraut. Latvians are, were, and always will be singers. Our grandparents crossed the Atlantic with nothing more than the songs in their heads—the only part of their identity not taken away by the Soviets. These ancient, traditional folk songs (ranging in theme from wandering through one’s field with his horse to “drinking from the beer glass now, because when we’re old, water will have to do”) have been passed down through generations, and when Latvians congregate, a few hours of steadfast singing is inevitable. And everyone—from 7-year-old children to 95-year-old grandparents—proudly joins in.

After the songs are extinguished, Latvians push away the tables and chairs, grab partners, and dance. Like our folksongs, the traditional folk dances have been passed down through the generations. We can polka around in circles for hours—Latvians seem to have an unnaturally high tolerance for dizziness—and when we finally sit back down, panting and sweating, we smile, simply unable to imagine what the unfortunate, non-Latvian does for fun.

I think I have 12% Latvian in me; am I considered a Latvian? We Latvians have various standards for considering someone “One of Us.” Some believe it doesn’t matter how little maroon and white blood one has flowing through his veins, while others, especially those of the earlier generations, only consider full-blooded Latvians a part of the community. Personally, I am inclined to disagree with the latter view, as I am only half-Latvian. You are probably thinking, Only half? What does she know about all this Latvian stuff? To me, it is unimportant how much Latvian you have in you; what matters is what you do with it. Sure, you can join one of the many “Latvians Unite!” Facebook groups and attend the massive annual parties but does that make you Latvian? Some say you are only Latvian if you attended Saturday schools and speak the language fluently. While that is undeniably a major part of being Latvian, I believe it is more than that.

To be a true-blooded Latvian, you must care. You must care for your country’s history. You must care for your grandparents and parents, and appreciate the effort they made to raise you in a Latvian family. Most of all, you must care about the future. True Latvians will do anything and everything in their power to preserve their heritage. They will raise their children to speak the language and appreciate the culture, and to raise their children the same way. The Latvian population is slowly decreasing with each generation, but we are striving to brighten our future.

I have a shirt that reads: “Be kind to a Latvian—we’re an endangered species.” As our numbers decrease, our pride increases. Our Latvian pride alone is what will save us from extinction. That Latvian pride is what makes a Latvian truly a Latvian.