Seatbelts as a Remnant of Cultural Identity

Continued from page 8 and excuse me every five minutes since “politeness matters a lot in American culture” (this, despite being much less fluent in English than I was at the time). It was her who walked me through the different names produce had at the grocery store (bell pepper instead of capsicum was a big shocker to me), introduced me to the joyous concept of dollar stores, and encouraged me to go out and explore the city for myself.

But despite the lengths she went to ensure that her child would, at least on the surface, be regarded as “one of them,” she never had me put on a seatbelt in her car. This is less a result of her not caring about road safety (to the contrary, my mom always ensures to drive at exactly the speed limit — it’s quite impressive), and more her own habits in this regard guiding her way: seatbelts were out of sight, out of mind. And because she never reminded me to put on my seatbelt in the backseat, I never learnt to. So now, unfortunately, despite the hopes of many people around me, it’s probably been ingrained enough in my brain that I probably never will.

I don’t know why — but I have a strange sense of joy about that. Perhaps it’s reassurance, in a sense, that no matter how Americanized I’ve become in my years studying abroad, no matter how much I “pass,” I hold my cultural identity in my heart in this strange, non-consequential way.

by Quinn Nelson ’25