I'll be Swiss-American

I’m not going to fight it any longer. From now on I am Swiss-American.

I used to think that we were all just Americans, especially if you were born here. But no, it seems that if your ancestors came from another country, you are Japanese-American, Chinese-American, African-American, etc. Both parents or grandparents or great-grandparents need not have been from the same country. Any percentage will do, and you can choose your persuasion after examining the different branches in your family tree.

Native Americans (another choice I could have made, by the way) only need be a small percentage native to qualify for reservation residency, so I guess my great-great-grandfather Gysi from Switzerland will do.

And so I must embrace my Swiss heritage, the innate ability to hoard funds, warble uncontrollably in the hills and manufacture imperfect cheese and musical cough drops. I will no longer be called William, a name foisted on me by my oppressors.  Instead, I will choose an ethnic name like Robinson of the Swiss Family.

I will master the native tools of my fathers, the Swiss Army knife, which, by definition, is many tools in one, although the can opener is a bit dicey.  I will eat only ethnic food, like Swiss Miss Cocoa and Ricola cough drops and I will defend my home like my forefathers defended their turf, by blowing up tunnels through the mountains. I will wear leather shorts when I am with my people and one of those hats with the curly brim and a feather.

For those of you not familiar with my native country, it is made up of political subdivisions called cantons, each with a distinctive flag, sort of like the states in the United States. Don’t be fooled. Although the country of Switzerland is famous for its non-involvement in wars, the component cantons are just as famous for their constant meddling, as long as the checks clear.

Swiss  have defended the Vatican and the kings of France. They have fought in the armies of Europe in their own units. Battalion Karrer helped man the French fortress of Louisburg in Nova Scotia during the 18th century, only taking a brief time out when the checks were not in the mail as per agreement.

Swiss-Americans are hard to spot on the street. We don’t have a distinctive skin color or anatomical features that jump out like some. Most of us have lost our accent.

But there is one way to recognize us. From generations of dwelling on mountainsides we have evolved with one leg slightly shorter. So the next time you are pants shopping watch for the guy thrashing through the inventory for a pair of 36 by 32 by 31. That’ll be me.

Bill Abrams resides (and researches his heritage) in Pine Plains.