Sometimes, I feel a little awkward identifying myself as an American, because it often feels like we fall into one of two extremes: we either reject anything unfamiliar or we turn on everything we used to love.

A clear example of the first is a recent controversy at a college, where students were unsettled by the introduction of a new style of music during a campus event. But because it was outside their usual experience, some reacted as though it were completely alien.

The second tendency—turning against our past—is everywhere. You see it in personal essays, videos, and social media posts where people recount how terrible their childhoods, schools, or communities were, only to embrace something entirely different and hold it up as the “real truth.” What could be stories of growth and discovery often come off as bitter rejection and fuel for ongoing culture wars.

These two patterns—rejecting the unfamiliar, and turning against your roots—have unfortunately become defining features of American identity for many. But personally, I’ve never really fit into either camp. And not because I’m exceptionally open-minded—just ask my spouse—but probably because I’ve spent time in a wide variety of environments.

I started out in a very structured, traditional setting. I still remember the buildings—high ceilings, ornate designs, the quiet that settled in as soon as you walked through the doors. Even the smells, like old wood and incense, marked it as a place set apart. As a child, I’d often spend the whole time staring up at the lights, lost in thought.

Later, my family transitioned to a much different environment. The buildings were plain, the style minimal. But what it lacked in architecture, it made up for in energy. The people were expressive, passionate, and intense. The change was dramatic—people raising their voices, crying, speaking freely, and showing emotion in a way I had never seen before. If the first place taught me reverence, the second taught me presence.

Eventually, I found myself in yet another community—this one centered on ideas, discussion, and critical thinking. People here debated everything: structure, belief systems, authority. It could be exhausting, but also intellectually satisfying. This place didn’t stir the emotions as much as it engaged the mind. And I appreciated that too.

Since then, I’ve spent time in even more communities—traditional, modern, minimalist, multicultural—and I can honestly say I’ve both appreciated and struggled with every one of them. But that diversity of experience has been a gift. It’s helped me avoid that knee-jerk reaction to either dismiss unfamiliar environments or overcorrect and disown the ones I came from.

I’m comfortable around people who express themselves loudly, and equally at home among those who sit in thoughtful silence. I’ve heard music that spans centuries and music produced last month, and I can enjoy both. I’ve seen people connect with something bigger than themselves in so many different ways that it’s hard to be shocked anymore—though it’s still possible.

That’s why, in situations like the one at that college, I try not to rush to judgment. A lot of those students had probably never experienced anything outside their usual setting. And let’s be honest—most of us aren’t great at embracing what’s new or unfamiliar.

But if they had spent just a bit of time in other environments—listening, observing, appreciating—they likely wouldn’t have reacted the way they did.

When I get frustrated with a certain place, idea, or system, I don’t feel the urge to do a complete 180. I’ve seen what’s on the other end, and I know it usually has its own strengths and flaws. So my path hasn’t been a series of wild swings from one extreme to another, but more like slow, steady turns—trying to grow without burning bridges.

Many people today express deep frustration with the traditions they were raised in. And I understand that. But often that frustration comes from only having known one way of doing things. If your only frame of reference is your own upbringing, then stepping away from it feels like total rebellion, because you don’t know what else is out there.

So people bounce from one end of the spectrum to the other—structured to free-form, strict to open, old-school to progressive, or vice versa. But if they had more exposure to other approaches, they might have made those transitions more thoughtfully—and more peacefully.

That’s not to say we shouldn’t stick with what fits us best. And I’m not suggesting we constantly jump from one thing to the next. But I do think we all benefit from stepping into environments that are radically different from our own—whether they differ in structure, values, language, or culture. Especially those shaped by different ethnic and cultural histories.

When we do that, we stop assuming our way is the only way. And if we ever feel the need to move on, we’ll do so with understanding and respect—rather than resentment and destruction.