Why have I never really looked at my own culture's art?

Perhaps you can recite the name of the form — the poetry, the weaving, the dance, the instrument — the way you recite the name of a grandparent you never had the chance to sit with. You know it belongs to you. You have simply never opened it. Often what stands in for engagement is a kind of pride worn at a distance — a photograph on the wall, a phrase repeated at gatherings, an outfit worn once a year. This is not false. It is simply not yet knowledge. Pride can exist without contact; contact is what you have not yet risked. There is no exam here, and no elder waiting to judge how late you arrived. There is only the tradition itself, patient in the way old things are patient, willing to be met by you at whatever hour you finally come to it.