By Dawn Edwards
I wouldn't let someone take my Canadian citizenship from me for anything.
~Jim Kale
When do you stop being a Canadian? This question has haunted me since I moved to the United States almost thirty-two years ago. My family had decided that enough was enough after watching one too many Tournament of Roses Parades in Pasadena on television, seeing the locals in shirtsleeves in January. Despite our "tough" Canadian exterior, the caché of bundling under yet another blanket to stave off the biting chill of a harsh Edmonton winter had long ago worn off.
The talk of possibly moving to California seemed to warm my face, even as I breathed ice crystals into my woollen scarf as I waited for the school bus. I'll never forget how long it took to thaw my clenched hands, painful pins and needles coursing through my flesh as I wriggled my blanched digits. I dared not tell my friends about this exciting prospect in fear of being ostracized. During the time my father travelled to San Diego for his job interviews, I kept this secret close to my heart, vowing only to reveal the truth once it became an actuality.
Once my dad confirmed our move to San Diego, I finally told my friends, who despite my fears, were more intrigued than jealous. I promised to "send some sunshine" in my letters and invited them to visit once we got settled. I knew I'd miss them, but the anticipation of this new life helped soften the scariness of change.
Less than two years later, following a trip downtown for the required INS photographs and a seemingly endless plane ride, we touched down on the tarmac at LAX.
The first thing I noticed was, of course, the palm trees. So many of them! They seemed almost artificial, as if Hollywood had set out its best props to make a stunning first impression. It worked. Everyone looked so happy and the sun seemed brighter here. Did they have their own special effects or was it just my excitement?
We ended up first in La Jolla, a gorgeous coastal town just outside San Diego. Dad's new office was close to base camp, a motel complete with kitchenette and within walking distance to the beach. The beach! I kept pinching myself.
As we settled in, everything seemed magical. Traversing the winding streets, the fragrant sea air mixed with the pungent aroma of the bougainvillea and filled us with wonder. These new experiences remain imprinted in my mind. So many differences to take in! Seaside cliffs, towering palms, Bird of Paradise plants, all added to the mystique of this new landscape.
Early on I realized we were foreigners when we gathered in a local diner and my father ordered fish and chips. What was brought to the table only remotely resembled the newspaper-wrapped, vinegar-sprinkled treat we had enjoyed at home. While this dish looked familiar, it came "naked," with only ketchup as an accompaniment. Weird, I thought, where's the newspaper?
Meanwhile our house hunting efforts, while entertaining to me and my brother Jason, were proving taxing for our parents. We toured prospective neighbourhoods and Jason and I were sold on each home that came with a built-in pool. This luxury was rare in Canada. In Edmonton, or my home town of Toronto, a pool was truly a short-term treat that was soon covered over for yet another winter. In contrast, it seemed that every other house had a pool, and Jason and I drove our parents batty as we pleaded for such an oasis. Even the one with the water so dank that I swear there were creatures living within the murk didn't put us off. We swore we'd clean it every day!
We did not get that house.
We settled on a house in a suburb called Mira Mesa. (I loved all the Spanish names — so different than at home.) Jason and I staked claim to our prospective rooms and the moving-in process began in earnest.
A month later another transition occurred as I passed through the doors of Wangenheim Junior High, facing seemingly millions of new peers. Soon enough, I realized how I stood out. Ending many sentences with "eh" was met with blank stares. Evidently Americans spoke a different dialect than I. The quirky sayings of my home country would only serve to isolate me further at precisely a time when assimilation was so important.
The "eh" was dropped immediately.
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Soon after this incident, the questions followed. Many times I found myself confirming that yes, Canadians did have indoor plumbing; no, we did not all live in igloos; and no, not all of us loved to play hockey! Frequently I felt more an oddity than a normal teen, trying desperately to be cool and "all-American;" acutely aware of my differences and alternately fretting and relishing in my uniqueness. One thing I did not adopt was spelling "American." I'd debate my teachers about the importance of using "her Majesty's English," even opting to get a few markdowns out of deference to the Oxford English Dictionary. I'd insert the letter "u" into words such as "color" and "favor" and I'd reverse letters in words — thus "metre" and "centre" would appear on my reports. Some teachers eventually chose to overlook my "misspellings," winking even as they got out their correction pens.
Eventually I became more comfortable with my adopted country and noted fewer differences between myself and my American compatriots. I felt more "normal," and spent less time obsessing about my "Canadianness."
Except for one thing. I never gave up my citizenship.
While I was proud to carry a green card and appreciated my parents' efforts to immigrate to the United States, something kept me from losing that last vestige of my affiliation with Canada.
Despite becoming involved in politics and current affairs, enjoying the freedoms shared by my American friends, and relishing the culture, something kept me tied to Canada. I could not get my mind around relinquishing that final attachment to my country of birth. It seemed so harsh, so final, so rejecting. I chose, therefore, despite my being a political "junkie" and giving up my right to vote, to remain Canadian. It was often hard to explain to my American friends why I would live so long in the States without "making the commitment" to become a citizen. I'd counter this argument by asking them, "Could you give up your American citizenship?" Most would say no.
See, despite my growing to love fish and chips sans newspaper and vinegar, proudly flying the Stars and Stripes on the porch of my country farmhouse, actively participating in the political process, carting my son to Boy Scout meetings, and being an avid San Diego Chargers (sorry Toronto Argonauts!) fan, even after almost thirty-two years, I still consider myself Canadian. I proudly fly my flag on Canada Day, adorn my luggage with maple leaf tags, and persist in spelling "English-English" in all but my business correspondence.
If you aren't from Canada, you might not get it.
But as I have always said, you can take the girl out of Canada, but you can't take Canada out of the girl.
Eh?
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