Looking at a lake in
rural Ontario and seeing not
much on it, except a canoe, and a log cabin across the water.
The emptiness, the stillness,
of our wilderness.
The sulky naive earnestness
of Canadian government
bureaucrats.
The first snow of our
winters.
The Christmas tree lots.
The futile complaining
about the domination of other countries.
The French cafes of
Outremont.
Montreal European cheesecake.
The ability to walk
down the street with Joe Wong and not be
eyeballed for being a Chinese guy and a white girlfriend.
Discount two movies
for one second rate movie theatres.
Butter tarts.
Sugar pies.
Feeling superior to
Hockey Night addicts.
Perfect hygiene or the
memory of it.
Being able to cry and
not get laughed at.
Saying, eh?
Canadian librarians.
Blending in with everyone
else, not standing out.
Red autumn leaves.
My local bank and all
the friendly trustworthy men and women
who work at RBC.
Joe.
Barbara.
Dad.
Walking on Mont Royal.
Walking at English Bay.
The
shared memory of our people, the sentiment that is elusive,
that is not there really, that was
once, that keeps you going, that is the heart of identity, the
individual and the collective,
the roots of what you are, that you
must never turn your back upon.
That
you must never call yourself an Ex-Pat.
Ex,
a creature who was erased by cultural shifting, Ex, who
never was.
We
are.
I
am.
I
am Arielle.
I
am Canadian, like it or lump it.
I
am.
