“One summer,” I promised the youngsters, “we are all going to gather at the park and have a picnic.” The children were wide-eyed with excitement! They clapped their hands in glee at the thought of having “lunch with Terry Fox.” On that Christmas Eve, six children were focused on a twenty-two-year-old man who gave the greatest gift of all — himself — in a valiant attempt to make a better world for youngsters like them, who would carry forth his efforts and work toward a world without cancer.
~Dennis McCloskey
Richmond Hill, Ontario
Grateful to Be Canadian
I am a Canadian, free to speak without fear, free to worship in my own way, free to stand for what I think right, free to oppose what I believe wrong, or free to choose those who shall govern my country. This heritage of freedom I pledge to uphold for myself and all mankind.
~Former Prime Minister John G. Diefenbaker
The Belated Canadian
Canada is like an expanding flower — wherever you look you see some fresh petal unrolling.
~Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
“And where have you immigrated from?” the smiling white-haired judge asked as he shook my hand and handed me my Canadian citizenship certificate.
“Washington,” I replied.
He frowned. “Washington, D.C.?”
“No, Washington State.”
He frowned again. “That wasn’t far.” His perplexed expression made me smile. He was clearly accustomed to passing out certificates to immigrants from such faraway places as Asia, Africa and the Middle East. The border I crossed when I first came to Canada was only a half hour’s drive from where we now stood! I was glad the judge didn’t ask how long it had taken me to become a citizen after I’d immigrated. I was embarrassed by the answer — forty-three years! I suspected most of the would-be-Canadians present had lived in Canada no more than five years, all with intriguing and dramatic narratives as to why they left their homelands. My story would pale next to theirs. But it was still an important story to me — and to my children.
I grew up in a picturesque area of Washington. My two sisters and I enjoyed a classic, idyllic outdoor childhood, roaming freely without supervision or fear. Our parents instilled in us a love for God and country. We were taught that the United States of America was the best place on earth. We pledged allegiance to the American flag with hands on our hearts and sang “The Star Spangled Banner” with gusto. I never dreamed of leaving the “land of the free and the home of the brave” — until the summer our family went camping in Banff National Park, in Alberta. I was awe-struck by the Canadian Rockies and the blue-green alpine lakes. Wilderness and waterfalls and wildlife abounded. I thought I had died and gone straight to heaven!
“I want to live in Canada,” I informed my sister Carolyn one day in our travels. “Well, you’ll have to learn French,” she replied. “They speak French in Canada, you know.” But I was glad she didn’t make fun of my dream. In fact, we both took French in high school. We even discussed the possibility of someday attending a Canadian college. At the time, it seemed like an adventure. I wanted to become either an English teacher or a missionary. So when I met a boy who was attending a Canadian Bible college, I asked him to send me information about the school. I had my sights set on a theological school in Seattle, but the Canadian one was less expensive. And wouldn’t living in Canada be a dream come true? I didn’t realize then that Canada was not all mountainous, and only a small part of the population spoke French!
The 500-mile drive from my home to Vancouver seemed like a trek across the world to my eighteen-year-old mind. And in many ways it was a different world. The small campus was old and crowded. I shared a room with five other girls: three Canadians and two Americans. I was startled by how “normal” my new Canadian friends seemed. But I wasn’t prepared to be teased because I didn’t speak “proper English!” My roommates laughed when I pronounced creek as “crik” and roof as “ruf!”
“Cathy, just look how it’s spelled!” they chided. And they really guffawed when I said I was from “Warshington.” Being a sensitive, people-pleaser person and wanting to fit in, I decided to learn how to speak like a Canadian. At least it was a lot easier than French!
I attended this college for three years, but while home one summer I met a military guy stationed at Fairchild Air Force Base in Spokane. Two years later, after my graduation and his stint in the Vietnam War, we were married. After a brief time in Spokane, we moved to his home state of Louisiana for work. Before long, however, we were talking about moving back north — to Canada. Like me, my young husband had adventure in his blood. He wanted to live in a place where there was good fishing and hunting — and mountains! I felt lucky to have married a man who was on the same page — or map — as me!
In February 1972 we emigrated to Canada with a baby in our arms and another on the way. My husband’s job took us to Port Hardy, a wisp of a town on the northern tip of Vancouver Island. Here we learned to love the aboriginals and adapt to the Canadian way of life. We eventually lived in too-rainy Prince Rupert — where our daughter was born, too-freezing Yukon, too-hot Armstrong, and finally just-right Comox. British Columbia’s coastal mountains were the closest we got to the Rockies — except for our camping trips.
From time to time we considered becoming Canadian citizens. But the thought of giving up our U.S. citizenship seemed like an act of treason. Wasn’t Benedict Arnold considered a traitor because he sided with the British? And wouldn’t remaining American allow our children the choice to work in either country when they grew up? At the time, we weren’t aware of the possibility of dual citizenship.
In 1990 we divorced, and a few years later I was remarried — to a Canadian from Vancouver. I loved our old home in the suburbs, which faced a park and distant snow-capped mountains. And over twenty years later, I still love it.
My children were in their forties when my sons and I decided we were way overdue to become Canadian citizens. They both had been offered lucrative jobs in the United States, but planned to raise their own children as Canadians. As much as I appreciated my American roots, Canada now had a greater place in my heart. It made sense to become a citizen. I spoke like a Canadian, I thought like a Canadian, and I watched hockey like a Canadian!
It didn’t work out for us all to be sworn in together, so in 2015 we all attended three citizenship ceremonies. For the first time, we voted in a Canadian election. And as dual citizens, we agreed we had the best of both countries — freedom to live and think as we choose. The United States is my country by birth, and Canada is my country by adoption. I feel honoured (or honored!) to belong to both. I’m happy to be a Canadian — even if I’m a belated one!
~Cathy Mogus
Richmond, British Columbia
The Humbling
Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.
~John Milton
I am the only member of my family born on Canadian soil. My parents fled from Germany to Belgium shortly after World War II, then came here with my three brothers. They settled in Montreal. I was born two years later, automatically becoming a Canadian citizen before they all did. I grew up hearing stories of the “old country” — ad nauseum — and the difficulties and dangers my parents escaped. Eventually, those dark tales neither fascinated nor repulsed me. I simply considered them ramblings about ancient memories and times. And, after hearing the same stories over and over, I became desensitized to their impact.
Similarly, when they launched into accolades about how great this new land was, I felt no gratitude for the so-called advantages they claimed Canada offered. Compared to most, we were dirt poor. Why would I feel privileged when I was forced to eat lard sandwiches with watered-down soup for the fourth day in a row? I hated the baggy homemade clothes Mama sewed that I could “grow into,” the long monkey-sleeved sweaters knitted from wool scraps, and the shoes crushed
down in back that Papa could only afford to buy once a year. I resented being the brunt of classmates’ jokes, especially when Papa sent food, clothing and medicine “back home,” spending what little money we had on someone else. My complaints were quickly stifled with the terse reminder that I lived in a land of freedom and plenty, a privilege denied to many. “Not everyone is so lucky,” Papa would repeat.
It wasn’t until I’d been married for almost a decade that I became truly aware of what Canada had to offer. Never having known anything else, I took for granted my peaceful life of freedom and democracy, with its unlimited resources. Religious, racial and gender equality were my birthright, along with freedom of speech. I stated my views openly, with no fear of reprisal, unlike my parents who still spoke in hushed whispers if something displeased them. Politics bored me. I usually voted for the same party as my husband, who explained the current candidates’ platforms to me in a condensed version that didn’t make me sleepy. I truly didn’t care who ran the country as long as my taxes remained reasonable and none of my civil liberties were revoked.
However, my apathy and careless viewpoints changed drastically the year Papa, now finally financially comfortable, sponsored a four-month visit from his stepsister, Hela, who lived in Communist Poland.
Hela was a sweet, stout woman in her sixties. I liked her from the moment she enfolded me in her doughy embrace, seconds after stepping off the passenger ship that brought her here. Everything she looked at made her eyes light up with wonder, including my simple denim jeans. As she knelt to finger their texture, I noticed how worn and frayed her own clothes were. Her once-red sweater was a muddy pink from countless washings; her skirt was cleverly mended, but threadbare. A pathetically small, tattered cardboard suitcase held all her other belongings for her extended stay.
On the way home we stopped for a few groceries. Upon entering the supermarket, my aunt gasped, fell to her knees, and began sobbing. I looked around in embarrassment as Papa gently urged her to stand, cooing to her softly in Polish. Swiping at her tears, she apologized, explaining that she couldn’t believe the amount of food and merchandise available to us. For the next two hours we patiently followed Hela as she wandered up and down the aisles staring incredulously at the abundance. She gingerly caressed cans, jars and boxes as if afraid they would disappear if she tried to actually pick them up. She pointed to unfamiliar products, listening intently while Mama and Papa described their function.
I looked at my husband in confusion. “Don’t they have this stuff in Poland?” I inquired.
“Not really,” he replied. “Because of sanctions and shortages, even basic staples could cost a fortune.” He then explained that although some goods were available, most could only be bought on the black market for ridiculously high prices.
“But my father’s been sending her packages for years!” I protested, remembering the generous boxes he’d prepared.
“Many probably never even reached her,” he whispered. “Mail is intercepted and stolen all the time — especially something from North America.” Stunned, I continued to watch my aunt cry as Papa placed what she considered to be delicacies, even luxuries, into the cart; a pineapple, coffee, teabags — all groceries I took for granted.
Hela stayed that entire summer. Papa bought her a large steamer trunk so she could fill it with articles to take home. I added something with every visit, including gifts for her daughters — clothes, slippers, pantyhose, undergarments — things I now knew she couldn’t get in Poland. She accepted everything with weeping gratitude. Mama and I had to regularly check the contents Hela had packed after discovering she was hoarding perishables she believed could be reused. We removed bruised fruit, stale dinner rolls, small bags of coffee grounds and used tea bags, gently pointing out they would not survive the journey without going mouldy. Unaccustomed to this kind of abundance, Hela was used to consuming all leftovers, no matter how old they were.
Unlike the stories my parents recounted to me as a child, my aunt’s both fascinated and moved me. She spoke of standing in long lines for hours to buy severely rationed food, sometimes leaving with only vinegar or mustard. Theft was rampant, causing her or her husband to stay up nights to guard what little they had. Medications were almost impossible to get. She whispered those stories to me, her eyes darting around nervously as if terrified she might be overheard or arrested — much like my parents still sometimes did. Listening to her, I developed a new appreciation for my life. I asked why she didn’t try to stay in Canada. “My family is in Poland. If I don’t return, they will pay a price,” she replied sadly. I didn’t ask what the price was. The terror in her eyes convinced me it was an ugly one.
When we returned Hela to the harbour in September, her luggage bulged with new clothes and non-perishable food items. As we hugged her goodbye, we all cried. I knew I’d probably never see her again, and I wondered if exposing her to our abundant Canadian life had actually been a cruel torture rather than a blessing. Though she dreaded returning to the hardship and political repression of her homeland, her love of family was stronger than her longing to live in freedom. I admired her courage and wished her the best. I watched her ship as it disappeared over the horizon, then turned to go back to a life I would never again take for granted. Just as Hela had dropped to her knees that day in the grocery store, I wanted to drop to mine in gratitude for the advantages I had never truly recognized or appreciated before. I finally understood what “Canada, land of plenty and home of the free” truly meant.
~Marya Morin
St. Lin des Laurentides, Quebec
My Home, Sweet Home
Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.
~Anaïs Nin
I didn’t know what to expect when I stepped from the familiar shores of Great Britain and onto the gaping deck of the RMS Empress of England. It was April 1967, and I was filled with a mixture of excitement and dread. Dad had already flown to Canada three months earlier in order to find work and a home for us.
That left our brave mum with the entire responsibility of getting four young children, our Collie, umpteen suitcases and many crates full of furniture and personal belongings on board the grand oceanliner headed for Canada. Somehow we all made it to our cabins with our suitcases and Lassie was safely stowed in her roomy dog crate on the top deck.
I thoroughly enjoyed the five and six courses at every meal, and when the chef made me a birthday cake partway through our journey, I was thrilled. Turning eleven years old in the middle of the ocean was certainly a highlight for me. Mum told me I was one of the lucky ones because I never got seasick. One of my sisters and my younger brother, on the other hand, were constantly seasick. Poor Mum. I am sure she could hardly wait to set foot on solid ground.
One night Mum told us we were nearing the Canadian shore. She tucked us in early so we would be well rested for our arrival. Then it happened. A loud bang woke us with a start.
With visions of the Titanic in her mind, I’m sure, Mum was convinced we had hit an iceberg. She shot out of bed and grabbed all our life jackets. As we struggled to put them on, Mum was lining us up and waiting for the signal from the crew. Nobody seemed overly panicked though, and the crewmembers were excellent at getting everyone moving in an orderly fashion. Passengers poured out of their cabins and on to the top deck, close to the lifeboats, awaiting direction.
Nothing happened, and soon the “all-clear” was sounded. Hundreds of relieved passengers made their way back to their cabins. As we headed back to ours, some Canadian passengers broke out in a rousing rendition of “O Canada” because while on deck we had spotted land! Apparently, we had just entered the waters off Newfoundland and, because it was April, there was a lot of floating ice. It turned out our ship actually had struck a particularly big chunk, which was why we had all felt that big bang.
Some time later, as we neared the dock in Montreal, I stood on deck, mesmerized. En
ormous, spectacular buildings and pavilion-type structures dotted the harbour. I wondered if this would be typical architecture for our new home in Canada. Later, I discovered we had seen the opening of Expo 67 — the World’s Fair, and a huge celebration of the 100th anniversary of Canada’s confederation.
How blessed we were that day when our family stepped onto Canadian soil. Our lives were about to change in a big way, but we were ready. We had adjustments to make and plenty to learn about in our new country. I often wonder what it might have been like if Mum and Dad hadn’t taken that giant step of faith to immigrate to Canada. Then I think about all the opportunities I have enjoyed over the years and I am so very grateful they did.
In 1990, when I received my official citizenship papers, a reporter at the ceremony interviewed me and asked why I came to Canada. I hardly knew what to say, but then I remembered Newfoundland, the life jackets, the magnificent buildings at Expo 67, and Mum working so hard to get us to Canada in one piece. I thought of Dad on his own in a new country for almost four months. I recalled the love and the sacrifices my parents made because they knew we would have a better life in Canada. “Canada might not be my native land, but it is my home,” I told the reporter that day. “We came to Canada because this is a great country, and my parents knew in their hearts that it would be the best place to call home, sweet home.”
~Glynis M. Belec
Drayton, Ontario
Our Yard, a Canadian Tale
For to be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.
~Nelson Mandela
A few years back I was visiting my parents at their home in Vancouver, seated at the kitchen table drinking Ovaltine and reading the newspaper. Dad was retired and I remember thinking that life couldn’t get much more mundane than this. Then it occurred to me that I knew very little about his early life as the son of a Chinese immigrant in rural Saskatchewan.