My brother, sister, and I, as well as all of my cousins, were born in Canada. We were city kids, and knew we lived in one of the best countries in the world; we just didn’t know why. All those times that Dad had said: “You never know where life is going to take you,” I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant. So that day I asked him about his past. My sudden interest sparked something in him I’d never seen before. He immediately rushed upstairs and dug out some newspaper clippings and mementos from his youth. As he laid the stained, yellowed clippings on the table in front of me, his eyes shone bright with excitement and his voice became animated.
“I was born in Canada,” he began, “but when I was five years old your grandfather took the family back to China. We lived near Canton for nine years so I could learn the language, culture and traditions of the old country. But political unrest was brewing and the country became unstable because of war between China and Japan. Your grandfather was a smart man; he sensed that China was on the eve of revolution, and men like him with personal wealth and property would soon be unwelcome. There was talk that if the communists came to power, all personal assets of property owners would be confiscated.
“So your grandfather packed us up just before the attack on Pearl Harbor — your grandma and your four aunts and me — and we boarded a ship back to Canada. But first my mom and my sisters buried all of their jewellery in the riverbank. I don’t know what happened to it, probably washed away or maybe it is still buried there!”
Dad paused to collect his thoughts, and I could see in his expression the images of his past returning to his memory. “When we returned to Canada I was fourteen,” he said, “but I could no longer speak English so the Regina school officials put me in grade one.” I widened my eyes in amusement and almost giggled before a pang of guilt silenced me. After all, Dad had worked his whole life to put the three of us through university.
He told me then what it felt like to be a teenage boy, so much taller and experienced than the six-year-olds with whom he was forced to attend class, and how he quickly learned to read and write, and speak English.
The following year he was admitted into ninth grade, only one year behind the kids his own age. By now he was a practicing artist, and still not quite fifteen. “You see,” he explained, “in Canada, you can do whatever you want. If you want to paint pictures, you can paint pictures. And no one will tell you what the subject of your painting has to be.”
He entered local art contests and won awards. He was mentioned in the Regina Leader-Post for being one of eleven artists chosen out of seventy-eight to have his work exhibited in a provincial show. His painting was a watercolour called “Our Yard,” described by the newspaper as “the only winter scene… with bare-limbed trees and drifts of snow contrasting with the oblique lines of broken fence boards and angles of power lines and sheds.” Oh so Canadian!
In grade ten Dad’s artwork again made headlines; I read another brown-edged news clipping entitled: “Young Chinese Artist Star of Art Exhibit.” My father did not need to explain to me how special this was for the child of an immigrant.
During his last year of high school a missionary came to speak about the plight of children in China — the hardships caused by the war. So my dad designed a poster that helped the school raise $1,000 — a fortune back then — to help feed these children and save them from the “black fever” that was ravaging the towns and villages. I found a newspaper interview where he was quoted as saying: I was glad to draw the poster because as a Canadian I feel I should do what I can for the Chinese people… Several of my relatives suffered from starvation during the war… We have good food and clothing, while over there, there are a lot of people who are cold and hungry.
When the Governor General, the Right Honourable The Earl of Athlone, made his final visit to Saskatchewan, my father was asked to design and paint the illuminated address that was presented to him in a formal public ceremony. In the last clipping my dad showed me, I read how this illuminated address was presented to His Excellency by the Acting Premier on behalf of the people of Saskatchewan. The fine workmanship, done in colour, won praise from all who examined it. The reporter wrote: The artist who executed the work was a young Chinese lad of Regina, Danny Yee Clun, a student at Balfour Technical School.
You never know where life is going to take you. I know that parents feel pride in the accomplishments of their children. But when I read this old newspaper clipping, so brittle and yellowed from being treasured all these years, I felt a tremendous pride that I was his daughter, and that he had saved these clippings so that sixty years later I could see them. The opportunities we take for granted living as Canadians come and go every day, and often we don’t even recognize them.
Sadly, my dad has now passed away, but not without leaving us kids a valuable legacy. He never told us in so many words that you can do whatever you want, become whoever you want to become — because you live in Canada. But that afternoon I recognized the culmination of all the years of his not telling, but instead showing by example, what was and is possible. Never before have those words from our national anthem rung so clear: “the True North strong and free.” Freedom is something I have taken for granted my entire life — the freedom to pursue whatever I wanted. We Canadians don’t have to look far; the opportunities are right here — in our yard.
~Deborah Cannon
Hamilton, Ontario
Remembrance Tears
There is nothing in the world so much like prayer as music is.
~William Shakespeare
Tears well up in his eyes as, hand over heart, Dad sits in his borrowed wheelchair paying homage to Canada. Canada, our home since we escaped war-torn Lebanon in the mid-1970s. Trumpets sound as the story of our journey to Canada flashes before Dad’s eyes: taking a taxi ride in a cousin’s car from Beirut to Damascus to escape gunfire, living in Athens for a month with two small children while waiting for paperwork, and finally boarding a British Airways flight for Toronto. With God’s help, a new life begins. A life of taking the bus to work in the freezing cold, sticking out like a sore thumb on the subway, passing his driver’s test, and going to school for his refrigeration license.
As the quintessential King of Quips, Dad would share sound bites of his witticisms at work with us while at the dinner table. Dad never returned to Lebanon. Canada was his home, hockey was his new favourite sport, and when the Toronto Blue Jays won the World Series, so was baseball. I’ve caught him watching basketball, too. It was a far cry from the all-soccer-all-the-time focus he had back in Lebanon.
Now, with glistening eyes and his hand resting proudly atop the letter “A” of his Team Canada Olympic hoodie, Dad’s face was shining as the ensemble of veterans played “O Canada” on Remembrance Day. The hoodie he was wearing was not his usual attire. “Can you get me a jacket like yours?” Dad had asked one day. Over the course of a few months he uncharacteristically requested it as a gift, in his usual persistent manner, until I finally caved.
Dad never said no to the favours I asked of him: fix this, drive me here, help me with that. He had done more for me than most parents would do. Who says an eighty-year-old shouldn’t wear a hoodie? It has, after all, C-A-N-A-D-A stitched on the front.
Two days after obtaining his prized hoodie, Dad was admitted to Toronto’s Sunnybrook Hospital. “Sir,” the doctors asked him, on the day they confirmed his terminal diagnosis, “do you know why you are in the hospital?”
“They say I have the cancer,” Dad replied, “but it is not 100% sure.”
Satisfied that Dad knew what was going on, the doctors left it to me to explain why he could not come home until his strength returned. Wanting to prove he was strong and still capable, Dad would often say to the hospital staff, “I used to swim the Mediterranean, diving forty metres deep until my ears bled. And I was a bodybuilder back home. I tried many different jobs before I decided to become an expert at refrigeration repair. You know those commercial fridges in the supermarket, the ones where
there is ice cream? I build those. You know how much ice cream I have eaten?”
Within weeks my “He-Can-Do-Anything-And-Really-Is-Stronger-Than-Superman” Dad was confined to a wheelchair, speaking less each day. Being practical, Dad realized this contraption that restricted his mobility was also his best option for leaving his room as often as possible. He loved leaving his room, curiously looking left and right — like he was watching tennis. When he pointed at the Pepsi machine, I knew he wanted another bottle even though he had not yet finished the one in his hand. His eyebrows would arch in front of the Christmas tree taking centre stage beneath the hospital wing’s high ceiling and brick fireplace-adorned lobby. One afternoon, we were surprised to see a vintage barbershop pole accompanied by fire-engine red vinyl chairs situated across from the gift shop. Then a poster for the Remembrance Day concert captured my attention. Dad will like this music, I thought. He is such a strong tenor.
When I rolled him out of the room the day of the concert, it was a temporary victory of sorts for us both. The hall was packed with veterans, other elderly patients, and their families. The louder the trumpets played, the more I couldn’t take my eyes off Dad. As he clenched his fist during our last “O Canada” together, my admiration for him grew. Here he was in palliative care paying homage to Canada. He was so full of respect and love for Canada, even when his strength was fading.
I miss my friend — an eighty-year-old, silver-haired friend who is now in Heaven. I am so thankful he will always be my dad.
~A. A. Adourian
Toronto, Ontario
The Last Night of the Proms
Music cleanses the understanding; inspires it, and lifts it into a realm which it would not reach if it were left to itself.
~Henry Ward Beecher
Although I have lived in Canada for sixty-three years, like most immigrants, I still feel a deep affinity for my native land. I was a child in England during World War II. I grew up listening to Winston Churchill telling us that this was our “finest hour” as our men came back, battered and bloodied from Dunkirk, and our pilots fought the Battle of Britain. Those were stirring times; times that infused a child with a lifelong love of country.
When I came to Canada in 1952 from London, England, and settled in Edmonton, I was homesick for my family and my native land. I missed so much about my life in London. For instance, the regular trips on the Underground to the Royal Albert Hall for a lively, stirring Promenade Concert. I felt a real longing for a good symphony, performed in a grand concert hall. In those days, in Edmonton, with a population of around 50,000 people, it was not to be. Once, the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra came to Edmonton to perform under the baton of Antal Dorati. I was thrilled and quickly bought tickets. There being no concert hall in Edmonton at that time, the venue was the main barn of Exhibition Grounds, with the odd strand of hay still clinging to the walls. Not the ideal setting, but that was not enough to deter me. The music was magnificent.
Some time ago, I went to see the Vancouver Symphony and the Bach Choir perform at a performance of “The Last Night of the Proms,” always a wonderful over-abundance of British patriotism. Union Jack flags were everywhere — even in the Bach Choir. I looked forward to the program of traditional favourites, including the obligatory sing-along of “Land of Hope and Glory,” “Rule Britannia,” and that stirring British hymn, “Jerusalem.” And while the Orpheum is a grand old building, it is not quite as grand or as old as the Royal Albert Hall.
I took along a good supply of tissues in preparation for the tears I knew would come bubbling over when I joined in the sing-along. I’ve been to these “Last Night” concerts before; they are a staple of symphony orchestras wherever there are a bunch of ex-Brits. I went to one in Kingston, Ontario, when my daughter lived there, and discovered then that I couldn’t make it to the end of “Land of Hope and Glory” without blubbering.
But this time, it was different. I sang right through to the end, with nary a tear. Wait till we sing “Rule Britannia,” I thought. That’s bound to get me. Well, we sang “Rule Britannia,” and I was still dry-eyed. “Jerusalem,” I thought. That’ll do it. I can never get all the way through “Jerusalem.” I sang it — all the way through. Never stopped for a sob. Never even caught my breath.
I must be getting hardhearted in my old age, I thought. Just one more item on the program. The “Bach Children’s Choir” came on and performed the song, written for Expo ‘86, about Canada — “This Is My Home.” That did it! Without warning, the tears came rolling down my cheeks and wouldn’t stop. What was going on? And then it came to me. At long last, I’m finally a Canadian in my heart as well as on paper. I thought it was ironic that something as British as “The Last Night of the Proms” would make me realize just how much Canada means to me.
~Pamela Kent
Aldergrove, British Columbia
Finding Canada
All my intensities are defined by my roots, and my roots are entirely Canadian. I’m as Canadian as you’ll ever find.
~Donald Sutherland
A few years ago, my sister Kate and I flew to Winnipeg, Manitoba for a conference on immigrant settlement. I had never been this far east before. In fact, I had seldom been off Vancouver Island. The west coast, where I have lived all my life, is one kind of Canada — fresh, brash, more in tune with California and the whole Pacific Rim. The Rocky Mountains are a big divide from the other provinces — our history is new. I had never given much thought to the rest of Canada.
Kate and I were both members of the Cowichan Valley Intercultural and Immigrant Aid Society on Vancouver Island. Our Cowichan organization had grown from the early days of welcoming the families of the Vietnamese “boat people,” to supporting and providing services for a broad group of ethnic people who now made their homes in our community. At the conference in Winnipeg we, as long-term board members in Cowichan, were asked to share our successes and learn what we could from others.
During the conference we had a block of free time so I contacted some Winnipeg friends who took us to “The Forks,” where the Red River and the Assiniboine River meet. A park and meeting place were in the process of being developed and my friends, who were on the Heritage Advisory Committee, were involved. They spoke passionately about the role the two rivers played in the survival of early Canadian settlers, and the urgent need to preserve this important cultural site.
School history books sprang to life in my memory: stories about the colourful fur trade and the settlement of the Red River Valley. According to my friend Ross, this land was the traditional gathering place of the Assiniboine, the Cree, the Ojibwa and the Dakotas. I learned that right here archaeologists had discovered evidence of aboriginal life going back 6,000 years!
Standing at the convergence of the two rivers it became impossible to not feel the power of place and history. As conversation around me faded away, I soaked in the atmosphere, and a strong feeling of déjà vu washed over me. I had been here before. I hadn’t physically been here before of course, but the feeling persisted. I had a sense of rootedness here, a feeling of belonging. And then I remembered.
This is the Winnipeg my Irish and Scottish grandparents immigrated to in 1912 when it was advertised as the “Gateway to the Canadian West.” This is where my mother was born. My DNA was here. Somehow this place suddenly felt like the real Canada for me, in a way Vancouver Island had never done.
For the three days of the conference I spent time with new Canadians who loved what Canada offered. They weren’t shy about discussing what they had lost in emigrating from their countries. But equally, they expressed their strong feelings about how they felt safe here, which was new for them.
On the last night we gathered in the meeting hall for a potluck feast hosted by Winnipeg’s Immigrant Women’s Association. Trestle tables were laden with exotic foods from many countries. The tastes and aromas were amazing, and we stuffed ourselves. The conference wrapped up with speeches. But these were not the usual boring kind, but emotional,
straight-from-the-heart sharing. No one had a dry eye as an Asian man talked of brutality, torture and persecution in his home country. “How do you heal those scars?” he asked. Then there was Mario, a handsome older man from Chile, who spoke with obvious pride. “My oldest son is Chilean but my youngest boy is Canadian.” Marge, an East Indian woman from South Africa showed me her Canadian flag lapel pin. “I tell everyone I am proud to be Canadian.” That truly struck home.
With a shock I realized that I too was proud of being Canadian. This country had welcomed my ancestors many years before. It was time I stopped being the typical self-effacing Canadian and let myself boast about our great country. The people I met this weekend, the refugees and the immigrants, all cared for my country in a way I had never considered before. As the evening ended someone began singing “O Canada.” Soon everyone joined in and the voices swelled, the varied accents blending to a rich whole as the room filled with joy, and every face was wet with tears. I thought my heart would burst. Winnipeg and these newcomers had helped me find my Canada. I felt her in my deepest being and proudly took her home with me to the west coast.
~Liz Maxwell Forbes
Crofton, British Columbia
One Essential Ingredient
We’re very politically correct at times and I always think, well, isn’t politically correct just being considerate and nice for the most part?
~Mike Myers
I love travelling by rail across our vast land. I love looking out at the mountains and prairies, the rivers and lakes and oceans, and, of course, the opportunity to make new friends. On my last trip, from Vancouver to Toronto, one of my table companions was a gregarious Irishman. We enjoyed our dinner and each other’s company and agreed to meet later that evening in the lounge area. He was travelling alone and I was with a good friend, my sister and her partner. A glass of wine in the lounge was our evening ritual.