Leaving Slough to Ricky Gervais
Tuesday November 28, 2006
Helen Dyer?Where are you from??
?Er, Slough.?
And there, in six words, is a summary of the classic immigrant dilemma. There?s nothing Canadians like more (leaving out hockey, beer and a good old wrangle about the two official languages), than finding out where their countryfolk are from. But what the askee doesn?t always realise is that the apparently innocent question comes loaded with all kinds of immigrant baggage. The answer becomes less obvious as time goes on and, now, approaching 31 years in Canada, it seems nonsensical of me to claim any but the most fragile connections with my place of birth.
The question and my own hesitant response sum up the ambivalence and confusion felt by some of us who still hearken back, via friends, relatives or the occasional stab of nostalgia produced by a BBC television special, to the place we left for a better life. Those of us who have little to boast about in the way of lineage or birthplace spend years honing the truth into a quick and convenient answer.
?Near Windsor? is the answer that worked for a time. But now, thanks to Ricky Gervais, Slough is not merely on the map but merits an entry in the pop-culture lexicon. These days, I?m happy to claim it as my birthplace and wait for the wide-eyed response ? ?Really?? ? that tells me the person I?m talking to thought that Slough was a made-for-TV location.
But, after a year, or 20 (depending on how quickly the transatlantic twang takes hold), going back to England carries a similar dilemma ? only worse, because people who knew you when you dropped your aitches think you?re putting on the dog and pretending to be ?American? and people who don?t know you think you really are American. So, after a while, the connection with your old home becomes diluted and you find that you?ve become a lifelong tourist on both continents.
I do feel Canadian. In 1985, having given birth in Montreal to two of my three children, I decided to become a Canadian citizen. My reasons seem random now, but they made perfect sense to me then. I?d lived here for 10 years; I was beginning to show more than a passing interest in the Saturday night television ritual Hockey Night in Canada; the idea of smothering my breakfast sausages with maple syrup no longer seemed odd or repulsive and I had lived in two of Canada?s 10 provinces.
Twenty-one years later it gives me pleasure to note that I?ve weathered minus-40 wind-chill days; lived through an ice storm that blacked out the streets and brought trees crashing onto cars; cross-country skied for three hours in a forest where the only sound was of skis shushing on snow. I?ve eaten moose, caribou and cods? tongues ? and joined in a pitchfork fondue dinner in Saskatchewan.
I?ve learned to call a jumper a sweater and a waistcoat a vest. I wear pantyhose, not tights, ride in elevators, walk on sidewalks and throw my garbage (Americans have trash) into the trunk of the car before driving it to the dump. Living in Montreal, I?ve learned not to be offended when I begin my sentences in French and they are finished in English by a francophone. Despite what you may hear about Quebec politics, Montreal is a live-and-let-live kind of city where mutilating both official languages simultaneously vies with hockey as the city?s favourite sport.
There are still some places in Canada where you can buy a house for well under $100,000 and people don?t lock their doors at night. And, in case Ricky Gervais is looking for material, Canada has its own colourful place names: Dildo, Moose Factory, Blind River, Joe Batt?s Arm and the delicious Saint-Polycarpe ? worthy rivals to dear old Slough.
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