Over the next few years, I learned phrases such as “weapons of mass destruction” and “axis of evil.” I went to restaurants and ordered “freedom fries,” and went home to watch protesters on the news. Unfortunately, there was – though perhaps of the kind we couldn’t have conceived of as 11-year-old children.
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I was in my kitchen in Hillsborough, Calif., eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch for breakfast, when I turned on the TV and watched, in horror, as the Twin Towers burned.Īt school, classes were suspended in favour of an assembly in which we sang patriotic songs, pledged allegiance to the flag and praised the vague, American ideal of “freedom.” All of us were confused and tense, waiting to see whether there was to be more violence to come. I was much too preoccupied with the variety of chips and candy bars that were available only in Canada, to care much for the intricacies of national identity and citizenship.Īlong with many others, my perception of the world changed on Sept. I had no real concept that I was travelling across a border to see my family and my second home. It almost felt superfluous to say that I was a dual citizen, because in my mind there was hardly a distinction.
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– and as much as California was a home, so too was my family’s farm full of endless fields, raspberry bushes, barn cats and horses that tried to snack on my hair.Īs a child in the 1990s, to me, the border between the two countries hardly seemed to exist. I spent a good chunk of every summer in my mother’s hometown of Carlyle, Sask. I was born eight years later, primarily growing up in an area south of San Francisco, in the heart of what is now known as Silicon Valley. In pursuit of beer, he foolishly made his way into the minus-30 C night with nothing but his suit jacket for warmth – only to quickly return, half-frost bitten and empty-handed. As the story goes, my grandfather, a travelling salesman from the San Francisco Bay Area, was shocked by the lack of alcohol. The dry reception took place in the church’s basement. They kept up their long-distance relationship, and were married in a small church in Alameda, Sask., in December, 1982.
According to them both, they fell in love over the course of a European tour before each returning to their respective homes of San Jose, Calif., and Saskatoon. According to my mother, she saw an obnoxious American traveller and his friend, and made a point to avoid them. According to my father, it was love at first sight. My Canadian mother and American father met on the Eiffel Tower. As we approach Canada Day and the Fourth of July, a time of year when I reflect on my relationship with these two countries, I feel conflicted about my idea of home, and I feel further away from parts of my family than ever before. I am afraid that I have become alien to a country that was once my home, and I am struggling to make sense of my identity as both an American and a Canadian who has chosen to make a life for herself in Toronto. I am afraid that I will never have the chance to meet my seven-month-old niece. I am afraid that I will never hug my parents again. government’s response to the pandemic and the cruelty of its President.
I am afraid of the repercussions of the U.S. I am afraid of the prolonged estrangement from my family, and afraid of my own powerlessness should any harm befall them.
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