Sitting at
the bar, I stare into a tulip glass containing an ounce of friendship. I moved
to this island to get connected with my roots and all I’ve connected with are a
creaky stool, xenophobic stares and a glass of Scotch. As I let this one liquid
friend caress my lips the bartender asks, “Where ya from?”
Where am I
from? I hate the question. Thirty years I’ve spent trying to find out where I
come from and who my people are in the hopes that I might better know myself.
Every time I hear this question my mind is flooded with the countless other
times I’ve tried to identify my culture and my home.
Growing up
in Newfoundland was tough. Kids and adults would assume that I was a true-blooded
Newfoundlander, just like them. I didn’t talk much so they couldn’t tell that I
didn’t have the jovial and amiable lilt of the Rock. I’d tell them that my
family moved from Alberta but I was born in Saskatchewan.
“Oh, b’y,
yer a CFA!” They’d say, satisfied in figuring me out. “A Come From Away.”
This
dialogue left me on the outside. As if my childhood was one never ending recess
period where all the local kids were playing soccer, basketball, tag, or
smoking any number of strange green leaves. Meanwhile, on a hillock looking out
towards them I sat hunched and huddled, hoping to be invited in. Maybe the
other kids were too busy having fun.
Maybe I am a
“Come From Away.” I was born in the endless fields of corn and wheat, the
heartland of Canadian farming culture. I wasn’t born on the rugged salt
encrusted Rock. Maybe I needed to return to western Canada where most of my
family settled, be it the amber prairie or the forests and mountains that reach
for the heavens.
After
graduating from Memorial University I moved out to British Columbia. The pines
and rock felt familiar yet cold like the people I met. The locals would ask me
where I moved from and when hearing that I crossed the whole country they’d
say, “Oh, you’re a Newfoundlander, then? Tell me, have you heard this Newfie
joke?” I would try to block out the verbal bigotry. “Oh, wanna hear another
one?”
No wonder
the Newfoundlanders kept me outside. These CFAs could be heartless. Maybe their
insulting jokes were benignly birthed in their minds but the pain must be real.
Is this who I am? The more hate I heard veiled under humour the more I wanted
to defend Newfoundlanders. How could people be so blind to the struggle of the
families who first came to Newfoundland? These Irish, English and Scottish
families who were kicked out of their homes to survive on the sea battered edge
of a barren rock.
Sharing a
drink with my dad I wanted to learn more about his family, members of a
Scottish clan, a proud people driven from their homeland. In the region of
Margaree in Nova Scotia’s Cape Breton Island they made their new home and clung
to their traditions and culture. Speaking Scots Gaelic and drinking whiskey
they made the best they could of their new lives. Sure, they were no richer in
Cape Breton than they were in the highlands of Scotland but they made the most
of it.
The bit of
knowledge of our family’s past sparked a new direction. I couldn’t identify
with the Newfoundlanders who shunned me and I wasn’t connecting with the
western Canadians who made fun of where I grew up. Maybe the remnant of my
family in Nova Scotia would know who I am. Maybe they knew the family’s history
more than my father and I. Even if they couldn’t help with my desire to know my
heritage I could at least connect with the region that gave my family hope for
a new life.
At first I
moved to Halifax, the capital of “New Scotland.” Here I started my own new
life. I changed my career path and started to look more into the history of
Scots in Canada.
Halifax was
inspiring; the conviviality that my dad told me about Nova Scotians was a daily
pleasure. The music contained joy that came as a response to sorrow. The pain
of poverty of home and province infused the notes and chords of the local
bards. In Halifax the beer flowed readily and beautifully, ready to lend an
amiable hand to any social event.
People on
the street and in the stores were always friendly. Neighbours and strangers
became friends and family. Even though none of us had much we managed to enjoy
life together with laughter, libations and food.
As wonderful
as life in Halifax was, I still felt the need to connect with my family and my
ancestral soil. They weren’t Haligonians and many never even left Cape Breton
Island. When an opportunity to work in Cape Breton came up I took it, excited
at the possibility of meeting the family that came from Europe to start a new
life.
People in
Halifax encouraged the move. Friendly people live in Cape Breton, amicable and
endearing.
Driving
across the island the view was spectacular. I could see all of the trees
beginning to sprout new leaves and the evergreens watched over them. I began to
hope that my evergreen family in Cape Breton would help me as I started again
on the island. On the other side of the road was the Bras D’or Lake, one of the
largest bodies of inland salt water. This island was inundated by the sea, a
rock directly linked to the salt of the ocean. Thoughts of Newfoundland
inundated my mind.
Weeks have
passed and not much has changed. Outside of the obligatory relationships with
colleagues I know no more people than when I first moved to Cape Breton. My
family is hard to connect with. I can’t even find their phone numbers. My
roommate is alive, I think. As for strangers and neighbours, when I introduce
myself all I hear back is, “You’re from the city, eh b’y?” I don’t even mention
Halifax but they’ve figured me out and their stares say they are cautious of
me.
The
friendliest person I’ve met on the island goes by the name Bowmore. Bowmore is
everyone’s friend. I can only handle an ounce of him at a time; he has a strong
“personality”. He came over from Scotland where he lived until he was twelve
years old.
I go to the
pub to spend some time with Bowmore. As I sit down the stool creaks. I take a
sip of my Scotch and the bartender asks me: “Where ya from?”
The amber
liquor settles in my mouth, dancing with my tastebuds and comforting me as my
past swirls through my mind. I swallow and say, “I’m from Halifax.”
