Identity

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.”

Summer School

Summer is beautiful. From the brilliant rising of the sun to warm up the fields of childhood adventure to its dramatic setting accompanied by cicadas and laughter, what graduate from childhood can’t remember some great summer memory. Those days were wonderful, I remember as a kid as soon as school was out for summer we were outside.

There were so many things to explore beyond the school; the neighbourhood, the wilderness, new creative exploits through summer cultural programming. It was the freedom of summer that fueled my imagination and my appetite for adventure. So, naturally I am against the idea of eliminating summer vacation for children and sitting them back in the schoolroom.

I am a kinesthetic learner, meaning I learn best by doing. The current curriculum in the Canadian education system, and this includes universities, is not geared towards myself and others with different learning styles. Looking back, having the summer to run, jump, catch bugs and laugh with my friends were integral to my education. Through the act of doing these various activities concepts cemented themselves in my mind; concepts of how the world works, how to see beauty and how to interact with others.

If we are going to remove the joyous adventure that is summer we need to do more for these creative and experiential learners. Do not simply put them in another math class instead of a soccer field. Bring back more funding to arts education like theatre, music and visual art. Expand physical education, use the summer advantageously by organizing courses for camping, portaging or mountaineering. Bring in courses that involve field trips to national parks and cultural events of this country.

To take summer away from children can rob them of the unofficial education they get by traveling with family to national historic sites or by playing outside until their parents call them in.

Even though the elimination of summer vacation can rob children of a wonderful two months it doesn’t have too. In fact, it can even protect it and ensure that our children have a great summer experience. It is no surprise that kids spend more time staring at screens than riding bikes or going on hikes. Only if summer vacation activities, like camping or visiting national parks and historic sites, are worked into the curriculum then school during the summer can improve the health of our children and preserve the adventure of the summer months.

Eggs

When you first look at the situation between Nova Scotia Egg Producers and farmer Aaron Hiltz it looks like the classic big guy versus the little guy. However, as I look at it closer and closer I had an unsettling feeling that something different was going on. It looks like the Nova Scotia Egg Producers are staring down the double barrelled shotgun called bureaucracy aimed at their own feet.

Aaron Hiltz has been getting a lot of press for his innovative farming methods; he keeps cattle and chickens together. This is a simple strategy with profound results. The chickens improve the quality of the farm by spreading around the manure. They are also a great selection for “locavores” with an appetite for change in agricultural practices.

The Nova Scotia Egg Producers want to charge him their standard fees for having as many chickens running around as he does. This seems logical, especially considering that their mandate as a marketing and regulatory board is to control the supply of eggs. The problem is that if they go through with the fee of $250,000 they could bring an end to Aaron’s egg farming days.

Aaron’s chickens will be scattered like their feed across Nova Scotia or placed on dinner plates. Farmer Hiltz will have to find other work and his farm may remain unused. As the farm house creaks with its age and the fences collapse from being forgotten this incident may go down as a lesson to plucky young innovative farmers.

Rules are made to be enforced; fees are in place to keep the status quo. If you have a great new idea that can change the face of agriculture and ultimately people’s diets than you’ll have to find a farm somewhere else in Canada. If not, you’ll find yourself with a saddled with debt by a regulatory board that you thought was supposed to help you succeed.

Discomfort

I write this entombed in a filthy, foul-smelling apartment where I must spend three more months because of work. My beautiful summer in rural Nova Scotia is set mainly in this hovel.

When I moved in I was excited to live so close to work at a “too good to be true” price. Of course, as they say, if it sounds too good to be true, it is. Down the green and gray walls of my room ran a molasses-coloured mass from the previous tenant. Retching, I tried to clean it but the hard water and cleaner just manage to smear the brown goo. Disillusioned, I accepted my fate in this ugly hold-over from cheap 1970s “architecture.”

In the mornings I shower but as soon as I dry myself off I feel like I should bathe again. The water is not clean. My morning coffee tastes of chlorine and brine. The work day can’t start soon enough.

Day in and day out I go to work and come “home” to my lonely room in a lonely building. My roommate almost never surfaces and when he does he speaks very little to me. It didn’t take me long to meet the other roommates. They are shy, love sugar and scurry around the kitchen counters, cabinets and floor. No wonder my other roommate barely comes out of his room, the place is infested with ants.

My only respite from the nightmare of living in this filth is a writing class I take via distance. Every Tuesday evening I imagine Halifax, the city where the school is located; fresh market vegetables, my clean apartment and my jolly British roommate who is always up for a laugh. Why am I in Cape Breton? 

I moved to Cape Breton for work. I chose it because I wanted adventure. I chose it because Capers are known for their out-going and welcoming nature. Other than my interred roommate I’ve been met with loud profanities. This place is depressing.

One Tuesday night, my professor’s digitized voice informed the class that we need to put ourselves in an uncomfortable situation for one hour. One hour? How hellish. But still, this is my main joy. Surely my prof wouldn’t put us in a position of harm. 

I tried to follow the curriculum. I went to Wal-Mart. I hate those large swarms of bargain starved beer bellies and comb-overs. They seek cheap products made with the idea that they are breakable, no beautiful art behind their creation. 

As the doors slid open and the sterile light and white noise of customers enveloped me I had a realization. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about the things I hated about Wal-Mart. The sights and sounds that used to offend my senses are no longer all that bad.

I began to see beautiful things about the big box I loathed. It was clean, no molasses substance oozing down the walls. Sure the consumer colony resembled the ants of my apartment but they weren’t crawling over my food. 

Living in this hovel may be the most consistently uncomfortable I’ve been in years but at least it is helping me see the good in other places.

Coffee Shop Conversation

“Hey, how’s it goin’?”

“Can’t complain. You?”

“Meh, work’s been slow. Not a lot of people today. What can I get ya?”

“A large latte and a chocolate chip cookie... There any nuts in those?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. They’re gluten free though.”

“Cool.”

“That’s four fifty-five.”
“Debit.” He hands his card to the worker.

“Just slide the card with the stripe facing me… umm. No, the other way… Want your receipt?”

“That’s okay.”

“Here’s your cookie. Have a seat. I’ll bring your latte over when it’s ready.”

“Thanks.”

“… hmm…” uncertain of what he tastes.

“Here’s your latte.”

“Thanks… umm… ex-excuse me?”

“Yeah?”

“The cookie doesn’t have any nuts in it, right?” his voice was starting to get horse.

“Uh, no… Ah shit! I’m sorry.”

The customer coughs.

“Shit! I’m sorry. Uh, do you have a nut allergy?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” More coughs.

“Shit! I think they might have peanut butter. Are you allergic to peanuts?”

“Yea.” The customer starts wheezing.

“Omigod! You’re swelling up! Do you, you have an epipen?”

“No.”

“What? Whydon’tyouhaveanepipen!”

“It exthpired... I’m waithing for my… prescrithion do be filled.”

“Shit! Why don’t you have an epipen?”

“Can… you…” gasping  for air. “Call… 9.1.1?”

“Uh, right! Yes! Sorry! Omigod yes!”

“Hu-hello? Look a customer just ate something with peanut butter and can’t breathe! He’s swelling up real bad… thanks… can I do anything? Uh… no... Dammit! Uh, sorry!”

“Hey! An ambulance is on its way.” The worker looks down. “Y-you okay?”

Bruce: A Super Name

Growing up with a name like Bruce in the 80s and 90s you can’t help but hate your name. At least, Bruce Somerton couldn't. He grew up reading comics. Not just any comics, Bruce read, Superman. He hated Batman. Everyone would joke around calling him a billionaire. His family always bought him Batman paraphernalia.

“Why don’t you ever wear your Batman shirts, honey?” his mom would ask. “Don’t you like him? You have a bunch of his comics.”

Bruce’s parents bought him those comics. Bruce bought himself Superman comics. Now that was a character he could relate to.

Bruce’s father was in the military so that meant the family would move every few years to where ever Mr. Somerton was posted. Bruce always had trouble making new friends. Superman must know what that was like; he is an alien after all.

As the years went by Bruce kept trying to make himself less like Bruce Wayne and more like Clark Kent. In university, Bruce decided to enroll in a journalism program. He thought that maybe he would have to explain that he went into journalism because he wanted to document the truth and that it had nothing to do with his affinity for the son of Krypton. Instead all he would hear was: “Journalism? Wasn’t Bruce Wayne a businessman?” Not funny.

Throughout most of his life Bruce rarely felt like anyone understood him. People kept imposing Batman on him. He didn't really want to keep these people as friends. This made university fairly difficult as he didn't have anyone to really call a close friend,

In the last year of his journalism program Bruce met his wife. They both attended a Halloween party of a mutual friend. Bruce went dressed as Batman’s nemesis, the Joker. He had dressed up as other Batman villains in previous years thinking people might get the hint that he hates Batman.

“The Joker, eh? Sweet costume. What’s your name?” Asked someone dressed in what he thought was a toga.

“Umm… Thanks. I’m Bruce.” He answered, not sure what to say.

“Really? You must hate Batman! I mean, why else would someone named Bruce dress as the Joker?”
“Yeah, what are you dressed as? A Roman?”
“Close. I’m Diana, the Roman Goddess of the hunt.”
“Cool. Uh, can I ask your name?”
“Ha! I already told you; I’m Diana. I thought maybe people wouldn't ask me where my invisible jet is if I dressed like this.”
“Wonder Woman?” He thought. He didn't want to mention it. Bruce knew that Diana understood him and didn’t want to offend her.

Bruce and Diana got along great. They married soon after they finished university. Bruce could tell you that story but he doesn't really remember it. He would rather tell you about that night at the Halloween party. How liberating it was to meet someone who knew what life was like with a name like Bruce, a name that everyone knows about because of one fictional character. 

James

Wiry silver curls shorn close to the scalp. That’s how James likes to keep his hair. The older he gets the less vain things, like hairstyles, matter to him. Family is almost all that matters to him now. How did that happen?  He says now that much of it has to do with mistakes he’s made and the mistakes his father made.

His father, like many veterans of the Second World War and sons of the tilled prairies had a demoralising set of vices. During his time there were no great social services to help a man adjust to his post-war blues and rages. James’ father was a red hot furnace feeding on the fuel of desperate drinking. His loud fists drove his wife away. His loud fists drove James away, vowing never to be like his father.

James, unlike his father, would love his children and care for them.

Like many baby boomers James had a wife, children and all the other trappings of the North American image of “success.” But like his father, he had lost his children. No, not to death; his children are still living. It’s not the same, not since the divorce. He did not abuse his family like his father did and he did not drink like a drowning man but James still did hurt his family.

Through selfish spending and personal activities he neglected the emotional needs of his wife and children.

James tries hard to reconnect with his kids despite the chasm of painful memories that keep his children from fully trusting him again. Often when he sees one of his children needing some financial assistance, be it for school or some adventure, James will send them the money he has made from work. His smile says he does this out of love and joy but his saline eyes reveal that he hopes this has some penitential worth.

James loves his children. He regrets the decisions he made that sent them far from him. Maybe his children will learn to forgive him. If not, he hopes they will not make the same mistakes that he did.

James hopes that his children would love and care for their children but he is old enough to realise that this may not happen.

Fisher King Laundry

I came upon the storefront with my suitcase full of laundry. It took me a moment to make sure that this was in fact a laundry facility. The building’s panelling was yellowing from neglect and weather - no longer the pure white it once was. The building was divided in two. One half had the sign removed with only the faint burn of halogen bulbs on the aluminum edges of whatever sign was there before. The windows of that half were blocked by old yellowing newspapers to keep curious eyes out. It’s not the only building in the former city to look like a chipboard coffin.

The other half of the building was my destination. Not much of a sign to speak of, typical low cost signage advertising Pepsi. As I entered the laundromat a stench struck me still. Cigarettes mixed with bleach and detergent. I was surprised to see the pristine white, burnished chrome and digital lights of the various laundry machines.

I looked around the shop to figure out prices and to try to spy out the best washing machine. The floor was concrete, rough and cracked. No attempt to make it friendly. The walls were mostly white plywood. The paint, like the building’s siding was yellowing from neglect. Taped haphazardly were curled 8.5x11 paper signs in Times New Roman, all alerting the clientele of how busy the shop was, “We are too busy to unload your laundry to make your machine available for other customers. We charge $6 if you leave your washing machine.” Looking across the legion of machines I could only see a handful of customers.

Out of a corner poked a head, ragged and grey. She made eye contact with me and shook her head.

“Don’t put that in them machines. Won’t fit.” Pleasantries weren’t on her mind.

“How much is it for a wash?”

“Six… or $2.50. But you won’t fit all that in one machine so you might as well use the big one. Six. Put your jacket in there, too.” She said through a yellowing grin.

After I loaded up the machine I looked for chairs. Three mismatched chairs lined a wall next to an old tube television with CTV playing through snow. All of the other customers stared at their slick and shiny smartphones waiting for their dirty laundry to be clean.

A few of the large six dollar machines had been filled and started. After enough water had been poured into their containers the machines threw the water back and forth. Back and forth. Suddenly all of the washing machines began their sonic flight. Spinning so quickly and so loudly I almost hoped it was the sound of a plane taking off. I almost hoped that it might take me out of this former city. 

My Best Worst Job

I used to work for a soulless financial services company. It was one of those places that will give you an advance on your pay and charge you high interest. Constantly I had to respond to criticisms from friends and strangers. A friend even offered to give me money to keep my low-end retail job instead of working at the payday loan store. Yet for all of its negative aspects it was one of my favourite jobs.

It was one of the few jobs that I didn't mind working on a Saturday night. Saturdays were quiet with a few scattered customers. I'd only have to work with one other person for a couple of hours and it was never my boss.

My day began with a brisk walk to arrive on time. Sometimes I'd call ahead to see if the other person wanted me to pick up lunch for them. After getting settled we'd chat about our day. During the summer my colleague would describe the pristine bay that the store overlooks. Calm and still asleep.

"Wish I could've been asleep this morning.” Ruth would say. “But at least I don't have to close. Sorry.

"Oh, I think I'll manage." I would reply with a little smirk of delight. I was anticipating the great evening having time to myself.

From supper until close there were only ever one or two customers. After all, who would want to go to a payday loan shop on a Saturday night?

While other people were downtown enjoying a romantic meal or drinking to their friendship I was alone in my workplace with our little radio. Saturday evenings on CBC Radio 2 are always good for company.

I’d be working away on spreadsheets and other mindless duties but the sounds from that radio kept me from ever feeling alone. Somehow it always felt like the radio host was in the store with me, keeping me company. They’d even bring in the musicians whose songs were playing over the air.

As the night went on eventually the jazz show Tonic would start. Even though I was tired from the work day my spirits were never low. How can you feel down with the playful Oscar Peterson dancing on his piano keys? Listening to the smooth trumpet sounds of Miles Davis was my work song.

I was getting paid to listen to Ella, Louis and other amazing musicians. How could I hate that job?

I ended up leaving the job because the business took a turn that crossed my ethical boundary. Sure, I love what I do know. I still get to listen to CBC Radio 2 while writing papers and finishing assignments. But every now and then I remember those Saturday nights with a nostalgic grin and twinkle in my eye.

Adventure

"Seek Adventure."

My dad always says this. He's been saying it for at least two decades. He doesn't always say those words but the message is always the same. He's tried so hard to make sure that my siblings and I look for adventure and take opportunities while we are young and healthy.

Most of the time he tells us this message through stories; stories from his own life. Since he figured out how to use an email address and digital camera he has taken photos and emails them to us attached to very lengthy messages of his experiences.

One time he was skiing in Waterton Lakes National Park. The ebony sky seemed to blend with the terrain and he couldn't bifurcate the shadows of the forest from the heavens. He was mostly alone. He had heard about the cougars, lynx and other predators who call the park "home."

At one point my dad stopped. Thirsty, he reached for his water bottle. After taking his refreshment he stood still. Something felt different. Heavier. He couldn't hear anything above his breathing. He looked around and saw nothing. But nothing saw him.

The sky had blended with the terrain and my dad saw a pair of glinting lights. Trying not to stare directly at the lights my dad tried to figure out what to do. They had to be the eyes of some animal. Was it a predator? Were there more? He was a fair distance away from his end point. So he continued to ski at a slow pace. The lights followed him.

My dad stopped again. Looking at the lights indirectly he swears he could begin to see the outline of a beast. A strong cougar out at night, watching. He looked ahead. His goal was not too far. He looked back. There were tracks in the snow near his skis.

The tracks went behind him, across the path and into the other side of the wood. The air had changed. It was lighter. The animal was curious and wanted to learn more about my father but headed back home when it had lost interest. My dad continued along his way.

"That's why I'm so sore. Yeesh!" Pride over his accomplishment mixed with agony over the pain he was in. This is how my father has ended so many of his stories, trying to impress upon me and my siblings that adventure is for the young. He's getting older and older. So am I.

I am younger and healthier than him. I should probably listen to his advice.

An Acme of Matters

Before I delve any further into the concept of "what matters most to me" I want to clear something up: I hate superlatives. The best, the most, the number one. I can often be heard saying "that is one of my favourite movies" or "this is one of the best Leonard Cohen songs." I may flirt with exclusivity but I never go so far as to ask exclusive superlatives out for dinner and a movie.

There. It's been said. Thank you.

I will, however, explain one of the things that matters most to me. Sure there are other things that are notably important but I don't want to bore you will a list of matters that matter to me. One of the things that matters the most to me is, wait for it – pausing. 

I've recently reactivated my Netflix account after an eight month hiatus. The first thing I did when I started that episode of Portlandia? I pressed the space bar to see if it pauses the video. It did.

Paragraphs and punctuation are beautiful when reading. They allow you to stop. Wait. Think.

I love lunch breaks because you get to pause from work and converse with colleagues. I love to sit and wait, think, relax and enjoy. There is so much that can be accomplished in the paused moment. We can reflect, meditate, contemplate and perceive. Ever sit in a car with the window down and feel the wind buffeting against your face? Ever take notice of it? You sure can when you pause.

The next time you have a glass of Merlot sip it and stop a moment. Let the liquid explore your palate. As it lingers it begins to speak with your taste buds. Suddenly you become aware of all the intricate notes and why it tastes so good with that savoury chicken thigh. If you knock back the wine you don't notice those things.

...

Pausing is so wonderful that I fight for it. Mostly against myself. In our world there seems to be a prevalent attitude that we must always be doing something. Apart from school and work we must be volunteering and engaged in community events like sports teams or musical groups. If we aren't always busy doing things then we may be criticized as being lazy.

Without pausing would I be able to answer the question regarding what matters to me? Perhaps but it would be at best empty. Why? Because I love to pause. I've found that pausing and waiting helps me stay, for lack of a better word, me.