On July 12, 1966 my family and I emigrated to Canada. It was the day of my birthday and it was perhaps the greatest gift my parents could have given me. I was 8 years old at the time and my brother was 15. We had just left Italy because my parents could not see a future for their two sons in Europe.
In September of that year I started grade 3 at A.S. Matheson Elementary in Kelowna. Mrs. Heartha Jones was my classroom teacher and she took the time to teach me English for an additional hour every day after school. After approximately 6 months, I was fluent in English and was on the school honour roll but, as it turns out, I would still stumble with the meaning of words well into adulthood.
What can I tell you? I loved the grass and open space that our new country could provide. Loved the snow and ice. I loved to skate and I eventually played minor hockey and then later beer league. Italy provided no such freedom. You grew up in awe and fear of the monuments and traditions that had preceded you. The buildings dwarfed the narrow medieval streets that, centuries later, would be cluttered by cars and motorbikes. Things were clear in the old society. Do as you’re told and be ready to follow in the footsteps of your ancestors. On the other hand, how else to deal with 65 million inhabitants on a land mass 1/3 the size of B.C.?
Canada held out the promise of something more. Freedom was beckoning —to hold the job you wanted, to try new foods, relationships, even new faiths. There was space here for everything. The houses were farther apart, the streets were wider, the distances greater. There was room to be yourself!
Unfortunately, while growing up, the freedom that Canada offered was something that my brother and I were to experience only sparingly. At home we were raised in Italian fashion. Ordinary citizens of a country sometimes become fervent patriots the moment they emigrate elsewhere. At the core was my parents’ desire to preserve their identity. They feared the powerful influence that an Anglophone society could have on their children.
Dad made sure I would never forget the language. I would get weekly Italian lessons and even have to memorize contemporary Italian poetry . On Sundays it was the Catholic Church and our every day meals comprised only of Italian fare. Mom would even insist on her sons wearing Italian clothing but this eventually gave way to American fashion.
I can still picture my mother asking my friends if they had a “canottiera” or undershirt underneath their sweaters, etc. Only my mom would not be shy —she would literally yank my friends’ shirts up to see if their undershirts would show. You can imagine how long it took to live this down.
I used to joke with my Canadian friends that they needed a visa to come and visit me. My friends loved my mother’s warmth and good food. Eventually, they began to imitate my mom’s Italian accent when she tried to speak in English. Apparently, they enjoyed the culture shock of interacting with Italians as much as I enjoyed my new interactions with Canadians.
How to sum up my “Immigrant experience?”
It has been both wonderful and exhausting. I could not be the person I have become had I stayed in Europe. Culturally, I am richer for having come to North America and could never replace my new family and friends, and the myriad of rich experiences I had while growing up here.
Exhausting is the other part of my experience. Since our plane landed on Canadian soil all those years ago, I have always felt like a part of me never quite quite fit in. In the decades that have followed, I have had a constant, running tally of two cultures in my brain. Think of it as heavy baggage permanently spinning on an airport carousel.
My brother left Canada some 40 years ago because he resented the feeling of being out of place. He now resides in Spain but there is evidence to suggest that switching to another country has only compounded the problem.
My son was born in Canada 20 years ago and I am happy to report that he lacks the self doubt that plagues his old man. He is Canadian and there is little to discuss about it. His dad, on the other hand, still feels like a fish out of water.