Unexpected Culture Shock

Totally unrelated to my post...
A Korean couple takes wedding photos under water.

Like all of us, I have been profoundly influenced by my parents. My father is a social worker- and though I have long said that I refuse to follow in his footsteps, sometimes it looks quite likely that I will- in my own way, of course. Before my father went to University, he served in the Canadian Air Force. Though he didn't make a career of the military and luckily never had to go to war, there were some lasting effects. To this day, my father still makes his bed with hospital corners, and thus so do I. My apartment may be a complete mess, but there are always hospital corners on my bed- unless my boyfriend (whose father was not in the military) rips the sheets out in his usual careless way. My dad told me once that his poor eating habits stemmed from his time spent in the military. He had to wake up too early and wasn't able to eat right after he woke up, so he would skip breakfast. For some reason, he'd skip lunch also and soon supper became the only meal he ate. He's eaten this way for as long as I can remember. Somewhere along the line, I developed what my mother calls "Kerr eating habits." I began skipping breakfast to squeeze in another fifteen minutes of sleep. For lunch, I'd have a small snack and end the day with a big dinner.

My lifestyle changed completely when I arrived in Korea, though. I was spending my days bouncing about in front of three year old children who didn't understand me. Everything required so much effort and energy. I was also going to the gym everyday. Breakfast became essential to get me through the morning- so I would make myself a fruit smoothie every morning, or grab an egg sandwich from the ajimma on the corner of our street. Lunch was usually bibimbap (egg, rice, vegetable and red pepper paste), kimbap (like sushi, but without fish) or sushi. For dinner, I often ate digigalbi (bbq beef), mandu (dumplings) or Kkachisan's famous chicken on a stick. I was working out at least two hours a day, eaten healthy, sleeping well and feeling great.

Now back in Canada, I find myself struggling to find appetizing food. The pizza that I had craved for so long in Korea is not as good as I remember it. Pasta is pretty bland. Everything seems to be carb heavy or dripping in grease. My first day back in Calgary, I was shocked to find myself downtown- walking past one restaurant after another in search of a Korean restaurant. I didn't know what else to eat.

Mmm... kimchee

It amazed me the whole time I lived there what an awareness the Korean people had of good health. Even my kids would tell me that they didn't like pizza or fried chicken because it was bad for their health. Parents would often bring in donuts for the teachers, but if I tried to share with my kids, they would refuse. It makes sense. When you are so accustomed to eating good, healthy food that makes you feel good- why would you want to eat something that weighs you down and turns your stomach? With that, I'm off to the Korean grocery store in search of gochujang (red pepper paste), mandu and ginseng. I have to eat something familiar.

The End of an Era

A street in Montreal- after it was hit by freezing rain.

I feel as though I haven't properly closed the Korean chapter of my life. As though I refuse to close the book- refuse to move on to the next. Perhaps it's difficult to do until I've reestablished myself in Montreal- until I've settled into our new apartment (housewarming pending) and found started to see money coming in. Until I have my gym pass in my wallet, half of me is still living in Korea. Admittedly, Fred came home the other day to find me applying for jobs at winter camps in Korea- a month long position (flight, accomodation, food paid- plus two thousand dollars). I thought it was perfectly reasonable to want to go back- Fred didn't seem to agree. I know I've only been back in Montreal a few weeks, but it feels like much longer. It's difficult to turn my back on the easy lifestyle I had in Korea. That said, I'm also glad to be back. I walked down St Catherine Street with my brother, Travis the other day and I felt annoyed by all the people around me. Memories of the markets in Seoul seem so distant now. I'm sure I've become a very distant memory to the kids by now. I feel pressure to stabilize myself. Fred has been very supportive of me- and keeps telling me not to stress about finding work. I need to hear it since I was in Calgary just a few weeks ago and probably could have walked into any number of jobs that I was unqualified for. Such are the benefits of being bilingual in oil-rich Alberta. With the thought of Fred being called in for his transplant, possibly as soon as June- it seems it's time for me to fnd a real adult job.

Fred at Karaoke

All this said, visions of my next trip are already rushing about in my head. Fred's mother is going to India next year to visit family- and since none of her children (for some odd reason) have any interest in going- I will hopefully be going with her. If all goes well with work and Fred's health, I should be headed there soon enough. Already I can't wait.

Shameless Plug

I've been home long enough now that reality has begun to sink in. I've realized that I became accustomed to a particular lifestyle in Korea- with my apartment being paid for and the cost of living being only a fraction of the cost of living in Canada, it's easy to feel alot more relaxed about finances. My gym pass was not the luxury that it had been the year before- it instead became a necessity. I would have lost my mind without it. I began to re-examine my job prospects in Canada in a very different way. The possibilities seemed endless, with my bank account full (or as full as it ever has been). I decided that upon return to Canada, I would throw myself- head first- into writing and acting. To supplement my love of these fulfilling, yet financially unstable professions, I'd launch myself into a half-assed career as a teacher. Half-assed not because of any lack of effort on my part, but because it isn't where my passion lies.

So here I find myself back in Montreal- anxiously trying to get my ideas off the ground. The résumés are in- just waiting to hear back from the collection of schools I applied to. I'm working on putting together a demo CD to go on the hunt for a new agent, and trying to figure out how to make this writing thing work. In an effort to do this, you'll notice stage 1- becoming friends with Google. Stage 2 is also underway- thanks to the help and tips from internet-savvy friends - increasing the traffic on my page.

To that end, to all of my friends who have sent me messages over the last year praising my blog, here's your chance. To all the readers who happen upon this page and love it- help me out! Seth Godin (author and blog man) has a list of blogs worth checking out at http://www.squidoo.com/zlist. I don't know how exactly this works, but when I signed up, my blog was number 388 on the list- now it's at 15. I don't know if this is based on hits, or votes, or what. Point is- the higher I appear on the list, the better my chances of increasing traffic. My intentions are totally transparent, wouldn't you say? Check it out. More on me and life and kidneys later- now I intend to sleep.

Can Con

One of the things I loved about Korea was their strong sense of culture and history. Though American movies still sneak their way into Korean cinemas, Korean people flock to Korean movies. American movies are bought on DVD from the street vendors selling pirated copies- in my opinion, just the way it should be. I'd much rather he get my three dollars than George Lucas who has already gotten too much of my hard earned money for producing crap (apologies to all the hard-core Star Wars fans, but I just can't calm the feeling in the pit of my stomach that says we've been ripped off). Fiercely proud and patriotic, Koreans would rather see films that reflect their history and culture than American films reflecting American culture. Makes sense to me.

One of my Korean co-workers asked me why Canadians didn't like the arts. I was confused, and she went on to site the lack of Canadian actors and films as support for her thinking. It was one of my saddest moments as a Canadian. I hung my head and informed her that John Candy, Mike Myers, Jim Carrey, Kim Cattrall, David Cronenberg, Pamela Anderson, Keanu Reaves, Carrie-Anne Moss, Dan Aykroyd, Eugene Levy, James Cameron, Alex Trebek, Kiefer Sutherland, Hayden Christianson and Michael J Fox all hail from Canada. I was so embarrased. So many incredibly talented artists move south because of the lack of support for the arts in our own country. Watching CTV is truly a frustrating experience for a supporter of the Canadian arts. The shows that are truly Canadian- Corner Gas, Trailer Park Boys, Degrassi High- are incredibly successful, and yet for some reason we still jam CTV full of American-style shows. Why do we attempt to produce lame rip-offs of American shows when there are plenty of talented people in Canada working hard to produce original art? Why do so many Canadians roll their eyes at the thought of attending a Canadian film, as though it's synonimous with low production values and a bad script- when clearly we deserve to be proud of our arts?

Having said all this- go see Bon Cop, Bad Cop - Canada's first bilingual film about a murder that takes place on the border of Ontario and Quebec. The film is hilarious- and while stereotyping the Québécois character as an irresponsible, chain smoking ladies man and the Anglo as a maudite tête carré, at least it gets the two sides talking. In fact, support the arts- don't just see it, buy it. Of course, this message is somewhat self-serving as I hope for more film work in Canada so I never have to consider that trip down south. Just imagine the film industry we could have if our talent didn't have to leave to make money.

A Green Christmas

When I was young, my family and I lived in Grande Prairie, Alberta- a small city five hours North of Edmonton- or as my mother always said, in the middle of nowhere. Christmases were different then- they included sleigh rides through the woods with my dad's office, skating, toboganning and vain attempts at making snowmen- an unfortunate challenge in a province as dry as Alberta. I remember lying awake at night- unable to sleep because of the excitement of Santa's arrival, the countless gifts under the tree and the promise of spending the day playing with Tyler and Travis out in the snow. When I was in grade four, we packed up our whole house and moved to Calgary, where I was to experience my first green Christmas. I didn't understand. This new city was so strange- one day it was -20, the next it was +15. I remember one year wearing shorts to school on Tyler's birthday- in February. I came to accept the chinooks as normal, making my first winter in Montreal absolutely brutal. I kept anticipating that warm wind that would sweep in over the mountain and give us a well-deserved break from the bitter cold. But it never came. I even begged friends on the Plateau to join me with hair dryers on the north side of Mount Royal. If only we could get that warm wind going... Christmas in Korea could hardly be called green, though it was warm. The heat emenating from the concrete structures allowed me to experience a grey Christmas for the first time. I wasn't a fan.


Back here in Montreal, Christmas Eve is upon us. The sun is shining, the grass is green and mitts and tuques can be left at home. Images of Christmas past flash through my mind- images of Christmas long past. Before my time. I remember how my parents grew up together on Harvard (NDG) and how they would spend their winters playing ice hockey in my dad's backyard. I remember seeing pictures of snow banks big enough to bury your car- and my mother explaining to me why she always kept a shovel in her trunk (she's never really settled in Calgary- despite her claims, her heart is in Montreal). But this Christmas, there will be no ice hockey in any Montreal backyard, nor on Beaver Lake. Jewish ski day is a bust, unless you appreciate artificial snow (which no real skier does). I sat at Croissanterie a few days ago (our old coffee shop of choice) and overheard an older man saying 'Jamais de ma vie j'ai vue ça- l'éclair et tonnerre au mois de Décembre' (Never in my life have I seen thunder and lightening in December). On the tips of the tongues of every Montrealer are not the usual complaints of cold weather- but whispers of fear. How frightening to see such change in so short a time. Will we left only dreaming of a white Christmas?



But with thy brawls, though hast disturb'd our sport.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea,
Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land,
Hath every pelting river made so proud
That they have overborne their continents,
The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain,
The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard.
The fold stands empty in the drowned field,
And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;
The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud,
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,
For lack of tread, are indistinguishable,
The human mortals want their winter here;
No night is now hymn or carol blest.
Therefore the moon (the governess of floods),
Pale in anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound.
And thotough this distemperature, we see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,
And on old Hiems' (thin) and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set; the spring, the summer,
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world,
By their increase now knows not which is which.

-Midsummer Night's Dream (Act II; Scene I)
Titania- Queen of the Fairies

Honesty

It's officially been over a year now since I've been sharing my thoughts and opinions with you. What's interesting about internet communication is that it makes everything more and less intimate at the same time. It's easy for people to write things that they wouldn't normally, because the interaction isn't immediate. The consequences of your response aren't tangible. There's no accountability. It's interesting how the written language- how the art of writing is evolving as a result. The goal of any artist is always to break down barriers- to challenge. Sometimes we set out to challenge a particular thought, opinion, or view of our society. Other times we set out to challenge ourselves. Many artists take themselves far too seriously to ever admit that any part of what they do is for self-gratification. But of course that plays into it. No one would do it if there was nothing in it for them. The possibility of fame and fortune drive many to LA- hoping for a chance at making it big. But for others, it's a way to express the voice that drives us. The inner monologue of the writer, the endless string of scenes in the actor's head, the images of the sculptor.. Inevitably one day we are forced to confront what terrifies us most. And it's different for everyone.

The adrenaline an actor feels as she steps on stage is related to survival instincts. Your body reacting against the public exposure which is about to take place. You can't help but reveal yourself. Your issues are laid out for all to see- and this is the gift the actor gives to the audience. The gift of honesty. All the masks are laid aside as the actor presents himself to you. It's our instinct to keep our weaknesses hidden, however. To dance and distract from them as though no one will notice how cleverly we hide aspects of ourselves. The goal is always absolute honesty.

Here I am, back in Montreal. A 150 page account of my travels stares me in the face and I realize I'm at a crossroads. For a year, I've written weekly about all that I experience in my adventures in a different country and culture. Back at home, I lack external inspiration. Now it's coming from within my head. Within my relationship. Within my family, my home. There are topics I've avoided writting about this year- things that hit a little too close to home, aspects of myself that I've never wanted others to see. But now these subjects seem unavoidable. I've never been able to admit to vulnerability, always wanting to seem invincible. Yet here I find myself unable to ignore the fact that Fred and I have been together four and a half years. Somehow I have trouble acknowledging that it's real- that it's love, and it's serious. After a year in different countries- on opposite sides of the world, a year of daily phone calls and loneliness, I suppose I can't hide it anymore. It is real.

Last week, after only two weeks back in Montreal, Fred and his mom and I met with a transplant specialist at the Royal Victoria Hospital here in Montreal. Ironically the last time I was in the building was when I was born- the memories are a little fuzzy. The surgeon, apparently incapable of reading not only his own writing, but the entire chart itself, gave us the options available to Fred. After an hour and a half of discussing timing and the importance of waiting for the right moment for a transplant- the surgeon realized that he had missed a test result and that Fred's kidneys were not in fact functioning at 45%, but at 25%. Ooops! So with that, Fred was officially marked down on the transplant list- making him the third AB blood type waiting on a kidney and a pancreas. We left the hospital in silence. I had nearly passed out in the doctor's office- a reaction brought on by my engagement with my own mortality, I suspect. Or perhaps just my inherent distrust of the medical profession rearing its ugly head again.

And so, for the next six to twelve months, Fred and I will jump at every phone call until he gets 'the call'. He'll have one hour to respond. As someone who's never been hospitalized (knock on wood) and who's only visits to the hospital have been for sports injuries- a transplant is huge. If they were my organs, I'm fairly certain that I'd tell the doctor to shove it. My experience has always been that bed rest and an ice pack cures everything. It's so hard for me to wrap my mind around what's happening right now- it's all just so foreign to me.

1 Transplant, 2 Transplant, 3 Transplant - MORE!

I've never talked about my relationships in these postings, except maybe to make fun of an ex boyfriend or two. They're easy targets- most of them can't read so I'll never get in shit. I won't bore you with the details- although I'm sure if all of my friends sat down at a table together, they'd have quite the story book. It just so happens, however, that my friends are spread out all over the world- thus insuring that such a moment will never happen... unless of course I do something stupid like get married and actually invite you people.



Fred and I have been together for four years. When we first started dating, I came home one morning, about a week into this new relationship, to find Fajer (my roomate) still there. I had been avoiding him because I didn't want to admit to him that I was hooking up with his Indian friend. But I was caught shamefully sneaking back into my own apartment in the early hours of the morning. Fajer couldn't really understand why I had been so afraid of telling him, and I remember saying that I didn't want to make it real because I knew Fred was going to last... and I wasn't sure if I was ready for that. A pretty big statement coming from a girl who watches the days tick away and then breaks off relationships at the four month mark. Except for those that sneakily got around this by doing the on-again, off-again thing. In any case, my horoscope eerily confirmed my feeling that this one would last- I cut it out, and I still have it.



I don't know what else to say. I'm at a loss, which is why I've never brought it up before. That and I'm petrified of commitment. But it's hard to be with someone for four years and still pretend that you're commitment-phobic. But here's the thing- Fred falls outside the mold. In many ways. I have a tendency to go for the high school drop-out. But Fred- he's got a high school diploma and TWO post-secondary diplomas. He doesn't play the guitar, but he's a singer... and now I'm a sucker for that (although if he learned to play...). I'm not going to get all mushy. It's not my thing.


In any case, I'll get to the point. Fred is Type 1 diabetic. And we've just been informed that in a few short weeks, he'll be placed on 'the list' for a new kidney and a new pancreas. We're told the wait is expected to be around the six month mark. That having been said, anyone with an extra kidney and/or pancreas lying around the house- please let me know. You know- that pair that you kept on ice after old Aunt Hilda passed on? Unless she was a drinker, or a diabetic than old Hilda can keep her pancreas.


That's all for now- you may notice that I've now got a Google search bar and some ads on my site. You'll probably also notice in the next few weeks that my posts will become shorter (I can hear you cheering!) and more frequent as I try to increase traffic on this site. Don't worry- it won't evolve into stories of hospital politics, or transplant tales. Or perhaps it will- who know? I would like to draw some attention to the fact that Fred's kidneys are currently functioning at 25%. At my prompting, he took two months off work to relax and give his body a much needed break. According to his insurance company, kidney failure is not sufficient reason to file for medical leave - so he hasn't had a paycheck in two months. Hmmm... perhaps I'll post their address and we can all send them hateful, nasty letters...

Aren't We Being a Little Extreme?

There are few things that allow such a clear insight into a culture like its arts. I loved to go see movies in Korea, because it was interesting to see how people would react. A few months ago, Song and I went to see Matchpoint- that new Woody Allen movie. The movie itself was mediocre for Woody Allen (I usually love him), but it was the reactions of the audience that made it well worth the price of the ticket. Song kept giggling to herself as she explained to me that the girl beside her was absolutely livid that the leading man was having an affair. She seemed to miss the point of the movie- or at least the point as I saw it. The character married the wrong woman and continued to have an affair with the woman he really loved throughout the film. But love was no excuse for this woman- clearly determined that marriage should be honored above all, an unusual opinion in Asian culture. The highlight of the film, however, was seeing the leading man sitting at his laptop. His frustration got the better of him and he swiped at the glass of wine that was beside his computer. And as the glass of wine tipped, the audience GASPED. There have been a few film moments in my lifetime that prompted the entire audience to gasp audibly. Perhaps in Usual Suspects when the identity of Keiser Soze is revealed. Maybe in Empire Strikes Back when we find out Luke & Leia are brother and sister. Or Darth Vader is Luke's father. These moments may well have prompted audible gasps- but does a falling glass of wine really merit such a reaction?

What I love about these moments is how transparent it makes our values. Clearly Korean people have a very strong relationship with technology. Before I returned to Canada, I was hit with the realization that our values are often quite backwards. I picked up a newspaper in Chiang Mai, Thailand and allowed myself to be absorbed by what was making headlines there. I was struck by two articles- side by side- from an American newspaper. The first was a clip about a man who was escorted out of a World Health Club facility by police and security guards when he grunted as he was lifting a weight that was over two hundred pounds. Apparently the gym has a strict 'no grunting' policy, as it can be intimidating to other patrons. Have we really gotten to the point where we are obliged to repress every one of our animal instincts because of societal convention? As far as I'm concerned if other patrons are intimidated by a man grunting at the gym, it is their sensitivity that is the problem, and not his grunting. One of the things that I enjoy most about going to the gym is that (at least in Korea) you are free to react authentically to your body. When you push your body to run a little farther, or lift a little more- you silence that inner voice that keeps you acting properly in public. All your energy is devoted and focused on the task at hand.

In order to prepare children to face dumb restrictions at their health clubs in their adult years, we need to start early. We wouldn't want them questioning the stupidity of such rules. I repressed the impulse to exploded into an hour long rant about the irony of such occurences in a a country that delights in spreading a rumour that they are 'land of the free' and I moved on to the next article. It was also a clip from an American paper- this one explaining why hugging had been banned in some elementary schools. Apparently tardiness was becoming a problem because students were spending too much time hugging in the hallways. Rather than addressing the real problem of their lack of time management, or perhaps inability to emmulate Pavlo's dog and respond to the ringing of bells, hugging has been banned. Just what children need- more protection from the evil grips of... each other.

When I accepted my teaching position in Korea, I thought little about the actual experience of teaching. I was more focused on the prospect of seeing a new country and getting paid well to do it. But at some point on my twelve hour flight from Calgary, I got scared. I suddenly realized that I would need to learn all these strange Korean names that I wouldn't be familiar with. What if I mixed up their names? Would the kids think that I thought they all looked the same? Some of my kids would be as young as three- how do I react if they give me a hug? Do I really have to raise my hands in the air and pray their parents don't complain? A mild panic set in. I wasn't sure if I could refuse a hug to a three year old kid. Both my fears were eased my first day at school as I was introduced to my first class of the day- Ryan and Leah among them. I realized all the kids took on an English name for English school- which left me pondering if they really gave me so little credit that I couldn't learn a few strange names. I watched as the kids launched themselves into the teachers' arms as they entered the school that morning, and how they all enjoyed being tossed around a little before class started. I was so relieved. I quickly learned that in Korean culture, the teacher is considered the third parent and instantly becomes a part of the family. Both kids and parents expect you to be affectionate with the kids- to give them plenty of hugs and you'll soon hear complaints from parents if you don't.

Only in North America do we make such a big deal of physical interaction. Throughout the world, people greet each other with a kiss on the cheek (or two, or three depending on the country) or a big hug. In Asia, men and women alike are very affectionate with their friends and family. It is common to see a mother and daughter walking down the street holding hands. Men young and old will snooze on each other's shoulders on the subway. Almost natural, isn't it? In North America, we greet each other with a handshake. The most distant of physical interactions. Why are we so uptight about it? Most other cultures break through the physical barrier immediately and they seem more at ease with each other. When I passed through security in Korea, the metal detector went off. The woman who's employed to feel people up wasn't shy in patting me down every which way until she was satisfied there was no knife in my bra. I landed in Vancouver and then continued on to Calgary on a different airline. As I passed through security there, I set off the metal detector again. The Canadian woman charged with checking me for weapons was so thoroughly uncomfortable with the idea of patting me down that she was nearly across the room as she did it. With arms outstretched, she patted my back a couple times and whisked me on my way.

What is wrong with us? Why are we so prudish? Did we inherit this from the Brits and simply take it to the extreme? Does it come hand in hand with our culture's focus on independence? Just because we are capable of standing alone- does that mean we have to? Are we so worried about offending the people around us that we're losing touch with how we're meant to interact? How we're meant to behave? And at what point can we expect these codes of conduct to stop being pushed to extremes? Will we soon be at the point where even a hug between a parent and child is questionable? What are we so afraid of?

La Nation Québecoise

I've returned home at a strange time. My body skipped from summer to winter very quickly and is throughly confused by the change. A couple weeks ago, I watched the final game of the Grey Cup series and my poor head couldn't wrap itself around it. How was it the finals already? My good friend Ralph had finally stepped down as king of Alberta and the race was on to see who could replace the drunken, poorly educated, homophobic red-neck. Paul Martin had left the Liberal party following some sort of tantrum after his party lost to the Conservatives in last year's election, and so they too were striving to find a replacement. The smoking ban finally passed in Montreal and I sat in a smoke-free bar feeling as though something was missing. The ability to see exactly what I was touching in our seedy downtown bar was nearly enough to chase me back to the airport. The famous Park Avenue that runs North/South in Montreal directly in front of Mount Royal is about to be renamed Robert Bourassa Avenue- much to the chagrin of all Montrealers, including the Bourassa family. I'm sure poor Mordecai Richler is rolling over in his grave. I question why Park needs to be renamed when the merger of the boroughs (une île, une ville campaign) left the city of Montreal with seven streets called de l'Église (Church Street). Why not rename one of them? I'm sure the post office would be happy. Another overpass nearly collapsed in Laval, but the city feels that priority should be given to renaming a famous street. Montreal's biggest English language library is facing closure due to lack of support, but our tax money is going to change the name of a street that no one agrees with (see links to sign the petition to save the library). These are just some of the changes that met me when I got off the plane at Pierre Elliott Trudeau airport (yet another expensive name change).

In several postings this year, I've pondered the question of Canadian identity. I've contemplated even provincial identity- a question that haunted me even before I left Alberta. Albertans readily accept people from all parts of Canada- except Quebec. Québécois are always the 'other'. Born in Montreal and raised with as much of the Québécois culture as my anglophone parents could muster, I've always been a little confused about Canada. The problem was further confused when I was tossed into a francophone program at school with other equally confused children. In English, we don't have a word for native English speaker, so we borrow the word from French. Anglophone and francophone have found their way into the day to day speech of every Montrealer, regardless of what category they find themselves in. But we don't have a word for an bilingual, English born Quebecker in Alberta. Through my days in Calgary, I was confronted with this problem anytime the question of birth place arose. I was occasionally told to go back to where I came from- as politically ignorant Westerners can't distinguish between federalist and seperatist Quebeckers anymore than they can between anglophone and francophone Quebeckers. Upon return to Quebec, the problem somehow became more confusing. The difference was I found others who were equally confused. When I first entered the Régie de Santé (Health care board) to renew my provincial insurance (long expired since I was forced to leave at the age of one), the confused secretary stared at me and in a tone that reaked of confusion she asked, 'Benh, t'es québécoise, toé?' With an equally confused tone, I replied no. I've met a lot of English Montrealers who don't identify in any way with the French language. Who force themselves through the mandatory French interactions in taxis and dépanneurs, but who try to speak as little as possible. But then I met people like Nouria, Simona and Fajer. Nouria isn't sure which is her first language- born of a francophone father and anglophone mother. Simona attended francophone schools and is nearly as comfortable in French as she is in English. Same with Fajer. But Simona and Fajer weren't born in Québec, or in Canada for that matter. Simona was born in Romania, and Fajer in Iraq. Both have lived in Quebec longer than anywhere else. In Montreal there is room for people like us. Despite the warnings I received from relatives, when I returned to Montreal I had little trouble finding a job despite the fact that my last name is not québécois. Things have changed. There is less division and less tensions between the French and the English of Montreal. But now my questionable Canadian identity has become a matter for politicians to decide. Before it was merely a question of labels, but now a team of politicians will decide how to categorize us. Our Prime Minister, Stephen Harper recently tossed out this idea of Quebec as nation within a nation, without a real understanding of what he was saying. As the Conservative party continues to make efforts at gaining votes in Quebec, all he is really doing is cementing in the minds of Quebeckers that they don't understand the people they are trying to convert. More than promote national unity, Harper is successfully indicating that as a politician from the country's furthest right-wing province (Alberta), he clearly has no understanding of the country's furtherst left-wing province (Québec).

In the wake of the Dawson shooting, gun control laws take center stage. An American-style view of gun control doesn't sit well here. The shooting at Concordia (1992) by a crazed man who obtained his firearms by threatening co-workers until they signed the necessary documentation further cements the need for tougher gun laws in Quebec. The fact that Fabrikant should have been institutionalized long before the shooting adds to the politically delicate situation. The shooting at l'École Polytechnique (1989) remains fresh in the minds of Montrealers and women's rights groups have been in the spotlight ever since. Funding cuts to these groups won't gain any votes in Quebec. Issues like gay marriage and legalization of marijuana are not issues here- or rather the only issue is why these are still issues in Ottawa. Tossing out the idea of Quebec as a nation within a nation was a political strategy to cock-block the Bloc Québécois, but has for some reason been treated with credibility. I can't wrap my mind around it. The looming question of what defines this new nation is likely to further divide the province. The question is- is Quebec defined by its geographic borders, by its unique culture, or by its purelaine roots? Are we that have not been judged to be purelaine québecois to be treated like foreigners in our own country, own province, own city? Are we to become second class citizens? Are we going to see the rise of the purelaine elite, as we struggle to find hospitals that will service someone whose last name is not Lefebvre or Leblanc? What is to become of the First Nations people of Quebec, who still possess most of the land in Quebec? Will they be québécois? What about the thousands of immigrants that bring so much of the unique culture we are so proud to have here? Will they be québécois? Following the 1995 Referendum, Jacques Pariazeau outraged Quebeckers by blaming immigrants for failure of the OUI side to take the majority. It looks as though years later, they might just be excluded from this new nation altogether. How can a country built on immigration even conceive of passing a bill that promotes this sort of racism? What sort of bureaucratic nightmares await? I imagine there will soon be new ID cards for La Nation Québécoise. I imagine my tuition rates at school will rise, as previously I was considered a Quebec resident, but now as a Quebec born non-purelaine I'll be subject to the same fees as other Canadians. I imagine that this declaration and acknowledgement of Quebec as a nation will only propel the seperatist movement to step up their game and force a separation. Harper has opened up a debate of which he has no understanding, and it is those of us who call Quebec home that will be forced to deal with the consequences. When I left Canada last year, I never thought that my country could change to this extent within the space of a year.

On an unrelated note- Fred and I have outsmarted the Quebec government at long last and broken free of the cycle of Canada Day moving days. We moved into a two bedroom apartment last week, so excuse the delay in postings. It seems the woman who lived there previously passed away recently, thereby vacating the apartment before July 1st. Thus far the government of Quebec has not passed any stupid laws prohibiting this.