Those Things We Take With Us - Feature

Awww, me ducky. Where ya to? Yes B’y. What are ya at?

Those statements would make most Canadians roll their eyes or glance quickly around to see if they could spot the outsider with the clear, distinctive voice. Their clothing may not be an indicator, but their speech certainly is. It’s one of the many things that make a Newfoundlander what he or she is. Like a fish out of water, we are bound together by those things we take with us. Our language, our love, our life.

Newfoundland is Canada’s youngest province. But its culture long pre-dates its joining the Union. Newfoundland is like a middle-aged person trapped in the throes of an isolated adolescence. How does it grow to be a part of Canada, without compromising the character developed and shaped by hundreds of years of shared experience?

My family is experiencing this battle right now. To my mother’s ever-vocal displeasure, none of her children made the opportunity to live in Newfoundland. School, jobs, marriage – something or other always seemed to nab the three of us and hold us like prisoners to the ‘mainland’, according to her. That’s her enlightened opinion.

My sister lives in London, Ontario – working under contract and counting down the days until she can move back east. But will she ever set foot back on the rocky planet we so adore? It doesn’t look like it’s in the cards for her. Her fiancé is from Halifax, and she is content to live within close proximity to her home island.

My brother, who currently resides in Halifax, is set on staying there, regardless of the hints from my mother to move back home. Like my sister, his significant other is from the Maritimes and he is quite happy to remain where he is.

The music, the city, and the people – they are all more than adequate substitutes for the culture they left behind many years ago.

But how can they not feel the pull? How do they not dream of the crags, the rocks and miss the smell of the cold North Atlantic Ocean? They have been assimilated into the greater Canadian culture. Something not to be ashamed of, as we are all Confederation babies - born Canadians before Newfoundlanders. But how is this connection – this lifeline – lost on two people so genetically similar to me? I yearn for the salty taste of May icebergs and the understanding that when I speak, people will understand me without my having to explain.

When I think about my siblings and myself, a thirty-three per cent success rate isn’t terrible, I suppose. Still, it makes me question how other displaced Newfoundlanders get by without seeing their home for so long while still retaining that sense of cultural identity that is so vital in making them not only what they are, but who they are.

My guess? Newfoundland, on its own and for the most part has instilled in its natives (save for the two lost souls I lovingly call my brother and sister) an unshakable conviction of where they come from. A sense of place and meaning lovingly crafted through language, family lines and a connection to the land.

When we leave the craggy bosom of Newfoundland, we carry within us our funny sounding phrases, our semi-Irish accents, the collective love for boiled vegetables and insanely salty beef. We take our strong work ethic, our love for humankind and our compassion to do what is right no matter the consequences.

But hear my woe – these things we take with us do not always console an ex-patriot’s Newfoundland soul. In fact, it can lead to intense alienation. It marks me and others to the outside world. Suddenly all those things that mattered so much, those things that connected me to those around me, are the things that come between me and those around me. They are the things that a thousand jokes have been made of. The characteristics themselves? Possibly, but more likely it lies in the fact that I cling to this identity. Having roots marks me.

People snicker when I say “b’y,” or when I’m not paying the usual painstaking attention to my accent and I let something slip by unintentionally. When I ask the grocer if they carry salted beef, he smiles and points me in the direction of corned beef. When I politely try and explain the difference, he scoffs and states that I must be a Newfoundlander, as though it were a horrific thing.

Today, I had lunch with a fellow Newfoundlander who recently moved here. We were both waiting to see a friend from back home who was passing through, and she said, "I can't wait to see him, I'm tellin' ya. It's gonna be some nice to hear a feller with a fresh accent!"

I kept my opinion to myself that her accent was as fresh as the day she got off the ferry. She wouldn't understand that in time, there was the possibility she'd lose it. She already felt affected by being away from home, evident in her pleasure of hearing a "fresh" accent. To me, she was like the joyful summer breeze in late July. She sounded like home, and I was embarrassed to convey my own pleasure at hearing her speak.

I know I am not the only person in this multi-cultural sea who is teetering on the edge of losing their cultural identity within our vast country. It’s not intentional, nor is it done out of persecution or racism. It almost seems to be the natural progression - we slowly walk onto the cultural mosaic shouting phrases like "Diversity! Multi-culturalism! Equality for all!" In the end, however hard we try, we all end up in one big melting pot.

Maybe as Newfoundlanders we instill in ourselves this intense identity out of fear – the fear that we are not so unlike every other Canadian, North American or world citizen. Perhaps we cultivate this identity so we stand out, while really we’re just expressing the same experiences, values and morals as everyone else.

Cultural identity is not limited to the boundaries of my island. It expands throughout the world, where others, like me, have deep, intense emotions about their homeland. Patriotism at its finest, you'd say. I have friends who are proud to be American, Chinese, Indian or Palestinian. When they step into a Superstore and ask for an item that reminds them of home, they feel the same as I do.

I see my multinational friends thrive on their culture as much as I do on mine. I stand in awe of them as they proudly eat cheese that comes from an aerosol can and eat pig's intestine. I am in awe because I had begun to assimilate myself. I’ve been covering my accent to the point that I feel I no longer have it. It shames me that I have let it get this far.

Looking at this cultural kaleidoscope that is Canada, I have decided that I will not be alienated anymore. I will find my roots once more, buried deep and safe within myself. Not destroyed, just temporarily forgotten. I will nurture them until they grow stronger than ever, and I will be proud of who I am. I will not longer let my identity be frightened away by alienation and conformity.

I am willing to bear the mark that makes me a Newfoundlander. Scratch that. I am proud to wear the mark. Wherever I may be on this crazy planet, I will remain true to my heritage.

The words of my mother, which gave birth to this epiphany, echo in my head:

“You’re the only one who wants to come home. I’ll never understand why your brother and sister have turned into mainlanders. But you’re still a Newfoundlander true and true. Makes my heart proud to know you want to come back home.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that I may never set a permanent foot on Newfoundland soil again. I fully understand now that it’s not because of a lack of desire to return, but it seems to be a rite of passage for some of us; a test, even. To step away from the rock and find out whether your roots are strong enough to survive the trip, and how long they can extend before breaking.

No matter where I go, I will know where I came from. No matter how much I may question who I am, I will have a foundation on which to build. No matter how weak I feel, I will have something to lean on.

I am a Newfoundlander.

Elizabeth Mackenzie Murphy

Her hair used to be long and brown, then silver, and then white. Her glasses never changed in the 19 years I knew her. The lenses perhaps, but the round, owlish frames were an unvarying reminder that she would be a constant in a life that was wrought with change. Her gaze never faltered when looking at me with the love that only a grandmother could share with her grandchild.

She was someone that I trusted completely. When I was with her, I got that feeling inside me, like a six-year old after bouncing up and down in the big balloon castle for those precious three and a half minutes – like I had just climbed to the moon and floated back down.

She relaxed me. Speaking with her let my mind explore places and times I’d never seen before. Those conversations encouraged me to speak freely about the things I would have normally kept to myself.

She exasperated me with her unwavering strength and conviction about who she was in the world, and her place. She had a purpose in her life and she followed her path without hesitation.

She bossed me around. Not because she felt that she needed to be dominating, but because it’s simply what grandmothers do. She bossed me around since I was old enough to speak, and she always told me that it was only for my best interests that I kept my fingers out of my food, brushed my hair and teeth, and always wore clean underwear (because you never know when you’re going to get hit by a bus and you’ll want to have clean underpants for that glorious occasion).

Her voice was like sandpaper, with a hint of butter underneath. You knew that she used to have a gorgeous voice, tarnished now with the cruel reminder that she was no longer the woman she once was. Her height had diminished with her age, towering in her twenties at a little over six feet; at the age of 84, she was a feeble five feet, nine inches.

She was the most stubborn woman I had ever had the blessing of knowing. It made me realize that genetics are truly phenomenal, and that my mother and I have both inherited more from her than we ever thought possible. It aggravated her more than anyone else that she could no longer do the things she had routinely done for the last 80 years.

It broke my mother’s heart the day she had to go into the nursing home – cursing and swearing that she didn’t need to be there, that she could take care of herself, and everyone else, like she had always done. After the first week, she had become everyone’s favourite, like we knew she would.

Sunday’s at Nan’s house turned into weekly trips to the hospital-esque home. Homemade birthday cakes, lovingly crafted by Nan’s experienced hands, were replaced with cards signed hastily by my mother, and I watched as Nan drifted further and further into her own solitude.

After four years, Nan was no longer the person I had idolized as a child, but someone whom I cared for as an adult. The only thing that remained was the frame – the foundation of a house long abandoned, crumbling at the seams.

When she died on that cold, winter’s day, my mother, sister and I held each onto each other and remembered her for who she was when she was strong of body and mind.

St. Lawrence

The smell of holy water has replaced the smell of orange juice that the cafeteria lady used to hand out to chubby, impatient hands. Pews line the building, row on row like consecrated soldiers, their cushioned seats barely imprinted. A vast difference from the well worn grooves in the desks and chairs that had seen a thousand bottoms over five decades.

The sounds of children’s laughter have been replaced by the thunderous boom of a century old pipe organ, dedicatedly and delicately moved piece-by-piece over the two-mile journey from the old church into the new one.

The windows that caught endless daydreams of playing outside are now stained with the scenes from the bible that the children used to learn from schoolbooks.

The outside remains the same – updated, but the same. New vinyl siding had replaced the cracked, chipping paint. A tower has been added and a large, modern-looking cross placed where the name of the school once proudly stood. A modern cross for a modern church – out with the old, in with the new.

The gymnasium sticks out from the side of the church like a tumor – old, decrepit, unloved. Rarely used and kept on as the parish hall, it’s the lone reminder that this brand new church has not always been a church, but a place of learning where generations upon generations attended.

Brides, flushed with excitement, will be reminded with each step down the pristine red carpeted aisle that they once roamed through this building with a very different purpose – a bathroom break, going to music class or heading to the gym.

Everything has happened between these four walls – the celebrations of life, of death, of new beginnings. Teachers have nurtured young minds, children have learned, been disciplined, have laughed and cried. There isn’t an emotion that hasn’t been experienced within the walls of St. Lawrence.

So, instead of sending their children to school, parents now put on their Sunday best and they all make the journey to St. Lawrence Anglican Parish for service. Or in the case of a former student and future bride, she will walk down the aisle, excited about the future memories she will make with her husband, while her childhood memories echo off the walls that surround her.

Neverland is never far away

I can feel the evergreen needles prickling my skin as I take that first leap off of the ledge of my property and plunge the half-meter into the woods behind my house. The path is hidden through the trees, and only us children know how to find the secret door. The branches hardly move as I land deftly on my feet, my body’s memory of a thousand leaps guiding me forward. I stand still, willing my excitement to run further into the woods away, willing myself to stay still for a moment to enjoy my surroundings, as I always have done since discovering my secret garden.

Green hats, rust carpet, and brown bodies. The sky is hidden through the blanket of evergreen trees, so only the luckiest sunbeams are allowed through to shine onto the forest floor. Discarded pine needles, their use long gone, lay dormant. Like a blur, a red squirrel zaps by, camouflaged by the dead needles on the ground.

The tinkling of the nearby brook makes me unconsciously do the pee-pee dance while I try and listen for my friends. The squirrels twitter in the trees, and I can hear the faint whoosh as they take flight. Robins, blue jays and chickadees all sing to one another dozens of meters above me. I feel like Snow White.

Damp leaves fill my nostrils and the smell of the turpentine makes my eyes water. I know I will be covered in it before the day is out.

I’m seven years old and I don’t have a care in the world – other than finding my friends down by the creek and playing in the centuries-old forest that I call home.

Maternal Instincts

Some people are maternal creatures by nature. They feel joy and pleasure knowing there is a legacy in their arms, perhaps wondering what their part is in the greater scheme of things. They enjoy changing diapers, feel significant when they can soothe a tummy ache or dry a tear from a chubby, pouting face.

Others run away screaming from children as if they were the carriers of the bubonic plague. The very idea that a small child is dependent entirely upon them frightens them more than being stuck in an abandoned mansion with Freddy Krueger or Jason from Friday the 13th. They would take a machete any day over diapers, grabbing hands and tears.

I am a member of the first group. I love children. To me, I was created in this world to be a mother, regardless if it's natural or adoptive. I love all children and anxiously anticipate the day when I can experience it with my own. While I experience the frustrations, the fatigue and the exasperation when a child won't stop crying, when they hurt and I can't fix it, I know that it will be worth it in the end.

There is difficulty when two people who are very close are divided by this significant difference. I coo when I see a baby, my friend Sarah looks at them like they are made of fragile glass that will crack if they are jostled too quickly. While she thinks they are absolutely adorable, and while she enjoys looking at them, the very thought of having a child in her arms causes her to shake, her eyes darting from left to right looking for the nearest exit.

Sarah and I conducted an 'experiment' last week. I wanted to see if any 'maternal instincts' would surface in Sarah during the uncomfortable experience of holding my infant niece, Rebecca. For background information, Rebecca is the most adorable, gorgeous, well-behaved child I have ever had the pleasure of being with, so I knew that she would be the perfect “beginner-baby” for Sarah. For an hour leading up to the fateful moment, she was a wreck. She kept asking questions and she nervously laughed. It was clear she wasn't comfortable with this idea, but she would do it for this assignment.

We had a nice little visit with my niece. Sarah was cautiously watching me handling Rebecca like she was made of stainless steel and unbreakable. It was definitely making her uncomfortable as her eyes grew wide and an occasional grunt would escape her lips when I flipped Rebecca upside down to elicit a peal of laughter.

I was calculating the perfect time to shove the child unsuspectingly into her arms. The moment came when she had to be changed - Sarah was lulled into a sense of security as she watched me handle the baby for over an hour without hinting at the fact that she'd have to hold her. Perhaps she thought I had changed my mind. After she was powdered, changed and cuddled, I picked her up, looked at Sarah, and said, "Ok Sarah, take the baby".

"WHAT?! No, no, no. That's ok! Shouldn’t we be downstairs, like, on the couch where I can’t drop her?" she stammered, hands up, walking backwards. I was certain her survival instincts were kicking into overdrive.

"Well you're going to have to because I'm letting go of her!" I faked, shoving the wriggling, smiling baby into her arms.

"Oh god, Oh god, Oh god," I could hear her mutter as she awkwardly tried to hold Rebecca.

After a few moments of showing her the proper way of holding a child, with my hands protectively nearby, ready to grab Rebecca should Sarah not be able to handle her, she went and threw a wrench into the situation.

"Ok, now you stand over there and watch me hold her by myself missy!" she exclaimed, nodding to the furthest point in the room. I knew I had to do it; it was part of the experiment. I was hoping, however, that she would forget.

I walked over, put my back against the wall and watched, convinced I wouldn't have a problem with my best friend holding my niece.

My palms started to sweat. There was this uncomfortable sensation spreading in my chest - like a fire had started and was blooming out over my skin, moving it's way down my arms and legs. My stomach started to get butterflies and my mind flipped me an image of Rebecca lunging for Sarah's earrings (like she usually does to others), and Sarah letting go.

I thought I was having a heart attack.

It seemed like an hour. It was only two minutes. After those agonizing 120 seconds ended and I took Rebecca back into my arms, I looked at Sarah. She seemed slightly uncomfortable, but not to the point that she wanted to stop holding her. She almost seemed disappointed that she had to give her back.

"That wasn't so bad!" she said, almost to herself. Maybe she was having a revelation.

I had Rebecca back in my arms, and I was happy. That's all that mattered. I never wanted to let her go again. I was uncomfortable about my discomfort in that situation. I should have been fine, and I should have trusted Sarah to be safe with Rebecca. It made me ashamed that I didn’t have enough faith in my best friend to hold a baby for two minutes. I was having my own internal revelation.

Rebecca looked up at me, drool rolling off her wide, grinning face and then looked over to Sarah, the same mile-wide smile for her. She was none the wiser that both Sarah and I had experienced something that neither of us was expecting.

Sarah and I walked out of my brother's house, both feeling a little more different than we had when we walked in, whether for better or for worse, we weren't entirely sure.

My Family Legend

My family has a very rich and varied history - from my grandfather's beginnings as Captain of the Bell Island Iron Ore Mine in the 1960s to my generation, where all members of my family have made significant contributions to Canadian society through their professions in the medical field. While we are a modern family, we still hold on to the roots that make us what we are - Newfoundlanders. My family is spread across the eastern half of Canada and only my parents remain in Newfoundland. This does not matter, however, because we are all connected through the culture that flows through our blood like the icebergs that come down the Labrador Strait every spring and hug the Newfoundland shore.

There is one story that has been in my family since the 1920s - it happened to my grandmother Elizabeth and great-Aunt Hazel when they were very young children. Telling it now, I can still picture Nan, gone many years now. Withered and wrinkled, she had a voice that was soft as velvet when she was placating a young child's persistent request to hear the story over and over and over again.

One summer day in 1928 my great-grandfather was out tending to his garden. Normally, this would be a mundane daily task, but my great-grandfather had been blind since he was a child, so he required two of his daughters to help him from time-to-time. This gave them the opportunity to get away from the chores inside with their mother, and play like many children did on a beautiful day.

My great-Aunt Hazel was only five, and wanted to play in the vast expanse of meadow that was in front of their two-room home. She was persistent, Nan said, like there was something out there that needed to be done. My great-grandfather was content to let her roam - in the 20s the only concern was that the child did not cross the path of a black bear or be bitten by a mouse. Hazel was a bright child, my great-grandfather used to say, and she had her own mind set before anyone else did.

Hazel skipped off, singing something about meeting her new friend to play. My grandmother always said that she thought it was strange because they lived deep in the woods and it was miles between houses during those times. My great-grandfather thought it equally strange, and he suddenly stood straight up and said in a quick, urgent way for my grandmother to get Hazel and bring her back immediately.

Nan, who was around 12 at the time, questioned her father, who immediately repeated the request with more urgency than before. Nan used to say that her father spoke only two words when necessary when most would use four. Gathering her skirts, she quickly ran to the meadow, calling after her little sister. Nan could see the top of her head and she quickened her pace.

When Nan reached Hazel, she took notice of a second person. "This must be Hazel's new friend that Dad is so worried about," thought my grandmother. Because her eyes were never that great, Nan came closer and realized that this was no friend - or person, for that matter.

She stood at three feet, six inches tall at most, with wiry grey hair and wrinkles deep-set into her tiny face. She wore clothing that Nan had never seen before, and she had many pendants and jewelry on her tiny frame. Her eyes were black as night and they had a gleam in them that made my grandmother shudder. Nan knew what this was, and she reached into her pocket for the piece of hard tack, or hard bread, her mother routinely put in all of her and her sibling's sweaters.

"Remember child, whenever you encounter a fairy, always hold the hard tack in your hand, and they will not be able to touch you," her mother had told her many, many times before.

Hazel was too young to realize that what they were dealing with was a dreaded Newfoundland Fairy. I used to laugh at the idea, and pictured something similar to Tinkerbelle, but my Nan used to scold me, saying that the Fairies were a dangerous kind who used to lure small children from their homes and keep them for 50 years – releasing them at the same spot they had vanished. It was a truly frightening experience to sixty years old with no memory of the past five decades and my grandmother feared these creatures more than any black bear. Only hard tack kept them at bay from taking a child and replacing them with a "changeling" - a fairy that took the shape of the child but was not a child in any sense of the word.

Nan grabbed Hazel and picked her up, hurrying away as fast as she could with a struggling child in her arms. She could see the smile on the fairy's face turn from kind and gentle to a snarl - Nan had taken away her catch for the day, and it was obvious she was not happy.

When they returned to the house, their father was waiting anxiously. As they got closer, calm came over him and he held out his arms for Hazel, knowing she was safe without any of them speaking a word.

That night, my great-grandfather explained to Hazel what had happened, and my great-grandmother made sure to turn all of Hazel's sweaters inside-out and place a piece of hard tack in all her pockets.

Nan said that she was certain that the fairies knew her from that day on, and that they were always causing her mischief because she foiled their plans to take away her little sister. I always used to ask what they did to her to make her so certain, but she’d just smile - that grandmotherly smile that spoke volumes of the life within her and the infinite experiences she had, and said to me, every single time, "That's a story for another time, dear."

I never had the chance to hear that "other” story before my Nan passed away, but I know that this story will remain in my family for generations to come and the lessons are these:

Always listen to your parents and of course, the classic - never talk to a stranger.

You never know what it may be.

A Day In The Life of a Customs Officer

While working at an international airport, the chances of seeing a celebrity would seem to be greater than seeing Harrison Ford walking down the street. But when that airport is in Newfoundland, those encounters are few and far between.

One day while working an international flight I had my first celebrity encounter. All of my co-workers were buzzing with excitement. It was Ron Jeremy. I had seen him on the second season of Surreal Life on MTV, so I was excited at the prospect of seeing someone who was on television. Knowing his previous history as a porn star, I knew that he would be detained and questioned.

Like clockwork, Mr. Jeremy was lead into a back office to be questioned by Immigration officials, as he was planning on working in Canada. When I knew he was in the office alone, I grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and tentatively walked towards the door.

“Where are you going?” asked a co-worker of mine.
“Oh, I just figured I’d ask if he’d give me an autograph,” I replied casually.
“Really? I figured you’d be too young to know any of his work,” he called back, snickering.

While I was completely embarrassed at the thought, I was still determined to get my slice of the celebrity cake. I ignored my laughing co-workers who had all heard the exchange. As I stood in front of the door, my co-workers imitated 70s porn music behind my back.

Walking in, I saw this 5”6 pudgy little man sitting at the desk with Nintendo hair and mustache that reminded me of Mario from Super Mario Brothers. He was filthy from head to foot, like he had been working in an auto shop for the last 8 hours instead of riding in the lap of luxury on a first-class flight. I had no idea why anyone would want to have sex with that, let alone pay him to do it. But, a celebrity’s a celebrity, and I didn’t care who he was.

He looked up from the papers he was filling out and smiled at me. I blushed and asked him politely that while it wasn’t protocol, if he would mind signing an autograph for me. His grin got bigger, and he looked me up and down while taking the paper and pen from me.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” he asked.
“Heather,” I replied.
“You look a little young to be in law enforcement,” he stated.
“Oh, that’s because I’m a student just working here for the summer,” I answered, pleased that I was engaging in some sort of conversation with someone I religiously watched on reality television.
“A student, really? That’s nice. I don’t get too many young, beautiful girls like yourself coming up to me for an autograph. In fact, you are a little young to be a fan of my work, don’t you think?” he said, laughing.

I could feel the heat stinging my cheeks. He actually thought I watched his other work! I started stammering, trying to shove out an explanation that I had seen him as a has-been celebrity on television, but to no avail – the words just could not leave my mouth. I stood there, helplessly, turning red from the tips of my toes to the top of my ears as he continued on.

“You look good in that uniform, sugar. You ever, ah, allowed to use it outside of work?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, handing me back the cursed piece of paper that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.

“Ah, no. Um, er, thanks for the autograph, it was nice meeting you,” I managed to spit out before turning back. I turned around blindly, and practically ran out of the office.

My co-workers had seen every minute of the exchange on the surveillance cameras, and when I walked back in, the chorus of porn theme songs continued and one of them walked up to me and said, very seriously, “Ma’am, I believe you ordered a pizza, exxxttraa sausage?”

I turned and walked out of the building.

I’ve never asked for another celebrity’s autograph since that day.