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.