Writing the Self 1: Canadian or Someone Else

Sitting at the tables in my high school library, I was doing some beading for my Indigenous Studies 30 class, with my best friend by my side. Everyone was enjoying themselves as they threaded beads through the paper and fabric. My pattern was a maple leaf, the most well-known symbol of Canada. Only true Canadian’s own things with maple leaves on them, or makes thing with the signature plant. Maybe that is what being Canadian meant; owning the symbol of the country itself. No, that does not make sense I thought to myself. That is simply just a part of being Canadian. Mostly just the white people, actually. I stirred around in the plastic chair I had been sitting in for the past half hour and my friend turned to me. “Did you hear about the ICE camps at the United States border?” She asked. “Yeah, that’s so rank. I can’t believe people would do that to other people” I responded. “Yeah, I’m glad we live in Canada and don’t have issues like that here.” She said as she returned to her beading. I sat and thought for a moment about what kind of issues Canada has of its own. We literally had an Indigenous genocide, man. I felt like scolding her. Then, I realized it. Being Canadian is acknowledging the genocide of Indigenous peoples and working towards a better future. But that was not all to being Canadian. There is a lot to being Canadian, I guess. We play hockey, we have maple syrup, we use moose and beavers and loons as symbols on our coins. We are known to be the country with the nicest people, especially when compared to America. I sat in my seat, beading my maple leaf and grinding my teeth. Thoughts that I did not have answers to always bothered me. I turned to my friend again and asked, “what do you think it means to be Canadian?” She shrugged as she beaded. “Honestly, just being nice and pronouncing words wrong, I guess,” she answered. I turned to a classmate at another table. “What do you think it means to be Canadian?” I asked the boy. He glanced up, down, then back up again. “Sorry, me?” He asked. I nodded at him. “Oh, I don’t know. Enjoying winter, shovelling, maple syrup, skating, hockey, watching the Blue Jays and the Raptors. Stuff like that, I guess.” I slumped back in my chair and the boy looked blank and returned to his work. I think I got his brain going now, too. I looked at the beads and stirred them around before putting the string back through them and continuing on. I enjoyed sitting here and beading. It made me feel connected to Indigenous people in a way and it was calming. It was nice learning how they made things, especially in the days before they were colonized. I also thought it was interesting how I was able to learn somebody else’s culture. The beauty of Canada is that you can always learn about somebody else’s world and background without consequences. Canada is a beautifully diverse place. Maybe the acceptance of our diversity is what makes us Canadian I thought. Yeah, our diversity.