I was drowning under a tsunami of permanent-resident paperwork. Seeking a fresh start and the adventures it would bring, in the summer of 2007 I’d traded my software job in England for one in Victoria, beautiful British Columbia.
I’d been here peacefully for months on a temporary work permit, but my residency application changed things. The Canadian government had developed a deep-seated desire to unearth every last detail of my existence, from the postal code of a student house I graced with my scruffy presence for three whole months in 1995, to the suitability of my pee and current lung capacity.
I ranted to a colleague about whether they would next demand my sister’s shoe size (they already had mine). He laughingly informed me that the quest for citizenship would be even more arduous. He said there would be an exam on all things Canadian.
I was terrified. Exams never fail to bring on a cold wave of nausea. My colleague lightened the mood by teasing me about the “practical component.” I would be expected to ski a black run, gallop a horse, catch a fish, drive a tractor, skate in a hockey match and chop down a cedar. Failure to comply would prevent my acceptance as a true Canuck.
I love to ski (a definite attraction of B.C.), had my own horse back in England, and spent many childhood hours fishing with my dad. So we checked off the first three immediately. Another chap from work helpfully supplied his tractor, on which I whizzed around his property without demolishing a thing. Canada should be pleased to have me.
But my colleague remained adamant about the last two. An illogical, Olympian desire to represent my birth nation drove me to pick up his casually tossed gauntlet.
This was how I ended up at the local rec centre every Wednesday night, fighting with the laces on my hockey skates, which refused to tie up tight. Apparently I had to tie them “just so” to prevent injury. The blisters on my office-worker hands from pulling at the laces did not count as injury. How un-Canadian of me to suggest such a feeble thing, my colleague admonished me when seeking his weekly update. All Canadians are prepared to wrestle bears in order to survive. That was not on the exam, I pointed out.
The first week, when I timidly approached the window to register my attendance, the instructor inquired whether I would like a helmet. They were recommended. I looked at the battered, black hockey lids on the shelf and all I could think of was crusted layers of teenaged-boy sweat. I declined.
Twenty minutes later, I watched a classmate take a spectacular tumble, spread out like a wintry beached starfish on the ice, eyes dazed. I developed a sudden passion for crusty sweat, and sheepishly asked the instructor if I might have a helmet after all. Her mouth and eyes smiled yes at me, infinitely patient.
As she ushered me off with a kindly mitten to my back, I realized how many of us stumbling newbie skaters – fearing sweat, bad hair, crushed ears and dorky helmets – she has dealt with every season. She was pleased that one more of her clumsy penguins had seen sense before it was knocked out.
Now each week I encase my thinking box in its safety shield. I am empowered with confidence by the helmet, imbued with the bravado of all those sweaty teenaged hockey players.
The skates that grace my feet are as natural as a mohawk on Prince Charles, but are thankfully new and mine. I was warned about rentals, and did not need telling twice.
