Illustration by Kumé Pather
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I lived in Canada for almost 15 years before deciding to become a citizen. It was purely a practical decision for me at the time and, while I took the proceedings seriously, I was far from emotional about it. I felt too Australian to be Canadian.
Part of the process requires a multiple-choice test covering the political, geographical and cultural aspects of being Canadian. Determined not to fail, I became obsessed with the Discover Canada guide, forcing friends to pop quiz me on the members of parliament, I posted the 308 electoral districts on back of the loo door. I’m not sure I could name the capital of each state of Australia but I could rattle off the leader of each party in each province of Canada by the time I walked into that testing room.
Upon opening the first page of the ominous-looking test booklet with the red maple leaf emblazoned on the cover, it became clear I had perhaps overprepared for the 20 multiple choice questions before me. The first question required you to choose from four possible responsibilities of citizenship with one being “to buy a car.” Regardless of the simplicity of the test, I did appreciate the motivation to learn more of my adopted home and to this day take great pride in knowing who Sir Louis-Hippolyte La Fontaine was, what Sir Frederick Banting invented and that the President of the United States is not Canada’s head of state!
How much more do I have to do to prove that I belong in Canada?
During the citizenship ceremony, as I looked around at the sea of culture and ethnicity in the courtroom, I was suddenly hit by the enormity of this undertaking for many of the families present. As each person made their way up the aisle to receive their certificate, family members beaming with pride, I became increasingly overwhelmed by emotion and, by the time my turn arrived, I was a total wreck. Passing two Mounties flanked by Canadian flags, with mascara-soaked tears streaming down my face, I stumbled up to accept my new status and shake hands with the judge. She was so moved by my emotion that she took me in her arms and hugged me. “It’s okay honey,” she whispered. “You’re not alone on this journey, you’re home now.” It didn’t seem an appropriate time to explain that I was simply caught up in the experience, so I hugged her back like she was a long-lost friend. I’m certain she never suspected I hailed from the sun-drenched beaches of Australia and that I would gladly run back there in a heartbeat when the first maple leaf hits the ground every fall.
After the ceremony that freezing January night, we ate Quebec duck tourtière and toasted ourselves with Niagara ice wine. I felt every inch a Canadian. Even as I left to make my way home in -15 C, wrapped up in my giant puffy coat and “Joan of Arc” boots (they’re actually called that), I felt solid in my connection to the Great White North. All was good in the world until I walked through the door of my house to find it barely warmer inside than out. The furnace had stopped working at some point during the day, the pipes had frozen in the front bathroom along with the water in the toilet bowl, and a thin layer of frost covered the windows inside.
In the frozen tundra that was now my living room I was hit by an intense, overt self-awareness. And maybe I felt like a bit of a fraud. I realized would rather cut off my own feet than go ice fishing. That while I want to see the Northern Lights, I want to do it from a lovely warm car with a sunroof, not outside somewhere north of Yellowknife. I like hockey, skiing, sledding and the idea of snow shoeing – but only when the sun is out, the air is still and the temperature is perfect. As most of my Canadian friends welcome the change of seasons, the arrival of fall colours fills me with an oppressive dread. After so many years in the Great White North I still haven’t quite figured out appropriate coat attire or the complicated shoe dress code – when are white shoes not okay and does that apply to running shoes and what exactly is the definition of “open toe” and does that apply to evening shoes (you get the drift).
With our house the temperature of a freezer that night, the rest of my Canadian-born family took the situation in stride. They happily lit a fire, pulled on a few more layers and, with an alarming sense of camaraderie and humour, hunkered down for “a real Canadian” night. I on the other hand was completely overwhelmed by the prospect of freezing to death.
Dejectedly I had to admit that while I love many things about the winter, I do not truly love the winter. I’m most comfortable with my toes in the sand, could live happily without the change of seasons and find very little joy in those crisp fall mornings that signal the end of summer. I miss the smell of the ocean and the calming rhythm of waves at night. I want to hear the hum of cicadas on a humid summer evening, and the deafening cockatoos screeching in gum trees at sunset. I occasionally find myself strangely irritated by the vibrant greens of the forests and longing for the olive and yellow hues of the bush. I want to wake up in the morning, throw on my cozzie and head out for a barefoot walk along the beach. I crave the effervescence of that first morning dive into the Pacific Ocean and the salt and seaweed on my skin.
I do love Canada. Some of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen are in this vast country along with many of my most favourite people on Earth. I think there is a kinship between Australians and Canadians in our love for wide-open spaces and self-deprecating humour. Canada is a bit like a really cold Australia! But when the choir gets to the chorus in Peter Allen’s song I Still Call Australia Home, I’m pretty much a heap of pathetic teary homesickness. So regardless of how much I love Canada, I’d take Vegemite on toast over peameal bacon any day, I like my chips with salt and vinegar not gravy, my type of prawns are anything but shrimp, and when the borders open up again, I plan to be eating barbecued lamb with my family “girt” (surrounded) by the Pacific Ocean.
Nicole Overholt lives quite happily, most of the year, in Toronto.
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