Born in Zimbabwe to a white family in the 1980s, I was kept mostly separate from native, black Zimbabweans – albeit less so than a generation before. As I grew up and attended a racially integrated school, I saw this gap slowly shrink before being wedged apart by Robert “Bob” Mugabe, our long-standing dictator-president, as a last ditch effort to remain in power. He is now 91 years old and has ruled since 1980. In the intervening years he marauded the opposition and eviscerated the agrarian economy until the country’s top export became its own citizens. In contrast to South Africa, where reconciliation between races was prioritized, Zimbabweans were force-fed a diet of hate.
I left behind this narrow view of ethnic differences when I embarked on a scholarship to an American university in 2004. Wide-eyed and hungry for a better life, I found it refreshing not to know who was upper or lower class and to be indistinguishable from my peers.
My 11 years in the United States made me a product of the “melting pot” of American cultural assimilation, an idea I completely agree with. Recent immigrants should actively integrate and become part of their new community. In theory, this should breed social cohesion and enable national debate without a breakdown into voting blocs based on national origin or ethnicity. Unfortunately, while the goal is admirable, I saw little evidence that new immigrants (myself included) pursued this ideal in earnest. Often the hardship of trying to fully immerse seems to drive newcomers deeper into their own localized communities, at least to begin with.
It is from these multiple identities that I now look onto Canadian multiculturalism. Four months into life in Canada, I lean positive for a few reasons.
Photo by Andrea_44, flickr
By nature we are curious as to where people around us are from, how they came to be here and what their preoccupations are. In the United States, it is often considered rude, or at minimum a faux pas, to inquire about a stranger’s origin. I understand why: noticing our differences somehow divides us, giving the assumption of “foreign-ness” based on one’s skin colour or dress. It’s “un-American.” In Canada, I have found that these sorts of rudimentary curiosities are gracefully permitted and returned in kind. It’s enjoyable and natural and the mere fact that someone asks should be taken at face value, as a polite and inquisitive icebreaker.
Encouraging new immigrants to hold fast to their own culture imbues society with a rich sense of history in a country whose own past is short. Defying logic, this encouragement often brings people closer together. The pervasive cultural festivals and vibrant neighbourhoods support understanding in a way that the melting pot would find difficult. Asking people to revel in who they are empowers them to learn about others and gel in a collage of backgrounds. Who would have thought?
So is there a cohesive idea of what exactly a Canadian is? While Canadians are comfortable being a motley crew, the rest of world can be more demanding. Are they brash? Curious? Dependable? Canadians await their defining category.
Even my own family, who still live in Zimbabwe, were quizzical when I told them I was moving to Canada. “But why?” they asked, “There’s nothing there.” An interesting reaction despite how far and wide Canadians like to travel and their renowned friendliness.
Watching my first Canada Day celebration recently, I noticed this is a popular question for leaders too. They were incessantly asked to nail down this vast country’s character, often in a sentence.
All of this makes me confident I chose well. It’s impossible to nail down a single person’s personality in a sentence, how can we possibly expect to qualify an entire country.
