Being Native

A hand suddenly pulled me away from my locker and out of my trance. Looking forward, I saw Willa’s ponytail swaying back and forth as she pulled me through the glass doors, ignoring our teacher’s shouts of warnings. My backpack bounced up and down on my shoulders, threatening to tip me over given the absurd number of books I managed to stuff in it. Sunlight flooded my vision as we ran across the playground, towards where our parents awaited. Panting, Willa dragged me towards a woman that looked exactly like her. I had never understood how Willa was so tall, but looking at her mom, I was even more in awe. My neck strained, not used to looking at anyone so tall. She held her hand out to me friendlily, “You must be Kelsey, I heard a lot about you from Willa!” . My brain stopped, what should I address her as? In China, we referred to elder women of close friends and relations as Auntie. But she wouldn’t be comfortable being called that seeing as she isn’t Chinese. Suddenly, the gears in my brain began to grind again, coming up with an idea. Didn’t Harry address Ron’s mom in the book as Ms. Weasley? What’s Willa’s last name? How exactly do you pronounce Garschagen? In my panicked state, I had let out a jumble of incoherent words, trying desperately to remember the pronunciation for Garschagen before finally letting out a “Hello Ms. G.!” that was followed by a slight bow of my head. A sigh of relief was followed by her warm smile. I would really have to search up how to pronounce Garschagen later.

Mrs. Garschagen smiled and told me softly, “I think we’ve known

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each other for long enough now to skip the formalities. Just call me Anne, Kelsey. ” I panicked, stuck in the same uncertainty as I was in one month ago at our first meeting. I stammered incoherently as I scrambled for the words to express my concern. I looked at her incredulously--was she really asking me to call her by her first name? Her? An adult? Asking me to call her by her proper name as if we were peers? It was a small thing, but all those little things combined to create the experience of culture shock anyone who finds themselves transplanted in a radically different culture is bound to face. A wave of insecurity flooded my brain in such moments. I felt uncomfortable referring to her by her first name, uncomfortable over something that the kids here wouldn’t bat an eye at.

I realized during my time in Canada that it is impossible to fully force yourself into a culture, throwing away your roots in the process. A part of me will always prefer rice over bread, I will never really feel comfortable calling adults by their first names and that’s ok. Perhaps that’s what we were missing all along. Whilst desperately trying to fit in, we forget to be ourselves simply because we don’t think that ourselves will fit in if we don’t change.

I had never really felt the urge to be “native” in New Zealand, perhaps because I was too young to understand or maybe it was thanks to the community and their ways of welcoming you that prevented that feeling. However, this all changed when I moved to Montreal. As I became more self-aware, I began to question my identity. Every teenager wants to fit in, to belong and I’m no exception. After leaving New

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Zealand just as I was getting the hang of things and beginning to “fit in” and become comfortable in the language, we up and moved to Montreal. Here, I would spend the next six years learning another language and finding my place in a different, slightly less welcoming place. It’s not to say that Montrealers are unfriendly. They’re just not quite as warm and welcoming as the Kiwis.

This has helped me realize, again and again, that perhaps being “native” is over-emphasized and that we don’t have to change ourselves to fit in. Being our natural selves is enough. Even the indigenous people of New Zealand don’t view themselves as extraordinary or special even though they lived there first. The word Maori in their language means: normal, ordinary, and usual. I had always felt a little more peace of mind remembering this, knowing that no matter where I go, just being myself, staying connected to my roots while still being present and open to the new cul

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Le Flaneur: Observations of Life in Montreal

Mount Royal

Graffiti splattered across walls and buildings. Crowded streets bustling with people of all walks of life. Vines and flora covering walls and buildings, like the same vines that covered my house in China before my father cut them down. (He claimed that they damaged the walls.) Weeds creeping through the cracks in thesidewalk. As I walked along the streets of Mount Royal, I hum the words to Tupac’s lyrics Did you hear about the rose that grew/ from a crack in the concrete? Proving nature's law is wrong/ it learned to walk without having feet...I’m finding my feet as I stroll through Mount Royal. After two years in New Zealand, this rose is now blooming in Montreal. Red and blue flags displaying the symbol of the Canadiens hang from balconies and cars as they desperately hope to take the Stanley Cup in four. Hockey in Montreal is like an addiction. The highs are euphoric, but the lows, abysmal. When the Canadiens win, they’re heroes; when they lose, everyone turns their backs on them. Fair weather fans. And sooner or later a player, the latest scapegoat, is sent packing to another team. The previous Canadiens captain, Max Pacioretty lived two houses away from us a few years back. We would see him walking around with his wife and children from time to time. Soon after that season, he was traded off to an American team. Bikes whizz past pedestrians, few bikers wearing helmets. Crowded streets, people packed like sardines. I read somewhere that. Mount Royal has the densest population in North America. Mount Royal’s heart is young, hip, creative, gentrified. Cars would be inconvenient to have in a neighborhood. Quieter without them. Flower baskets hang from

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balconies in various arrays of colors. Abandoned coffee cups sit on window sills. In Montreal, where cafes are abundant, almost no one goes to Starbucks. Most people opt for the local patisserie. Abandoned mattresses and broken discarded furniture lying on street corners as people do their spring cleaning. Buildings painted in all different colors of the rain lived together in harmony. Fallen masks and wrappers litter the ground. I remember that in New Zealand, people used to voluntarily pick trash off the beach. The smell of coffee beans is strong and the whir of the grinder is soothing inside the cafe. The buttery smell of croissants and other baked goods wafts from the oven. There has been a long-standing controversy the correct name for the popular pastry, the pain au chocolat or, as it’s called by the Quebecois. Its correct name has long been debated. The French insist that its proper name is pain au chocolat while Quebecois firmly stand by the name chocolatine. After stopping for a chocolat chaud avec une chocolatine, I exit the patisserie and head toward the huge park that lies in the heart of Mount Royal. People picnicking on the hill, their red-and-white-chequered blankets lie like flags across the park. Seagulls caw quizzically nearby, loitering by the picknickers, waiting for their chance to snatch any food on the ground. In New Zealand, seagulls were everywhere. I remember a particular encounter with one of these devious birds. It snatched the hot dog that I was eating right out of my hands. My seven-year-old self traumatized and indignant. I give a gull a wide birth as he struts nearby. Amongst the seagulls, pigeons also pranced around, pecking at grub in the grass. Pigeons are nicknamed “The rats of the sky” . Not everyone seems to hate them though, especially the elderly. In New Zealand and even here, it isn’t strange to find an elderly citizen on a bench, feeding the pigeons bread.

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