bout de papier, Vol. 4, No. 3 (1986) — Fall 1986 // Automne 1986, p. 8
Irealize that reading other people’s letters is a breach of privacy. However, letters left open on the dining room table are fair game for a peek, if only to ascertain to whom to return them.
Thus it happened that I inadvertently, and uncomfortably, got what I deserved — the truth. The letter was from my son to a friend back in East Africa, the location of our last posting from which we had returned fairly recently. It contained a version of his daily life that was unedited for parental consumption.
In my efforts to cope with my own reentry trauma, I must have been sending out signals that said, “Don’t bother me. I bought you new clothes, what more do you want?”
I knew that they had been buddies for three years but felt that I had managed their farewells with creditable skill. There had been parties, a special safari during which they could camp together, photographs taken, addresses exchanged, even two phone calls after our return to Canada.
Besides, that was six months ago, at the beginning of summer. Now we were all, so I thought, caught up in the joy and exhilaration of planning a big Canadian family Christmas.
Because he had not said anything directly to me, I had assumed that my son had slid contentedly, comfortably back into his Canadian skin. Only partially, as I was to discover..
Dear Kamoya,
Iwanted to ’phone you but my parents are still having a fit over the ’phone bill from last time.
Well, things are better than when I last wrote. I’m beginning to make a few friends but no one I can really talk to. All they’re interested in is cars and drinking beer.
And my parents – they’re so wrapped up in relatives and plans for their ski holiday they don’t care what I think. I’d rather spend Christmas beside the Indian Ocean with you than in some snowbound village in Alberta.
I was eight years old when I left here the last time, nearly half my lifetime ago. Everyone is still telling me how much I’ve grown. What did they expect after seven years?
Something happened last week that maybe I shouldn’t tell you about. But I was really shocked and upset. There is this gorgeous new girl in my calculus class. She is from Viet Nam and a real brain. Anyhow, since we live in the same part of the city, I drove her to the Christmas dance along with Daniel Nkomah (the guy from the Nigerian embassy, remember?) and his date.
Hardly anyone spoke to us all evening and no one came to sit with us. One teacher! even took me aside and suggested that I would “fit in” better if I mixed with people more like myself. I guess I’m really naive — at first I didn’t know what he meant. I kept thinking, “This is Canada!”
Speaking of girls. They are really different than the girls at the International School. They wear tons of makeup/warpaint (like American Indians) and play little head games with you. I never know where I am with them.
My parents keep bugging me about my marks and nagging me to study harder. Then in the next breath they want me to join the school band, go on dates, play soccer, etc., etc. I wish they’d make up their minds whether they want a jock or a brain. Thank goodness the courses at A.I.S. were so good, I can really coast through and still pass.
I’m beginning to catch up with the music scene at last. All the stuff we practised so hard is unknown here. And no one likes jazz. All teeny bopper rock. Yuk! They only like music after someone tells them it is popular.
I’ve got to end this now. Sorry this letter is such a downer. It’s really not that bad. I’m finally beginning to feel at home. And despite all the things that are different, I have a sense of belonging here even though I miss East Africa.
Write soon, your friend Sean
P.S. Wish me luck on the “family” Christmas. I won’t know anybody! A
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 4, No. 3 (1986) — Fall 1986 // Automne 1986, p. 8. Read the rest of this issue →
