bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 3 (1987) — Fall 1987 // Automne 1987, p. 44
With all the recent publicity about refugees set adrift off the coast of Nova Scotia, I remember my sea sick arrival in Canada. Mind you, my ship was somewhat larger than a lifeboat. But in memory “The Neptunia” as the battered vessel was called, seemed little more than a tub. This impression may have been coloured by the fact that during our crossing we hit the tail end of hurricane Hazel, which put our safe arrival somewhat in doubt, in my mind at least. In any case, I regard it as fitting that the Neptunia’s next voyage was to the scrap yard.
No one could have been happier to set foot ashore than I, although Halifax in a March day in 1954 appeared to my immigrant eyes as a trifle bleak. This reaction was heightened by the quiet of a rainy Sunday afternoon; the only activity we encountered as we walked the main street was in a Chinese restaurant where all the clients were blacks. Not quite the “true North, strong and free” of my schoolboy expectations, but evidence enough to deepen my conviction that life in “the colonies” was going to be beyond-the-pale! However, at least Halifax was on terra firma, and the firmer the land, the less terror in my heart.
Halifax was not our destination, but merely a port of call, so we boarded the rolling Neptunia again, and battered our way down to New York, where this huddled mass for one was damn happy to see the Statue of Liberty. New York is a blurr in my mind, a larger-than-life city where skyscrapers seen from the window of the taxi seemed to do just that.
My most vivid memory of that first visit is of Grand Central Station, and it is there we (my family and I) first encountered the language barrier. We wanted a cup of coffee, but could see no cafés or restaurants (this was in 1954 remember) so we asked a porter where we could buy one and were directed to a drug store. That couldn’t be right, after all chemists didn’t sell coffee, so atter a moment of hesitation, my father asked again. “Sure. The Drug Store. And you can buy the kids an ice cream there and comics too.” This really was unbelievable, and my father was slightly put out. Not the sort of welcome he expected from friendly Americans. But everyone we asked had the same response, so in disbelief we looked for the drug store. Incredible! No drugs, at least not that we could see, but coffee and milk shakes and ice cream. And what ice cream! Not the plastic ice cream of Britain after the war, which didn’t drip as it melted between the waters, but bulged, but ice cream made of real cream with (joy of joys) whipped cream on top. Life in North America was going to be all right!
We crossed into Canada at Fort Erie. After New York it was a disappointment. So was Kitchener, our final destination. The railway station didn’t even have a platform! As I descended from the train into the snow I decided there and then not to remain. After all, I had come to Canada only because my family immigrated. As soon as I was independent I would shake the snow of the colonies off my boots and return to the “Old Country”, ’, to civilization, where railway stations had platforms, and March brought crocuses and dattodils, not feet and teet of snow. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was suffering a classic case of what we in the trade now call “Culture Shock”
We settled in Kitchener, and got used to being referred to as DPs (displaced persons) the term used for immigrants at the time. Despite constant comments on our British accent, which only strengthened my resolve to continue to speak “The Queen’s English”, we adjusted to Canada (and more important Canada to us) with ease. I still hadn’t made the emotional break with Britain, however, and although I rarely thought of it during my halcyon days in high school and university, I had at the background of my mind the intent to return. For the present, I was too busy enjoying life, except for momentary irritations caused by the necessity to spell my name, Jones, and state that “No, it didn’t take an umlaut”. Where but in Kitchener!
My real awakening to Canada came the first time I crossed the country, hitchhiking to a student camp at the University of British Columbia. The splendour and the vastness of the country overwhelmed me, as did it’s diversity and richness. On the trip back East, it dawned on me that I had been particularly blind in not seeing Canada for what it was, and I became a naturalized Canadian almost immediately on my return to Kitchener — the first in my family.
My dear parents, not being nearly as stupid or short sighted as me, had always intended to become Canadians, but somehow had never got round to it. When they finally took out Canadian citizenship, I was a member of the Department, luxuriating in the splendid title of Third Secretary in Sydney, Australia. It was with great glee that I, the British prig of the family, was able to write to them on official Canadian Government stationery, welcoming them to the Canadian fold.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 3 (1987) — Fall 1987 // Automne 1987, p. 44. Read the rest of this issue →
