Lately I have been reflecting on my multicultural upbringing. It feels strange to say that, given that I grew up in a small, isolated community on the west Coast of B.C. However, the combination of a deep sea port and sawmill drew a diverse population of immigrant families to our community.
While we were not poor, our family lived in a singlewide trailer. My dad firmly believed that it was important to live within our means and remain debt free. As a child I had no idea that living in a trailer park had negative stereotypes. All I knew, is that I lived at the foot of a mountain and that the forest and the rivers that lay beyond were mine for the exploring. My world consisted of building forts, exploring rivers, leaping off our local dock into the cold ocean, exploring caves, exploring our inlet in our skiff, and riding my bike with the other neighbourhood children. Our living room window looked out on a incredible mountain vista.
It was not uncommon to see up to ten eagles perched on a nearby snag or witness black bear wrangling our garbage bin. Many mornings we had to bang pots and pans to scare them away so that we could access our bicycles.
We were blessed to be surrounded by families of Asian, Punjabi, Italian, Polish, German, Russian and Yugoslavian descent. It was in this tiny village that my fascination with other cultures and religions began.
I remember one particular Russian family who invited us over for steaming bowls of Borsht, which we ate with tiny, painted wooden spoons. Borst became one of our families favorite dishes and I secretly loved grossing out my schoolmates out when I opened my thermos at lunchtime. They thought my favorite soup looked like eyeballs soaked in blood. They had no idea what they were missing out on. Their father played bag pipes in his yard- a sound shook my bones. Our Ukrainian neighbour introduced us to Ukrainian eggs and it has since become a tradition to paint them each Easter - a painstaking operation that my husband has much more patience for than I do. Two of my closest, neighborhood playmates were Punjabi. I still remember the way their long, thick braids would bounce on their backs as we ran around other trailers in our neighbourhood. I easily recall the incredible aroma of curry that would waft out their home when I would stopped by to pick them up for our daily trot to school. Our family had the pleasure of being welcomed into many Punjabi families lives and they kindly taught my mother how to make roti, pakora and samosa. To our great pleasure, it became regular fare at our dinner table. After school I would sometimes visit my Indian aunties and they would feed me warm, buttery roti filled with brown sugar. I remember watching their strong, deft fingers expertly reach into the hot pans and flip the flatbread at just the right moment. It was magical. Many years later I got to sit with Muslim women in Zanzibar and watch them prepare something similar in the streets for their children. I wanted time to stop.
My mom enjoyed a close friendship with a woman of Chinese descent and it was in her home that I was introduced to egg rolls. I inhaled her son's collection of anime comics. In school I became aquatinted with a young polish man. I vividly remember the stories he would recount of his difficult childhood in Poland.
My mother intentionally nurtured a profound appreciation for different cultures. One of my favourite yearly events was a multicultural dinner that she would host with her friends. I can't remember if it was the ladies axillary or our church.. I just remember tables laden with textiles, dishes and relics of people's home countries. It gave them an opportunity to share their culture and treasures with the community. Each table provided cuisine from their home country and a glimpse into their world. I felt like a minority basking in the beauty of other cultures. I remember wondering how they left their country to come to our rainy, isolated village. Of course I wasn't aware until much later, of the poverty, government corruption and desperation that existed in their homelands. They all had different stories but the common thread was that they wanted to give their children better opportunities than they had.
When we weren't enjoying far flung cuisine at our neighbours homes we were welcoming missionaries to our table. Our home was a revolving door for guests, neighbours, and sometimes perfect strangers. In one bizarre instance I woke up to find a stranger sleeping on our couch. It turns out he was a homeless man who had come to visit our community and wound up on our couch as there were no local services. We invited him to join us for breakfast and then sent him on his way with a bagged lunch.
It grieves me that my children are not exposed to other cultures the way that I was. They hear the beautiful south African accent in our church but don't rub shoulders, visit homes and get to know people from different backgrounds like I did. I try to compensate for it but cooking ethics dishes and choose curriculum that explores other cultures, but it is still a far cry from my own experience. I long to travel with my children and expose them to the color, vibrancy, and beauty of other cultures. In the meantime we read them living books and tales about children growing up in other cultures. We recently finished reading "Amal Unbound" by Aisha Saeed. It is the tale of a young girl who becomes an indentured slave when she challenges a powerful, rich family in her community. We just started a novel study called Underground to Canada by Barbara Smucker. It recounts the storey of a young slave girl and her journey to freedom. Both have been springboard for conversations about difficult things as well as an opportunity to learn about another culture. More than anything, I want them to develop an appreciation and curiosity about other people and cultures.
