Of Melting Pots and Salad Bowls: Nationality, Immigration and Racism
by Huda Bilal
Staff writer (Alberta, Canada)
My family and I went to the mall today, and on the way, some insolent prick decided it would be fun to not wait for his turn and force in his car, before ours, at a very sharp turn. Fairly dangerous. My ice-cream spilled a little - I was rather annoyed. Then my parents started their rampage about how racist a country Canada is, and my dad, in his traditional way-of-speech declared a certain driver a complete “bastard”. If you’re an immigrant of any colour of sort, I can confidently assume that you do listen in on and experience such incidents on a regular basis; our parents do like to be dramatic at times and blame racism for everything. The majority of the time, they are wrong and it can be embarrassing .
If taken into consideration, there is a simpler and less paranoid explanation that would have little to nothing to do with our race. Darn. That cashier who might snub you of service may be a racist - or just having an off-day. Aforementioned Road-hog might have noticed the colour of my family’s collective skin and decided that we did not belong on the road. He could also have been a non-racist jerk, in hurry to make a meeting, with no regard to the rules of the road.
However, take note that sometimes our ‘politically incorrect’ parents are right in every way. While trying to fit in and become “Canadian” many of us do forget to fight for our rights when necessary. Despite Canada’s legendary analogy of a salad bowl of different cultures, in contrast with the homogeneous all-American “melting pot” of the States, Canada is nowhere near the “salad” it claims to be. One multicultural city (in personnel and acceptance), the Greater Toronto Area, should not be the only qualification. Canada is made of 12 other provinces and territories, each with its population! Excluding the very North for lack of a population, I would like to focus into the west. Specifically Edmonton, Alberta - the location of my humble abode. Known as the oil-central of the Canadian world, and as “Hicksville” for various newcomers, Edmonton is neither a town nor a big city. Lying in between, it develops fairly slowly, as it milks the world for the oily mud designated in its earth. According to my agenda-book, Edmonton is populated with just over a million people. The majority of these residents used to be, and decreasingly are, conservative Caucasians. Some are welcoming the Country’s attention of the oil-escapades while others loathe the “dirt blowing in”.
I feel as if now is an appropriate place and time to discuss the fears of the non-immigrant, or better yet, the past residents of Edmonton. It’s fair to assume that the majority, especially in the beginning, will, should, and did feel threatened, by the change brought by the new population. It is human nature to fear change; adaptation is a different and unique skill that the majority of humanity does fall short upon. The same can be said for the newcomers - they fear the change to come. When the two fears clash, problems arise.
Is it adequate to demand the newcomer to forget everything of their past life and assimilate to everything that is the new place? Similarly, is it just to the past citizens to deal with strangers that refuse to adapt to a new lifestyle?
Key word: adapt.
Edmonton’s fast progress (in economy and population) is cared for by this very skill. Edmonton’s new population is composing of both emigrant and immigrant. It is safe to assume that Edmonton is no Toronto, and thank goodness for that! Hence, the adaptation of the new and the old, towards the new Edmonton, is truly the force of progress for the White Winter Wonderland. But there’s always the exception:
Walking home once-upon-a-fall day, I had an errand to attend to at the local Dollarama. I do not remember what it was, only that it was important. Everything I do is. Hanging up the phone, I walked in searching for the glue gun sticks, I believe it was. Due to my lack of orientation skills, and the store`s lack of labels, I was a lost soul in the eight or so isles. Easily distracted, I stopped at a shelf, very soon disrupted by a tug to my backpack. A small girl of about six or seven wanted me to pass her the big beach ball on the very top shelves. Stretching onto my tiptoes, I did as such. Handing her the ball, I received a thank you in response. Polite kid.
Now, her mother had witnessed our small interaction. The lady had been glaring at me since I entered the store, and being myself, I had ignored it as nothing. Now, she snarled at her daughter, looked upon me as utter filth, and declared “we don`t talk to these people.” If you can imagine Harry potter’s Uncle Vernon’s behaviour towards Harry, do so. I can confirm that that’s the thought that crossed my mind at the time.
I walked away. The Dollarama did not have the glue sticks for my lonely glue gun at home.
I honestly don’t know if I was right to walk away that day. I know I called my friend back and he had assertively told me to do otherwise. I wasn’t “the better person” by any means; I had let the woman walk all over me, and that’s not role-model behaviour what so ever. I don’t know how much trouble I could’ve caused the woman for reporting her. I was hurt walking out of the store, but mostly disappointed.
Then I thought of her daughter, and I was sorry. Sorry that I had just let it go. That little girl could have befriended many of “these” people. Would she, now? Maybe. She had looked scared, at my last glance of her. I have yet to figure out what “these people” could have meant to that woman. My best bet would be those whom appear to have middle-eastern and south-eastern descent. Perhaps everyone coloured? I don’t know. She wouldn’t be shopping at the Chinese-owned Dollarama if she really hated associating herself with them?
Note: she went to the “white” cashier.
When she discovered that said cashier did not converse in the best English, she became furious. I would empathize with Madame Grouch, try to ‘put myself in her shoes’, but I really don’t see the point. I may come across as polarizing, whiny even, but I highly doubt that I would be able to gain more insight on her, more so than my experience anyhow.
I actually saw her again! Fun times, I know. Walking home again - this time with a Caucasian friend - only to have said friend seethed at. We were walking through the department store in the mall. I deduce: Madame Grouchy-Pants.
My dad took me to the library today: a parking incident this time around. Dad called the person “a typical Brown bastard”. To whom it may concern, my father is more concerned with crucifying the man with his potty-mouth, than to “fill his head with thoughts of mere racism”. I’ve got to scold him.
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September 14 2008 04:05 am | Uncategorized
September 18th, 2008 at 10:29 am
nicely put Huda, living in mississauga it’s easy to forget that there is still adversity in Canada even with all of it’s extensive pro-diversity propaganda
December 7th, 2008 at 11:52 pm
You should have just hissed back. Vut peepleeessss, pleeeseeeee explennnnn
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Robert
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