A recent comment on my blog got me thinking. The comment, from my friend Maria, questioned what pieces of the accents of his English dad, American mom, and Quebec home he would pick up. It got me thinking about his ‘identity’.
I am a dual citizen – British by birth, Canadian by naturalization. Kerri – my much better half – is American. My son was born in Pointe-Claire, Quebec in 2009. He is Canadian.
I never got round to applying for my Canadian passport, so I travel on a UK one. Kerri holds an American passport, and my boy has a Canadian one. This seems particularly confusing and disturbing for US customs officials. And, I find myself wondering if Evan (that’s my son) will grow up confused about his national identity.
When you ask Canadians about their nationality, many tend to answer by describing their heritage. I had a conversation with two Canadian colleagues recently on this subject. One is of Indian heritage, but was born and has lived her entire life in Montreal, the other has Iranian ancestry, and has been in Montreal since her formative years. They felt that when someone asked where they were from, they were actually enquiring about their lineage. That’s why, when asked, they tell people of their heritage.
Does it matter that people who were born and raised in this vast country answer ‘Scotland‘, or ‘Morocco’, or ‘Italy’ to the question ‘where are you from’? Does it dilute Canadian national identity? Or add to the eclectic melting pot we live in?
I’ve reminded myself of someone I met very early in my Canadian adventure. He was a barman (go figure – I met a barman in my first days in Canada. No idea how that happened). He was a big guy. I’d put him at 6 foot 3 inches. And wide too – strong, muscular. He was wearing a tartan skirt. Or as the Scots like to call it, a kilt. His chest was adorned with a blue t-shirt with the cross of St. Andrew blazoned across the front, and the word ‘Scotland’ in old-fashioned, intricate looking lettering. I got talking to him.
“You’re Scottish?” I asked.
“I’m Scottish and English” he replied.
“My Mum…”, he emphasized the ‘U’ in mum, “…is Scottish, and mi Dad is English. From Caaaarlisle.” He explained. The emphasis on the ‘U’, the use of ‘mi dad’, and the drawled out aaarrrr in Carlisle, adding what he thought was authenticity to his claim. It was somewhat contradicted by his obvious Canadian accent.
“Oh great!”, I said. “When was the last time you were back?”
“Never been. I’d love to go.”
Is this my son’s future?
Egg, milk, flour. Mix it up. Pour it in a baking tray of some kind (one of those shallow ones with a bunch of little cylinders punched out to hold your mix). Stick it in a pre-heated oven for about 30 minutes at 375°F. Voila – Yorkshire Puddin’. If the English can cook it, anyone can. Can’t they?
Now, let’s pretend you’re an American, and pretty handy in the kitchen. Your man loves your food. It’s his birthday. You want to do something ‘nice’ for him. He’s English… proper English, from England, accent, loves football, bad teeth – the works. He often talks about Yorkshire Puddin’. In fact, he goes all misty-eyed when he recounts his favourite Yorkshire Puddin’ experiences. What better? You’re a good cook. How hard can it be?
So, you jump on the interweb thingy, Yahoogle “Yorkshire Puddin’ Recipes”, and as if by magic, you’re on your way to creating a masterpiece which will not only make your man a very happy year older, but it will also feed you both.
A word of caution here: if you are an American (or any other nationality for that matter), and you are trying to make a Yorkshire Puddin’ without having actually seen one before… (you know where I’m going with this don’t you?)… make sure the online recipe includes a picture of what it’s supposed to look like.
Fast forward a few hours. Your man arrives home after a hard day of drinking coffee and browsing the web at ‘work’. You greet him with a hug and a smile that looks like you’ve borrowed Jim Carey’s mouth for the day. Your excitement is obvious – and why shouldn’t you be excited? Your man is gonna LOVE this.
“What is it?” he enquires with a puzzled look. As you deflate faster than a whoopee cushion under a Sumo wrestler, you reply: “it… it’s… a… a…Yorkshire Puddin’… I made it for your birthday.” A moment of silence is pierced with a roar of laughter. Birds launch themselves from tree branches, rodents scramble underground, forest animals scatter.
My wife has since seen, and tasted Yorkshire Puddin’. I think she understands my mirth now. She hasn’t tried to make this fine British delicacy since. Five years later, I am finally allowed to share this:
Please share your Yorkshire Pudding disasters to help my wife feel better.