Joseph Brown

CV_060312

I came to Montreal about five years ago and am still trying to get used to the new culture. I come from a place where one would knock on his or her neighbour's door, asking for sugar or milk, and get some without provoking a surprised reaction. I come from a place where less than 1 percent of the population plays hockey because a league for it simply does not exist. I come from a place where people using public transportation rebuke co-passengers for talking loudly on their cellphones, or simply for using them. I come from a place where the notion of standing in a queue does not exist. But I miss the place I came from, for it has made me who I am.

"You're kidding me," he said, jarred by the idea of a young couple buying their first home in that area of Montreal. "Of all the places...?"

Airports create awkward scenes for immigrants arriving at and departure from their homelands. Family members and friends expect immediate and close interaction at the airport and on the way leading from and to it. Immigrants, for starters, find themselves time and again overwhelmed by the human intervention skills they have to develop. Surprisingly, everyone wants to fair the immigrant goodbye but cannot come to the airport because the flight lands or takes off at an unreasonable time of the day. When it is a night flight they have an important meeting the day after; and when required to come to the airport during the day--well--they obviously work. Already at this point immigrants find themselves taking the blame for these unpredictable inconveniences: "Why didn't you schedule your flight for the weekend?"

During the first midterm examinations' period I have been studying for an exam at Concordia's Vanier library. Not too concentrated in my studies, I could not help overhearing a conversation between a man and his wife. They were discussing issues familiar to me, issues that many newcomers to Montreal face upon arrival.

"When Uncle Ben returned from his visit to Montreal," grandmother would proudly recount, "he could not believe that a four-year-old child could switch from one language to another without a problem." For many, the primary educators and role models for a child are his or her parents; for me, it was my grandmother too. She instilled in me the love for knowledge, and unleashed my potential for mastering the five languages I now speak, write, and read.

Trying to reach a balanced and fair decision, I went through endless conversations with family and friends and almost infinite pondering between me and myself about whether my biological father, who deliberately avoided seeing me or calling to say hi for more than twenty years, should have the privilege--or, as some said, the natural right--to attend my wedding. And I would be lying if I told you that I pictured my wedding-day, or the preparations to it as stress-free moments; but never in my life did I predict I will have to face a heart-aching moment where past and present collide, where memories one wishes to forget float against one's will. By collision I refer to the encounter between my step- and biological father at the moment of signing my marital contract. Sitting beside my stepfather, I was holding his hand firmly, not knowing what goes on in his mind. Him seeing me cry made me think he will tell me what he felt. But he chose not to do so. After all, he chooses the present over the past.