For the summer I’m going back to the series of pieces mythologizing my growing up in Cape Breton.
Identity
I was one of the first from my village
to come to the big city
I was unprepared for my reception here
people would gawk at me on the streets
stare at me on the subway
as if I were some sort of freak
at my cubical in the office
people would walk by and observe
as I went about my ordinary duties
they gave each other small sly nods
as if they saw something me in me
that assured them I was as human as they were
strangers approached me on the street
and ask if my shit stank
if I were here to promote some art film
my classes at the Grand Academy
fell silent when I shared my writing
as I told them stories of my village
and of the routine of our lives
shock dismay or disbelief would play
across their faces
even the teacher would turn away
face red
as he tried not to laugh at me
all of which made me depressed unsure
perhaps coming here was wrong
the only solace I found
was in undressing men
one skill I had
that others held in some respect
I also found some gratification in latte
after a day of being hounded
by small gangs of children
my fingers numb
from working at my keyboard
either at the office or doing assignments
for my creative writing seminars
it was such a blessed relief to sit in a
coffee shop and sip on an extra large latte
I could feel my troubles just rush away
gradually my presence became unnoticed
I discovered ways of fitting in to metropolitan life
I no longer greeted strangers
with a smile and a hello
I no longer tapped hymns
on my keyboard at the office
I took down the few reminders of home
that I had put up in my cubical
gone where the crystal moose
and the miniature sacred stripper pole
I adopted the city ways of talking and slouching
of smiling with indifference
of turning aside when someone offered
more than I wanted at that moment
it was a relief to slip into the formless stream
my mind was free to roam
to dream of things beyond village life
a place that became abstract illusive
I was no longer the man from away
I was free of identity
Before I moved to Toronto my mother warned me not to wander around, staring up at the tall buildings with my mouth open awe. She felt it would tip people off that I was new in town & someone would rob me, or something. I was never sure what that something meant. About the only ‘you’re from away’ I got was because of my accent.
My hero experiences many of things that immigrants often experience: such as co-workers checking to make sure you are competent. I had been cat-called, or rather queer-slurred by passers-by & from cars – my first year or so here then is topped noticing it if it did continue. These were adults doing this – not a far cry from small children dogging your heels.
My writing workshop experience hasn’t been as harsh as my hero’s. Though I have made people shoot coffee out of their noses with some of my work – I took that as a good thing? I did get that silence response a few times though when no one knew what to say – usually because the piece was perfect 🙂
Fitting in was an issue though – to do that without losing a sense of self was the real challenge. I did have, still do, a few relics of my Cape Breton past. The piece is a bit of a list poem of things I’ve seen, heard or experienced myself as I adjusted to Toronto. ‘Smiling with indifference’ is skill worth developing.
Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee in Washington at 2018’s capfireslam.org – sweet,eh? paypal.me/TOpoet
