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2 Heritages = 1 Me - 100% Canadian
by Fiona Erskine
I remember the first time I was called a Paki. I was in the third grade and as I was walking home, I ran past a red haired boy and knocked his books over. "Watch it, Paki," he yelled, to my surprise.
Rather than feeling insulted, I was confused at the thought of being labeled something I was not; or rather, not completely.
My mother is from Pakistan and my father is from Scotland; two very different cultures creating one very different family.
There are roughly fifty, if not more, family members on my mothers side, most of whom speak Urdu and practice Islam.
There are roughly fifteen family members on my father’s side, who speak only English and go to a Catholic church once in a while.
I have never felt that I fit in to either of these communities.
My dark features contrasted those of my Scottish relatives, and my lack of culture and knowledge about the Muslim lifestyle set me apart from my Pakistani relatives.
My mother never felt the need to teach us Urdu or any of the customs, and more or less wanted a typical, white bred Canadian lifestyle for herself.
Growing up, my immediate family celebrated both Christmas and Eid Al-Fitr with the different sides of the family, going from one extreme to the other. It sometimes felt like I was leading a double life and wasn’t sure of who I really was.
I felt that I was different because I was only half of what my relatives were, and didn’t measure up to that of a fully Scottish or fully Pakistani person.
Growing up as a biracial child, school life was no different than home life. The schools I went to were very multicultural and it was sometimes important to fit in to the ethnic group that best described your culture.
There were cliques of the Filipinos, the Chinese, the African Americans, the Spanish, and so on. Much to my dismay, there never was a Pakistani-Scottish clique.
My ethnic features, which are consistent with a lot of ethnicities, allowed me to travel from one group to the next without looking too out of place.
People rarely asked what my background was; rather they would just define me by looking at which group I was hanging out with.
I felt like a mutt in a world of thoroughbreds and didn’t know where my place was. I was tired of explaining the origins of my parents and watching the surprise on peoples faces as they try to imagine how two people from different parts of the universe (or so they made it seem) come together in marriage and stay that way for years.
I was tired of being lectured by my Muslim friends about not being able to speak my mother’s native tongue, or quote passages from the Qur’an.
I was tired of seeing my Christian friends, who were predominantly white, wrinkle their noses at the smell of biryani and vegetable pullao I would sometimes bring as an alternative to bologna sandwiches.
It wasn't until recently that I realized a very important part of who I am. Something that is far more significant than where my parents are from, or how I celebrate Christmas, what colour my skin is, or what I eat for lunch; these are only small bonuses that come with being from a biracial family. When asked where I am from, and as cliché as the beer commercials have made it sound, I answer without hesitation, “I am Canadian.”
Born and raised, first generation, 100 per cent Canadian is one thing that no one can question about me, and more importantly, I can’t question about myself.
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