On the heels of the Independence Day holiday, this morning I noticed alot of flags a’flyin, and the red-white-and-blue themed decorations were still adding a patriotic flair to Lincoln Park and Wyandotte homes. It was a muggy morning as I did a three-mile stroll ruminating on the past holiday weekend and the Dominion Day celebration a week ago today. Last Monday I heard “O Canada”, that country’s national anthem, and it sent shivers down my spine. It still does, though I’ve lived in America more years than I lived in Canada, my homeland. We emigrated from Canada to the States on July 8, 1966. My father, a tool-and-die maker by trade, applied for a transfer from the Ford Motor Company in Oakville, Ontario where we lived, to the Woodhaven Stamping Plant, so essentially Ford “brought us over” or sponsored us in 1966. My mom didn’t want to move to the U.S. and protested, though it fell on deaf ears. She had family and friends she was leaving behind whereas my father fell short in both those categories. He promised her we’d stay here for a decade then return to Canada. The promise was never mentioned once we moved here; in fact the subject was never brought up again. Coincidentally, my father didn’t like his job at Ford, despite transferring from an identical position in Canada, and when he was rotated to the afternoon shift, he quit the position a few months later. The day we moved here, forty-seven years ago today, was not without incident. We had our paperwork in order, but there was a problem at the border and we were delayed for six hours. Despite that hang-up, we still arrived at the house a day before our furniture.

Once we were settled in, my mom pined relentlessly for her homeland. At first, we only went back to visit twice a year; in later years when my mom and I were alone, we travelled to Toronto as many as six times per year. My mom never lost her Canadian accent, nor did she give up her country’s idioms and continued stubbornly to call a woolen cap a “toque”, a sofa was a “chesterfield” and a napkin was a “serviette”. Whenever we visited my grandmother, she sent us back to Michigan laden with Habitant French pea soup, Red Rose sweet pickle mix, butter tarts, Smarties and Aero and Jersey Milk chocolate bars. The first Christmas we were here my mom watched the Eaton’s Santa Claus Parade on a local TV station and was moved to tears, and it made her all the more homesick. The following year was the Detroit riots. My mom’s friends and family were concerned for our welfare and the riots made her all the more despondent and wishing to return to Canada. We never had racial issues when we lived over there and so it was quite a shock for us when we first arrived here. After my grandmother and aunt passed away, we no longer returned to Toronto. My mom kept in touch with long-time friends by phone and correspondence and caught up with “back home” activity via vicarious visits only. We did not renew our passports since there was no reason to return to Canada. For many years, my mom reiterated her only request for after she passed away, that her ashes be scattered in her homeland. I found someone willing to take on this responsibility last year and am forever indebted to her. My mom’s ashes are now scattered in the Amherstburg countryside near the water, so unlike my father’s empty promise, I kept my pledge to her.

As to me, I really never looked back – it is what it is. There is no one nor anything to return to now. I am still a Canadian citizen but having lived here my entire adult life, it seems like I’ve always belonged here; yes, indeed – I am one of you. The word “alien” seems so dramatic to me. I certainly don’t feel like one of those aliens whose UFO crash-landed in Roswell New Mexico sixty-six years ago today, even though we share the same USA immigration date. (Smile.) Although I carry an alien card which identifies me as a Canadian citizen, I look like an American, speak like an American and heck, I’m just like you, … and you … and you. Our home has always been done in Early American décor, and yup, I know all the words to “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy”, so there! Every July 8th, the anniversary of our landing in America, my mom would always tell friends “today is the luckiest day of your life because we moved here “x” years ago today” and that proclamation was always sure to get a smile. I used my mom’s line today on Robb and got a hearty chuckle. I confessed it was borrowed and not original. Yup, I know Uncle Sam wants me and I wonder at times why I still waver? The civics exam? I’ll go on wondering I guess until I take that big step and become an American citizen.