The views expressed in this column are solely those of the author.
We are not divided by our differences; we’re divided by what we do about them, and we’ve been doing some remarkably stupid things for a very long time.
It just seems to me that nowadays there are more dirty whispers than grounded conversations.
I’ve been told I’m Métis. I don’t feel particularly Métis, or Scottish, or African, or Polish, or whatever else I am supposed to be somewhere in my genome. Perhaps I’m more naive than native, or I don’t care much. To be honest, I’m really not sure.
Anyway, I’m made from a lot of different stuff, all of it tossed into the Canadian boy that I am.
But a lot happened long before I became me …
A long line of unwelcome neighbours
First, they had to get rid of the Indians. Not the ones arriving from India today. The original Indigenous people (the ones we misnamed and decided to never un-misname). The people who’d been living here for thousands of years before some Europeans arrived, planted a flag and announced they’d discovered the place.
Discovered what, exactly?
There were people standing right there looking at them. But they had a country to build, so they took the land, broke treaties, killed people, stole their children and tried to beat the Indian, er, Indigenous, out of them. They called it civilization. I think it’s a rather peculiar way to introduce yourself to the neighbours.
Black Canadians? We enslaved them, too. Slavery existed here for more than two centuries and wasn’t abolished until 1834. Then we proudly celebrated the Underground Railroad for helping Americans escape the very institution we’d practised ourselves, while continuing to segregate schools and discriminate against Black Canadians. Freedom was worth celebrating. Equality was another matter.
Then, of course, we needed workers. But we didn’t want the Irish. Nope. Not those dirty, drunken Catholics. They were too poor, had too many children, were taking our jobs and bringing disease. Look around. They’re everywhere! Never mind that thousands were escaping starvation and had crossed an ocean in conditions that would make a livestock inspector faint. Today we drink green beer, celebrate St. Patrick’s Day and claim Irish ancestry as if somebody in the family once owned a sheep farm near Dublin. Apparently, the Irish have finally passed the citizenship test. How civilized. Somebody kiss me.
Then we needed a railway. Bring in the Chinese! Pay them less, give them dangerous work, send them into the mountains with explosives and let them build the country we were so proud of. In 1885, the same year the last spike was driven in, Canada introduced a head tax to discourage Chinese immigration. Then, in 1923, Canada passed the Chinese Exclusion Act, effectively banning Chinese immigration for the next 24 years. Building our railway was one thing; being allowed to stay and build a life here was quite another. Thanks for the railway, boys. Now kindly piss off.
The Sikhs? In 1914, the Komagata Maru arrived in Vancouver carrying 376 passengers, most of them Sikhs from India. They were British subjects, just like Canadians, but our discriminatory immigration laws kept most of them aboard until we sent them away. Of course, we were all equal under the British Crown. Some of us just weren’t the right colour to come ashore.
How about the Ukrainians? We invited them here to settle the Prairies, clear land and build farms. Then the First World War broke out, and suddenly they were potential enemies because their homeland was ruled by Austria-Hungary. Between 1914 and 1920, Canada interned 8,579 people of various backgrounds in 24 camps, many of them Ukrainian. Some were forced into hard labour, while roughly 80,000 others were required to register with authorities. They were welcome to build Canada, just not trusted to live in it.
Hmm, that sounds vaguely familiar.
As for the Jews, we didn’t want them either. In 1939, Canada refused sanctuary to Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi Germany aboard the MS St. Louis. The ship returned to Europe, where 254 passengers were eventually murdered in the Holocaust. For some reason, escaping Hitler wasn’t reason enough to let them in.
The Japanese? The Canadian government forcibly removed more than 20,000 Japanese Canadians from their homes on the British Columbia coast, beginning in 1942. Most were Canadian citizens. Apparently, Canadian citizenship came with conditions nobody had bothered to mention. Decades later, Canada apologized and paid redress. It’s remarkable how often we discover our principles after we’ve finished violating them.
Wait a minute. We haven’t even started on the French. The English didn’t trust the French. The French didn’t trust the English. Quebec has spent generations arguing about its place in Confederation, Alberta has its own grievances with Ottawa and the rest of us are still trying to determine whether Toronto is a city or a separate country with an exceptionally good public relations department and a fabulously crappy hockey team.
The debate we’re having now
Now, let’s talk about current immigration. That’s the Indian elephant in the room right now, isn’t it?
We can all hear the shouting: “Too many international students, too many renters, too many workers, too many people speaking languages we don’t understand. They’re taking our houses and changing our neighbourhoods.”
Underneath all that is a government-made mess, and calling everyone who complains a racist isn’t going to clean it up.
The Trudeau government dramatically increased immigration, particularly through temporary resident programs, without ensuring that housing, infrastructure, health care and other public services could keep pace. We were already struggling to house the people who lived here, and somehow decided that adding a great many more people without a corresponding plan was an excellent idea. Everybody loves an arranged marriage, though. We just never got the kiss first (if you know what I mean).
People have every right to question those decisions. Immigration policy isn’t sacred scripture, and criticizing a government’s management of it doesn’t automatically make somebody a racist. We should be able to ask how many people Canada can reasonably accommodate, what services they’ll require, where they’ll live and whether we’re actually delivering the opportunities we’ve promised them.
The debate goes beyond immigration numbers. Why welcome mosques when some countries forbid Christian churches? Shouldn’t newcomers adapt to Canadian society? Those are fair questions, and asking them isn’t bigotry. However, expecting people to respect Canadian freedoms is one thing; deciding who deserves those freedoms is another. Otherwise, we’re just dressing prejudice up as principle.
Canada has welcomed different religions for generations. Churches, synagogues, mosques, temples and countless other places of worship have become part of our communities, and somehow the country hasn’t fallen apart (although many will argue that).
Canada’s freedoms are not up for negotiation simply because another country refuses to recognize them. Newcomers must respect our laws and values, but religious freedom is one of those values. We cannot condemn intolerance abroad while practising it here. If we’re going to defend Canadian values, perhaps we should start by actually living by them. Otherwise, we’re no better than the intolerance we’re so busy condemning.
Now that they’re here
So, what are we going to do now?
I mean, the people are already here. Some are citizens, some permanent residents and others are here on temporary permits with uncertain futures. Immigration targets are being reduced, but that doesn’t undo the social and economic changes we’ve already experienced.
We can spend the next 20 years blaming Justin Trudeau for how we got here, or we can figure out what we’re going to do now that we are here.
Preferably, we can do both. I’ve never been one to let a perfectly good argument go to waste. But blaming the young guy from Punjab working two jobs because the federal government couldn’t count available bedrooms isn’t particularly productive. He didn’t write the policy. He came here because somebody told him Canada offered an opportunity. Now we’re angry because he believed us, and he likely hates us because we don’t mind saying he’s not welcome now that he’s arrived.
Mosaic, melting pot or salad bowl?
Which brings me to something else we’re apparently not supposed to discuss.
Canada likes to describe itself as a cultural mosaic. I prefer “salad bowl.” Americans have traditionally celebrated the “melting pot,” where everybody is supposed to become part of one great American concoction. In Canada, we proudly preserve the individual ingredients. The lettuce remains lettuce. The tomatoes remain tomatoes. The cucumbers are free to maintain their cucumber traditions, and nobody is required to surrender their ancestral salad dressing.
Wonderful. Except I’ve noticed something about salad dressing.
Although they can work together particularly well, oil and vinegar don’t necessarily mix.
People often prefer doing business with people who speak their language, understand their customs and share their background. I don’t know about anyone else, but if I moved halfway across the world hoping for a better life, to a place utterly foreign to me, where I had no comprehension of the language and was trying to find a job, I’d certainly be crapping my kimono.
Then again, maybe I shouldn’t move in the first place unless I was willing to adapt pretty quickly, rather than wanting a country to adapt to me. I mean, there are several places on this planet where moving in and decorating a Christmas tree would be against my best interests.
Now, let’s not pretend this is something only newcomers do. Canadians whose families have been here for generations have been looking after their own for centuries. We hire our friends, recommend our relatives, support businesses run by people who look and sound like us, and trust familiar names over unfamiliar ones. We call it loyalty, tradition or supporting our local community. But when newcomers do precisely the same thing, we accuse them of refusing to integrate, sticking to their own kind and dividing the country. You know, when we do it, we’re building. When they do it, they’re destroying. It makes perfect sense.
Then again, sometimes it’s radical prejudice standing there in broad daylight.
There, I said it. Can we talk about it now?
Because there’s nothing inherently wrong with preferring a familiar restaurant, seeking professional advice in your own language or recommending somebody who looks like you. But when familiarity becomes an unwritten rule that everybody outside the group can go to hell, we’ve got a different conversation.
Afraid to say anything
We’ve developed a remarkable national talent for shutting each other up and shutting each other out. Ask an awkward question and somebody calls you racist. Raise a concern about integration and somebody assumes you hate immigrants. Point out hiring discrimination and somebody tells you you’re imagining things. We spend so much time deciding which insult to attach to the speaker that we never get around to examining what was said.
Every culture makes jokes about other cultures. However, acceptability depends on who’s telling the joke. Remember when Will Smith slapped Chris Rock at the 2022 Oscars? Two Black entertainers, one offensive joke and the world debating who crossed the line. Now imagine if one of them had been white. Actually, interchange these people with anyone you want. Would we still be discussing bad taste and bad behaviour, or would it have become an international incident about racism … or some other sort of ism?
We can’t know for sure … but we all know.
If equality is what we’re after, shouldn’t the rules apply to everyone, regardless of who’s telling the joke or throwing the punch?
The problem isn’t the salad bowl. It’s that we’ve become so protective of the individual ingredients that we’ve forgotten why we put them together in the first place.
Lessons from Walt Kowalski
Which brings me to Clint Eastwood and “Gran Torino.” Eastwood plays Walt Kowalski, a miserable Polish-American Korean War veteran who spends his retirement drinking beer, polishing his car and telling everybody to get off his lawn. He’s got a racial insult for practically everyone and a particular dislike for the Hmong family who moves in next door. He’s prejudiced, bitter, lonely and about as socially agreeable as a bear with a sore ass.
Then something rather inconvenient happens. He gets to know his neighbours, and the old bastard discovers they’re human beings. Not categories, not stereotypes, not whatever he’d decided they were from the safety of his front porch. People. He recognizes their courage, loyalty, family and decency. Eventually, he sacrifices his life to protect them. He doesn’t become politically correct. He doesn’t attend a seminar. He’s still Walt Kowalski. But his actions reveal something considerably more important than his vocabulary.
Perhaps that’s where our national conversation ought to be heading. Not toward pretending our differences don’t exist, or demanding that everybody abandon them, but toward understanding the people who are already here.
I grew up in small-town Canada, an imaginary place I sometimes refer to as Can-Merica. We’re Canadian, absolutely, but generations of us have lived alongside Americans just across the border. We have friends, families, businesses and histories that cross that line. Americans talk funny, measure things in miles and have a remarkable enthusiasm for attaching flags to practically everything. We have our own peculiarities too, eh, but we’re family.
Still, we’ve become so obsessed with our differences that we’ve forgotten how to enjoy them and, realistically, how funny they really are. We can’t discuss race without somebody becoming defensive, religion without somebody becoming outraged or history without somebody demanding an apology from a person who wasn’t alive when the offence occurred … and politics? I’d rather get into a knife fight.
Humour has become particularly dangerous territory, yet some of the funniest conversations I’ve ever had have been with people whose backgrounds were completely different from mine. There’s a difference between laughing with somebody and humiliating them. I believe we should be more accepting of humour that pushes boundaries, but it helps enormously to know your audience before making the joke.
We all attend the same comedy show, laugh at jokes about everybody else, then become offended when the jokes are about us. Somewhere along the way, we’ve lost our ability to laugh at ourselves, and with it, something essential to enjoying life.
Missing the dance
Alan Watts understood something about this. He compared life to music and dancing. The point of a symphony isn’t to reach the final note as quickly as possible, and the purpose of dancing isn’t to arrive at a particular spot on the floor. The experience itself is the point. Yet we’ve become so preoccupied with getting everything right, winning every argument, policing every word and establishing who’s entitled to belong that we’ve forgotten to enjoy the extraordinary experience of being alive together.
We’ve heard the music, but we’ve missed the dance.
We’ve spent centuries building Canada with people we didn’t want, and now their descendants are bitching about the next wave of newcomers. Someday, some guy named Singh will be standing at his window in a Blue Jays cap, sipping a double-double and complaining that the neighbourhood isn’t what it used to be. His grandchildren were born here, and he’ll be watching another immigrant family move in across the street, wondering what the hell is happening to his country.
Maybe that’s the real test of Canadian multiculturalism. Not whether we can preserve every language, tradition, recipe, holiday and ancestral grievance. We’re quite good at collecting those.
The test is whether we can preserve those differences without turning them into fences.
We don’t have to become identical. I don’t want an American melting pot that boils every interesting thing out of everybody, and I don’t want a Canadian salad bowl where the tomatoes refuse to speak to the cucumbers. I want a country where people can be proud of where they came from and genuinely interested in the person standing beside them.
I want them all free enough to talk and joke without someone’s precious feelings being hurt.
I believe a great joke that crosses the line can do more good than any carefully worded government policy designed to appease the social sensitivities of the moment.
Appeasement … that’s the real joke. It teaches us to avoid our differences for fear of offending, while humour exposes them and gives us something to laugh about together. Appeasement keeps us politely divided. Humour brings us together.
That’s the dance, Mr. Watts. Tolerance can mean putting up with somebody while secretly wishing they’d move away. Real understanding takes curiosity, humour and a willingness to be uncomfortable. It’s the courage to ask awkward questions, the decency to hear jokes we don’t like and the common sense to enjoy each other’s company without agreeing on everything. In fact, sometimes disagreeing is the best part.
We’ve made terrible mistakes, accomplished remarkable things and somehow managed to toss together a salad that millions of people want to be part of. That’s worth being proud of. But if we can’t talk honestly about the ingredients, how are we supposed to get along in the same bowl?
I suppose that’s Canada, and that’s me. A little Indigenous, a little immigrant and a whole collection of people who probably wouldn’t have wanted much to do with one another. I like some parts of my make-up more than others, and I don’t really understand any of them particularly well, but they’re all part of me.
Still, after all that, there are parts of me standing on the porch, yelling at the other parts: “Get off my lawn.”
