Last night I found myself in a merciless grocery check out line and standing patiently behind me was the typical looking grandfather, holding in one hand a case of clementine oranges and in the other a cloth re-use able bag full of groceries. He was eligible for the "Express Line"; 16 items or less, but we were all, non- express and express people, mixed up in a ridiculous excuse of a line heading all in the same direction.
I observed the old man as he would place his case of clementines down on any perch possible in his vicinity and as the line moved, so did he.. picking up his orange treasure, and placing it forward on another perch.
His fragile hand could not hold the weight, as I quickly understood. The other patrons, however, didn't get it and they began to feel threatened that their place in line was being compromised by Grandfather's wicked strategy with his oranges. So threatened was one "punk" that he began addressing his elder in a very impolite manner. You can imagine. My "Italian" adrenaline starts to pump through my heart and I in the most mild way I could muster, explain to the young punk that his adversary was simply relieving the weight of the clementines and that he was not trying to manoeuvre ahead. At that moment Grandfather looks at me and I clearly realize that he does not understand what I and punk-boy are discussing but does know it's about him. I say, ..."English, Italian,???..." He replies ".. Arabic." Damn I think, of the few languages I do speak, Arabic is not one of them. With his gentle eyes he looks at me for guidance. I take his case of clementines, put it in my buggy and with hand motions (universal language) I explain that he's coming with me. The punk, fed up with this whole mess, leaves his three items and departs the scene. Thank goodness. Caught a break.
As we inch ever so slowly towards the liberating noise of cash register scanners,we come to the fork. Grandfather must go in the Express now and I must continue to the seeming insurmountable non express mountain. But... once again I realize he doesn't understand... Express and Non Express. After several attempts of warding off "budders" that think they can get in front of my newly acquired immigrant friend, I dig my heels in and decide that he is not going to get ripped off. Back it up people..it's his turn. Finally arriving at the express, I take his precious clementines, leave my buggy unprotected as well as my patiently earned spot in line, and accompany him to the right cash. Phew.. he made it.. he's good.
I turn to take my spot back in line hoping someone with a heart will have understood why I left my spot in the first place and low and behold a good Polish man that had been observing and listening the whole time saved my spot and my buggy. He grins and opens his hand saying, without uttering a word.,"Here you go." I say, "Thank you," with a grateful nod... and we proceed.
At that moment it could not have been more clear to me that arguments, attacks or insults sometimes stem from very simple misunderstandings. How scary most it be for an immigrant living in a country, not quite sure of the customs, the unwritten rules that we take for granted and not being able to explain yourself or ask for an explanation? That case of clementines was just heavy. Just setting it down. No intention of taking anything from anyone... and which line?? Are they not all the same??
Patience and tolerance in our cynical world is what we need more of. Truly.
I hope Grandfather enjoyed his clementines. I mean really savoured them. I'm sure they were worth the effort.
To me, he definitely was.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Nutella. The Immigrant- part two
In the last couple of days I have heard that Nutella is being sued for misrepresentation in a commercial they have out promoting Nutella as a healthy start to a child's day. I also recently saw a post on facebook by my cousin Jeff (first mention in my blog Jeff, as requested) advertising Nutella "Snack and Drink". WOW
These honorable Nutella mentions got me reminiscing about my childhood as an immigrant's child.
When I was a child growing up in a very Italian culture, Nutella was a ..staple. Not PB&J, not KD, not Grilled Cheese and when my siblings and I discovered these "Canadian" delicacies, we wanted for them so badly! Only much later in life did we fully appreciate the Nutella on toast, the 'S' cookies (the ones we for the longest time believed belonged to my cousin Frank because his last name is Stornelli) with latte e caffe for breakfast. We didn't have bacon and eggs, or oatmeal or homemade pancakes. Eggo frozen waffles was a big treat on a Saturday morning. Many of my friends would look at me like I was an alien when I brought a Nutella sandwich to school. It was chocolate on bread- What's the big deal?. BUT the second they had a taste- Whoa- those kids were hooked instantly.
When I think about immigrants living in a foreign country, my thoughts automatically go to the dramatic hardships they endured; the discrimination they faced, the back breaking work they did. But it dawned on me that even the little things needed adaptation; the snacks for your kids, the style of a lunch box (versus a paper bag- not cool), the type of sandwich bread. Big and small - the challenges were several and.. real.
In immigrating, they sometimes found their kids in unpleasant situations and they knew it. In my case, my parents tried very hard to protect and teach us the "balancing act" . They loved Canada and they loved us. Compromises were delicate and thought through, discussed, appreciated, woven... - but we all agreed on one thing without hesitation, unanimously... Nutella was never up for negotiation. It stayed.
These honorable Nutella mentions got me reminiscing about my childhood as an immigrant's child.
When I was a child growing up in a very Italian culture, Nutella was a ..staple. Not PB&J, not KD, not Grilled Cheese and when my siblings and I discovered these "Canadian" delicacies, we wanted for them so badly! Only much later in life did we fully appreciate the Nutella on toast, the 'S' cookies (the ones we for the longest time believed belonged to my cousin Frank because his last name is Stornelli) with latte e caffe for breakfast. We didn't have bacon and eggs, or oatmeal or homemade pancakes. Eggo frozen waffles was a big treat on a Saturday morning. Many of my friends would look at me like I was an alien when I brought a Nutella sandwich to school. It was chocolate on bread- What's the big deal?. BUT the second they had a taste- Whoa- those kids were hooked instantly.
When I think about immigrants living in a foreign country, my thoughts automatically go to the dramatic hardships they endured; the discrimination they faced, the back breaking work they did. But it dawned on me that even the little things needed adaptation; the snacks for your kids, the style of a lunch box (versus a paper bag- not cool), the type of sandwich bread. Big and small - the challenges were several and.. real.
In immigrating, they sometimes found their kids in unpleasant situations and they knew it. In my case, my parents tried very hard to protect and teach us the "balancing act" . They loved Canada and they loved us. Compromises were delicate and thought through, discussed, appreciated, woven... - but we all agreed on one thing without hesitation, unanimously... Nutella was never up for negotiation. It stayed.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
My definition of courage- The Immigrant;
She was born in 1943 in post war Europe and raised in a relatively small town in central Italy and this is only important because where she lived was not Rome, Milan, Florence or Venice- the epicentres of the best Italy had to offer- Food, Fashion, Cars... They lived simply; unnoticed really from the rest of the world. She would become part of a group known as "the last wave of immigrants" to Canada. She was 22.
The interesting part of this young lady's story is that she, unlike millions of other immigrants, did not "have" to leave Italy for a better life. Her family was for all intents and purposes doing just fine. She and her three siblings were not wanting for anything . (And by anything I mean the important 3's- food clothing shelter) By no means was she enjoying an extragavant life style, but she had all she needed to thrive.
Some would say (and have) that she left for the most stupid reason of all...Love.
Now if anyone has ever been in Love.. they know that being in love and staying in love are two very differnt things. This is where the Courage of her story comes in.
I cannot begin to imagine the discussions at the dinner table with her parents about her leaving to follow the man she was in love with to a country that was to her parents, such a daunting place that they knew existed only because they were told it was on the planet ...somewhere. The convincing, the crying, the yelling... by both parts must have been worthy of documentation. In any case, she chose to leave.
And she was scared.
It's one thing to undersatnd the courage of immigrants being fuelled by the sheer human instinct of survival. (nonetheless noble may I add) That courage is the one that comes from the same place I think, that a soldier's courage comes from when faced with "it's either him or me... and it wont be me" scenario.
The immigrant, "If I stay, I'm dead. If I go... I have a chance to live and prosper". Not much of a choice really. The will to live trumps homeland.
In her case, she made a distinct, conscience, voluntary... choice. And that my friends is my definition of courage. You have a life, you have the choice to live it your way and you make a choice knowing that if it goes sour, you will be the self inflicted victim. No one to blame, No one to point your finger at, no one to help you out of it; the "I told you so's" looming constantly, the responsibility of owning a decision of this magnitude on you and you alone. In the face of that and with the knowledge of that, she was courageous.
She took Carpe Diem to another level. And I am inspired by her deliberate, corageous act of exercising free will every day of my life.
Thanks Ma.
The interesting part of this young lady's story is that she, unlike millions of other immigrants, did not "have" to leave Italy for a better life. Her family was for all intents and purposes doing just fine. She and her three siblings were not wanting for anything . (And by anything I mean the important 3's- food clothing shelter) By no means was she enjoying an extragavant life style, but she had all she needed to thrive.
Some would say (and have) that she left for the most stupid reason of all...Love.
Now if anyone has ever been in Love.. they know that being in love and staying in love are two very differnt things. This is where the Courage of her story comes in.
I cannot begin to imagine the discussions at the dinner table with her parents about her leaving to follow the man she was in love with to a country that was to her parents, such a daunting place that they knew existed only because they were told it was on the planet ...somewhere. The convincing, the crying, the yelling... by both parts must have been worthy of documentation. In any case, she chose to leave.
And she was scared.
It's one thing to undersatnd the courage of immigrants being fuelled by the sheer human instinct of survival. (nonetheless noble may I add) That courage is the one that comes from the same place I think, that a soldier's courage comes from when faced with "it's either him or me... and it wont be me" scenario.
The immigrant, "If I stay, I'm dead. If I go... I have a chance to live and prosper". Not much of a choice really. The will to live trumps homeland.
In her case, she made a distinct, conscience, voluntary... choice. And that my friends is my definition of courage. You have a life, you have the choice to live it your way and you make a choice knowing that if it goes sour, you will be the self inflicted victim. No one to blame, No one to point your finger at, no one to help you out of it; the "I told you so's" looming constantly, the responsibility of owning a decision of this magnitude on you and you alone. In the face of that and with the knowledge of that, she was courageous.
She took Carpe Diem to another level. And I am inspired by her deliberate, corageous act of exercising free will every day of my life.
Thanks Ma.
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