I often feel placeless, groundless.
When asked where I’m from, I answer ‘Montreal’, and then immediately turn into an unsolicited tour guide and talk endlessly about the wonders of bagels (real bagels, not this bloated bread shit), bike lanes everywhere, walking to the Jean-Talon market, living without a car, language laws, etc.
I answer ‘Montreal’, even though I’ve been told over and over that I’m not a real Quebecker. My last name is ‘Cook’, instead of a “real” Québécois surname like ‘Bellemare’.
I answer ‘Montreal’, because I’m not really from Québec and I’m not really from Canada.
I say that, but living in the US for five years, I’d never felt more Canadian. I talked about Canada any chance I got. I did that annoying thing of interjecting, ‘Did you know she’s Canadian?’ at every turn. I couldn’t help myself.
I didn’t grow up with family in Montreal though. It was just me and my parents.
My mum is from England. She’ll talk your ears off about England and how she plans on one day returning. Maybe it’s like me in the US, maybe she feels her most British when she’s in Canada.
I have extended family in Toronto and Nova Scotia. Our roots in Canada are very shallow though. All my grandparents were born in England or Scotland. My dad was born in Canada on a military base in Alberta, then the family moved to a base in Germany. They moved every few years, so he’s hardly very rooted himself.
My parents ended up in Montreal in order to be in Montreal. My mum changed all her plans after a weekend trip. She decided Montreal was where she needed to be.
My dad moved to Montreal on a whim; not for school or a job.
Two Anglo kids trying to make it on no money. Montreal was the kind of place where you could cobble together a life on a shoestring budget. My existence is a testament to it.
They were never meant to stay in Montreal. They were going to move to Edinburgh and make a life for their young family back home (or close enough to ‘home’).
They stayed in Montreal because they broke up and they had a young child and they were broke.
They stayed because of me.
I was what grounded them.
Grounded them… or was it that I was what weighed them down?
Isn’t that the same thing?
It’s funny to think of myself as grounding when I feel pretty groundless.
I’m not connected to my Scottish-ness or my English-ness. I’m not connected to my Quebec-ness or my Canadian-ness. The only thing that grounds me is Montreal.
But I haven’t lived there in nine years now, and I’m not sure I’ll ever live there again.
When my partner and I were talking and dreaming about the kinds of places where we could live, he told me that he didn’t want to live in Montreal because he’d feel like an add-on to a previously established life. He wanted us to create a life from scratch together.
I get that.
I’m not even sure I want to live in Montreal, anyway. But it makes me realize I’m going to have to create my own grounding and my own home.
I’m pretty good at creating homes. I have a lot of practice. I’m good at packing up, discarding old stuff, moving, and setting up a home in a weekend. It’s one of my superpowers.
I haven’t lived in a place for longer than a year in six years, so now I’m in a position to actually do the emotional labour of building a home. Sure, I can put up a pretty picture or two, find the perfect place for the couch that creates an inviting space, but what’s the work of REALLY making a home?
I guess that’ll be one of my assignments for this year.
I’m in a new place now. I’m on territory of Stö:lo Nation, in BC, in the Fraser Valley.
Most people here have lived here (or nearby) their whole lives. They know these mountains, these trees and this river.
I have a lot to learn.
Is home another idea that is always just out of reach? Will I ever feel like I belong or that I’m home?
Doesn’t it take years and years to know these mountains, these trees and this river?
Will I ever have enough time to know them? To be one among them?
Must the desire for a home be related to the desire to know, to control, to conquer?
What is it to be a respectful visitor to this place? To come to know, not through seizure or domination, but through collaboration and listening.
I guess that’ll be one of my assignments for this year. Or for the next few years. It’ll take some time.
We’ve been homebound for four months as I’m able to work from home during the quarantine. It’s been a time to start noticing the trees swaying in the wind, the squirrels jumping from branch to branch, and to learn the names of all the dogs in the neighbourhood.
It’s a start, I guess.
