Not a white kid

Technically my native origins hail from East Azerbaijan, not to be confused with the Republic (former Soviet). Tabriz is the capital of the province, which resides in northern Iran…and this is where I ask, did I lose you already?

I was born here, in Canada. And I strongly identify as Canadian first, all else second. But I was raised in the most ethnic of ways. No really, I did not grow up white.

For example, I was in ESL until Grade 4. Did I mention I was born here?

My parents had strict rules. At home, we only spoke Azeri and if we broke the rules, we got in trouble. Until I began school, my Anglophone education was limited to Bugs Bunny and Looney Tunes. Its a wonder how I managed to make friends!

Better yet, I would go to school with the weirdest lunches…pita bread with sour feta and chunky honey rolled up and tossed into a reused long blue newspaper bag. Classy. And as a snack, pistachios.

Oh and did I mention my folks signed me up for Azeri dance classes as a kid? Decked out in the full ethic regalia, my dance troupe (no joke) and I would perform at festivals, community theatres and on low budget local tv. My claim to fame was a 60 second solo performance on Breakfast Television at age 8. My Grade 4 teacher Mr. Yuen, made me show it to my class. I never quite lived that down. Thanks Mr. Yuen.

My THICK Eugene Levy-esque eyebrows didn’t help either. And after many close-calls during the Drew Barrymore 90s, they’ve managed to stay intact…yes, the caterpillars are safe. Better yet, I’m getting compliments on them for the first time ever! Apparently super thick is in now? And I don’t have to draw mine on.

I’ve been told I can ‘pass’ as an olive-skinned mediterranean European, but I don’t care to. I’m proud to be exactly who I am. Hence the double-barrel last name I carry around, even when my husband’s easy one-syllable-white-as-hell name ‘Pike’ could kick it to the curb.

Like the caterpillars, Kazemi Arbat is here to stay.

But what about the rest of me? I don’t surround myself with other Azeris. Truth be told, they’re hard to find. English has eclipsed my first language in every sense, so my vernacular is more than rusty. I don’t even know how to cook my cultural food, so those exotic tastes are but a fond memory. My Azeri dance troupe phase also came to an end, how unfortunate.

So all I’m left with is killer skills at opening pistachios and a few sweet Azerbaijani rugs. Not bad.

But what of my Canadian identity? What has it given me?

The answer is infinite. It has given me freedom. Freedom to express myself however I want. Freedom to keep the parts of me that I like and change the parts that I don’t. Freedom to escape the pigeonhole of a conform-or-get-out majority culture. That’s why my parents left their home in the first place. That and the Revolution of 1979. It was an extremely repressive shift in culture…so my parents got out. They were the lucky ones.

I’m even luckier. To be born here without the struggle, and hardships prior. To feel safe from birth. To go to schools with so many different faces and see an international representation in my community and friends. We are progressive in so many ways, and we are young in so many ways. As a nation we are still learning. We are not perfect. But I can say with utmost certainty, that I wouldn’t ever consider calling another country home.

I lived in England and Australia, and traveled many others, but there’s something special about Canada that I can’t quite put my finger on. This is not meant to be an advertisement or a gratuitous #blessed rant.

This is me just realizing that the very tangible and clearly identifiable culture I grew up in, is not the one I identify with. Rather, its the open-ended, ambiguous, undecided major, 150 year old colonial state that holds my heart.

Some may say that I’ve ‘lost my culture’ or that I’m ‘not in touch with my roots’. To them, I’d say, what’s it to you? I have endless respect and appreciation for my ancestors, but I’m here. And I live in the now. That plus, it would be wrong to deny acknowledgement of our choice to live here. A physical choice says more than words ever could.

And yet, the best part is you don’t have to choose. You can be both Chinese and Canadian, or Caribbean and Canadian or Azeri and Canadian.

But in about a week or so, when my cousin from Tabriz, East Azerbaijan comes to visit, I will dig deep and find that inner Azeri that’s been collecting dust. I’ll have to dig even deeper to regain my fluency. I was once told by a reliable source (proper Azeri granny) that I had a ‘chatdee’ accent. That means country. Something about the way I pronounced my words, I laid it on real thick with certain vowel sounds…aka I sounded like an Azerbaijani redneck. Great.

So, welcome to Canada, cousin Hormuz. You’ve got an Azeri redneck to show you around.

*10 points if you can spot me in the troupe*