Saturday, October 15, 2016

I. Am. Canadian.

I love to talk about myself. You know that and this whole blog proves it. I'm my own favourite subject. Not news.

What I hate is when I get asked where I'm from. On the surface it's an innocent question. But from the right (wrong) person, it becomes a loaded question full of assumptions. Yuck.

Picture it (and it happens like this all the time)... a cute little old lady strikes up a conversation with me. We are talking hair and food and shopping or something mundane. Then it comes:

Cute Little Old Lady: So where are you from?
Me: (knowing what she means but purposely being obtuse): Montreal.
CLOL: No, I mean where are your people from?

Look. Does it really matter? We've just had a nice conversation. Who cares if I'm Canadian, West Indian or Klingon? Why is this an important question? Will I be judged if answer "wrong"? What is the deal here?

I hate that question. I will always hate that question. Because it makes me feel like just being my sparkly wonderful self isn't enough for you. And it should be. I mean, really.

kxx


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