Archive for the ‘Back Home in Canada’ Category


Because My Heart Is Island-Shaped

May 8, 2012


As a Newfoundlander, I am a bit of a fraud. Living abroad, I tell long and rocky tales of the island that hangs off the East Coast of Canada. I talk of people riding snowmobiles to work, accents made up of English more olde than new, outport night skies like ink, moose as plentiful as the blackflies, and air so fresh, the smell of bedsheets taken in off the line could break your heart.

Those things are all true of my home. Newfoundland is an exotic, peculiar place. People do flatten their vowels and add fat, round “h” sounds where none are meant to be. You can wake up to moose in your back yard and bears in your cabin. The kitchen party is the heart of the culture where a set of musical spoons or a recitation is just as easily pulled out as a bottle of beer. There are places you can stand where the wind can make you fly, cliffs that are blacker and more treacherous than a sleeveen’s tongue.

And see? There I go again. So many years away have made me focus on the salty air and the half-Irish turns of phrase. I am fiercely proud of my identity as a Newfoundlander. I pull it out like a dare when I meet someone new.  The truth? If asked to ‘do” an accent, I need a fair amount of alcohol and concentration to even begin to get it right. I never had one. My mother grew up in a small community, and my dad has retired to one, but I grew up in a small city. I don’t know how to do a jig or snare a rabbit, there were people in my town I didn’t know, and I never had to snowshoe to class. The pulp and paper mill, the lifeblood of my hometown, made the air stinky and grey. We watched American cable imported from Bangor, Maine. Still, there were woods near enough by when you wanted to disappear and cry your way through a teenage heartache, there were plates of thinly sliced moosemeat fried in butter on birthdays and there was a gorgeous-in-the-sunset bay running right through the belly of it all that could set you to dreaming.

My fiction and poetry of late is full of the Newfoundland outport. Those are places I’ve visited, as exotic and novel to me as the black sand beaches on Bali or the frenetic streets of Ho Chi Min. I claim those tiny, colorful communities as my heritage, but they have never truly been part of me.

At least, I didn’t think so. The last couple of weeks have been a revelation.

I know now that our hearts are informed by the landscape on which they come into being. We are walking maps of where we come from, the topography is in our palms like lines of fate. You can travel as far as you like, redraw your boundaries a million times, but if you are born with a Newfoundland heart and try to force yourself to live in a block of concrete filled to busting with people, damage will be done.

My husband and I moved two weeks ago to a small town outside of Seoul. I take the train for over an hour to go to work and the nearest convenience store is a 30 minute walk away. We live in a house with a garden and trees. Yes, the garden is unmistakably Korean. The trees are low to the ground and there are little stone fertility symbols tucked under shrubs. It doesn’t matter. My heart needed trees. I didn’t realize how much I have denied the Newfoundlander in me by living in Seoul for so long. I feel suddenly full of breath. My God. For how long, had I been holding it?

I am writing this on the upstairs deck of the house. The sun is setting over a squat, lush mountain. I hear only the sound of the odd happy dog, the birds and the Cocteau Twins -the  noise I choose. And of course, the cows. Did I mention there are cows?

I sit here, the only white woman for miles, and I feel more at home here than in the middle of the expat neighborhood in Seoul. I am a Newfoundlander, see, every inch of me. I have ocean in my veins, and wildness in the soles of my feet. It is my birthright. Space and quiet are my natural way and I have never stopped looking for bears in the backyard. You can’t grow up in the middle of such a myth, and then expect to roll it up in your backpack as you board a plane, thinking it will fit. Make no wonder it has been coming out in my poetry and my barroom stories.

I’ve been leaking Newfoundland all over Asia for the past 15 years. That doesn’t mean I need to go back. I do need to respect my inner landscape, find more ways to feel my hair tangled by wind and my fingers soaked with water. I need a kitchen that will fit a party.  I need stars, not satellites. And I need to face the truth. I’m more of a Newfoundlander than I ever knew.


Happy Birthday, Baby.

July 1, 2011

Dear Canada,

I was sitting by myself with a beer tonight, listening to some lonely songs, and I remembered it was your birthday. I got to thinking of how it used to be between us, back when I was your girl, when you used to bring me sweet little gifts of scrub and stone, air so fresh my nose would sting, and boys who knew how to hunt and drive pick-ups.

I resisted your charms for a long time. Not so much Canadian, I would say, as Newfoundlander. After all, my people were the last to your party. We had a rebel flag. We needed a boat to get to you. You were cold and didn’t pay enough attention to us. Arrogant, you still claimed me for your own. When I left you, finally, I took your name, to help make my way through strange countries. Shelley the Canadian. Canada Teacher. I gave up trying to explain Newfoundland in the first month. Like a chastened wife I would offer your name as my identity – where I belonged.

Recently, I was asked to participate in a blog that offers social commentary about you written from the point of view of those who had loved you and still managed to leave you. Two of the bloggers were smart, funny men who I respected. I was wildly flattered to have been asked. Yet, when I sat down to take you to task for your faults, I found I couldn’t do it.

I still love you. I have never stopped loving you. Only after I left you did I realize how much of you is deep in my soul. I am a polite, easy-going, open-minded, down-to-earth cliché and because of those things you made me, I have managed to carve out an international life.

Yes, I have found a new love. He won me with his hot, spicy tongue and how special he made me feel. So many things are easier with him. Everytime I think I know him, he shows me something new. Sometimes, he infuriates me with his different ways and sets my heart to longing for the familiarity of you. I don’t admit this often. But, I can tell you this because I know that you would have me back. That is enough to get me through, sometimes- just knowing that you are out there, large and quiet, with your arms around so many people I love.

Don’t forget me, Canada. Promise me that there will be moments when you’ll crack open a Molson, put on some Hip and remember our good times. Promise me you’ll remember the way the salt water air curls my hair. If you promise me, I’ll come and see you sometime.