I’ll get the train,”
I say to my sister. “It’s easier,” when in reality, it’s the heart-wrenching
goodbye at the departures gate that I can’t handle.
I’ve
been living in Canada for more than 20 years. I came from England with my
husband on a two-year work permit and we stayed, becoming citizens in 2010.
But
after my last visit home it occurred to me that the longer I live in Canada,
the more I miss England. Not in a nostalgic, rose-coloured-glasses kind of way,
but with a deep, visceral longing. I was at the CNE in Toronto last summer when
a marching band passed by. The bagpipes, brass and drums winded me like a punch
to the stomach. It was a sudden and unexpected sound of home, and I stood,
tears rolling down my face, as the band passed.
My
friend calls England “the Old Country,” which conjures pictures of steam ships
taking weeks to cross the Atlantic and telegrams sent only on special
occasions. In 1930 my uncle, Leslie, emigrated alone from England to Toronto
when he was only 17. I can’t imagine what it must have been like trying to find
his way at that young age.
Connection
with English family and friends online is great and watching a good British
drama on TV is my idea of a perfect night in – but it’s no longer enough.
I
miss being wrapped in the fabric of England and the English way of life. I love
the British sense of humour. I’m homesick for the rhythm of it, the familiar
turns of phrase, the way people relate to each other. It’s a deeply embedded
longing for familiarity where I understand the micro-idiosyncrasies of
“Englishness.” When I’m in England, being called “love” makes me almost weep
with gratitude. I long for the place where I was born and grew up and where my
most precious memories live.
I’ve
tried being British and stiff-upper-lipped about it. “Don’t worry, love.” I
tell myself. “This homesickness thing will pass. It’s nothing that a nice cup
of tea and good cry can’t fix.” But I know that it’s not true. This is
something that a cuppa can’t fix. However nice.
“Living
in Canada is like I’ve already won the lottery,” I tell my Canadian friends.
And I truly mean it. Canada has been my home for a long time, and I’ve embraced
the culture, assimilated to it, thrived in it.
I
love it all, the lakes and ponds, the sound of cicadas and the flash of
fireflies, a cobalt sky on a sunny winter’s day, the sheer vastness of the
country, the lilting Irish cadence of Newfoundlanders, the magnificence of the
Rocky Mountains, the midnight sun of the Yukon, the briny sweetness of Digby
scallops and the genuine warmth and generosity of Canadians.
But
it’s not home.
My
husband, Mike, says he wants his body buried in Canada and his heart buried in
England.
I’m
nearly 60 now, and as I’ve started to reflect on my life, the sense of lost
time sits like a guilty secret within me. I see how much of my family’s lives
I’ve missed. I dread a missed call, or a message sent in the middle of the
night. Those calls have come over the years and I remember anxious hours spent
crossing the Atlantic hoping to make it home before my dad died. Family is
precious and my sister having survived breast cancer makes me want to spend
every minute with her.
When
I look back I see how heart wrenching it must have been for my family to lose
me to Canada. But I was so wrapped up in the adventure of it all that I didn’t
consider what it must have been like for them. Years later, my twin sister
Margaret said that my leaving was like a bereavement.
When
I was an E.S.L. teacher my students and I often talked about “home.” Coming to
Canada was my choice and I have the luxury of going home whenever I want, but
for some, going home is not an option; war and violence separate many students
from their families and countries. Some students have the funds to return for a
visit, while for others it’s been years.
“I
have many pictures,” said one Venezuelan student as she picked up her phone.
After a moment she placed it back on the desk. “I cannot do it,” she said. It
was too painful to look at pictures of family and home.
Homesickness
has crept up on me and is picking away at my sense of wellbeing. Canada has
been home for a long time but now homesickness has lodged itself within and
refuses to leave.
I’ve noticed Mike and I talk about “when we go home” now rather than “if,” as though it’s been subconsciously decided between us. So perhaps our bodies can be buried in Canada and our hearts in England after all.
Jayne Evans has retired from college teaching and is enjoying a rekindled passion
for writing. She is also working on her first novel which is based on true
events in Toronto in 1930. Her work has appeared in The Globe and Mail
and Quick Brown Fox, and she has written for CERIC Magazine and Moving2Canada.
Jayne lives in Waterloo, Ontario with her sculptor husband, Mike.
"I’ve
lived in Canada for more than 20 years. Why am I homesick now?" was
originally published in the Globe and Mail in their "First
Person" column.
For
information on submitting a First Person essay to the Globe and Mail {and
a few other great places to submit}, see here.
For more essays, short
stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll
down).
See Brian
Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops,
and four-day retreats here.
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