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The rest of the day to myself
“Top ‘o’ the morning to ya”. It’s March 17th and a it’s big day for all of the Irish and the hyphenated Irish and pretenders to the nationality. St. Patrick’s Day was a big deal when I was a kid. With a surname like “Durning” it was hard to be anything but Irish. When I was in grade three, at St. John’s School, we were asked to fill out a little file card about our family. The questions we had to answer, on the card, were fairly straightforward. “Where was your mother born?” And, “Where was your father born?” What is your mom’s name? What is your dad’s name? My mom always, always told us she was Canadian, but had lived in Italy, so I wrote in my eight-year-old hand that Mom was Canadian. My dad, as Irish as he was, was born in Port Glasgow in Scotland, so I wrote he was “Scotch”. So many missteps by an eight- year-old. The Principal, a person without humility, took me aside and firmly reminded me she’d met my mother and she wasn’t a real Canadian and as far as my father being “Scotch”, well that was strike two. The Principal, an officious nun who went by the moniker “Mother Cecily”, tore the card in half and filled out the new one herself. I became an Italian-Irish Canadian. The word “immigrant” was mentioned a few times, but it sounded like a crime coming from her. Top ‘o’ the morning to you, Mother Cecily!
My siblings and I are first-generation Canadian, sorta kinda. We are Canadian kids. Many of the kids in St. John’s School were either first-generation Canadians or brand-new-to-Canada Immigrants. Our school was a United Nations of ethnicities in the 1950s and early ’60s. In spite of the reality of what a post-war school environment looked like, being an immigrant, or an immigrant’s kid, wasn’t a good thing. If English wasn’t the first language of a St. John’s student, chances were you took a couple of steps back as regards grade levels. I remember a few older classmates looking very uncomfortable crammed into desks meant for much younger students simply because they were learning English. In particular, I remember a Portuguese student being plopped next to me because, you know, Portuguese and Italian are the same language. Pssst, they aren’t the same. I was supposed to understand everything he said. Pssst, I didn’t understand anything he said. His older brother was treated to a seat next to my older sister, in another classroom. Same deal. The Canadian-Italian kid should be able to understand the Portuguese kid. To be clear, the only time we heard anything other than English, in a family related context, was when we visited our grandparents. My dad’s parents were English speakers but some of their second cousins and the “greats” spoke Irish. My mom’s father’s English was interesting, but it was English. A lot of our family spoke Italian around Grandpa Curcio and, basically, most of his neighbours were members of our family. Our parents were dedicated to being Canadian. English was spoken in our home. I understand why it was important to them.
By the time I was in Grade Eight I think I’d heard all of the ethnic slurs that could possibly have been flung our way. My dad told me if someone had a problem with our background, it wasn’t my problem it was their problem. He also reminded me that everyone in Canada, with the exception of Native people (not the descriptor he used), had “come from away”. However, whenever I mentioned my parents’ background I was regaled with something along the line of “Pasta every day wouldn’t be so bad. but what about all of the whiskey and beer? I’ll bet your Mom drank a lot of wine!” Or, my favourite, “An Irishman and and ‘Eye-talian’. No wonder yours was such a large family!” And then?
Well, and then I got a lot older. By the time I was fifty-something I really and truly thought I’d heard it all. There was nothing left to ruffle my feathers until a medical professional, making small talk, asked me about my ethnicity. He was surprised I wasn’t French as my married name seemed to imply. I started to tell him about my background but barely had the words “ My mom was Sicilian” out of my mouth when he laughed and asked, “Mafia?” I waited a nano-second and replied, “Yes, so be careful about how you code your bill.” Obviously, he’d watched too many iterations of The Godfather.
And so it continues, the disrespect for everyone’s background. We never really learned a darn thing, did we? “What the actual H E double Jameson’s with a side of Chianti is that all about?” So, Top-othe- Morning to ya and the rest of the day to myself.
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