Growing Up Before Immigrants Were Invented

When the worst thing that could happen to me was dating a catholic

The Kid in the Free World

When I grew up in Canada we celebrated when new classmates, or their parents, or their cousins, or their grandparents, became Canadian citizens. We knew there was a world outside of our piece of paradise. We even called it the “outside world” almost as if it was another planet. Together with the United States, we lived in the “free world”. We were the fortunate ones. We knew that. That’s why we celebrated when other people joined us on our planet.

I didn’t know it then, but we were also racist, sexist and lots of other “ists” as well.

As a kid, we didn’t always do what we were told, but we very often believed what we were told without questioning it. 

When the ’70s came along, my world was changing. I entered puberty, an age when many people start thinking more about dating than hockey scores.

My grandmother was a kind and caring person. She went to church every Sunday. Grandma was a good Christian but I learned that as we were entering our teenage years, she was quietly worried one of us grandkids might marry a Catholic. 

I had classmates and close friends who were catholic. I liked them. I liked their parents. I didn’t know any of their grandparents, so I didn’t know if their grandparents were worried that one of them might grow up and marry a Protestant. 

We had one or two people of colour in my class at school. It was just like on TV shows, we had a token black person. That was our normal.

On Saturdays, when it wasn’t hockey season, we watched US college football on TV. Most teams had more than a few black players and many of those players were stars. There were great running backs and receivers, great defensive backs, great linebackers and linemen. My friends and I had discussions about whether a black person could become a quarterback or a coach.

As mentioned, we didn’t know we were racists.

In our free world, our minds were warped by our ignorance. 

The Teenager in A Different Free World

In 1977, the TV show Roots hit the screens of North America. It told a different story of slavery and the history of black people in North America. We knew slavery had been abolished in the US many years before and, especially in Canada, we patted ourselves on the back for being such a free and fair society. For 17-year-old me, Roots changed some of that.

Black people weren’t simply descendants of slaves that had been freed. They were people with family histories, cultures, traditions and ties.

They were people.

Understanding that everyone has a background and a family and cultural history hadn’t made its way into my conscious mind until Roots.

We, white people, knew we had a family history and relatives in the “old world”. Now we knew that black people did too, although in many minds Africa was more country than continent.

That was one of the reasons why I decided to take a gap year in Europe. I wanted to check out my roots in the “Old World”.

Moving to Europe made me an immigrant. I was unprepared for that.

I went to Norway. A country where, at the time, and at least in the region where I lived, immigrants didn’t really exist. It didn’t even seem like Catholics existed there. To my ignorant eye, everyone was part of a single, homogenous group called Norwegians.

Once I started to get a hang of the language, I realized that wasn’t entirely true. Norwegians didn’t consider themselves a homogenous group. They had “Nordlendinger” and “Bergensere” and “Trøndere” and a host of others.

Some grandmothers in Oslo worried that their grandchildren might marry a Northerner.

Ads in the newspapers for room and board specified that “Northerners need not apply”. 

Norway had an indigenous population, too. With a few exceptions, like when they thought the Sami might help them get more votes in the Eurovision Song Contest, indigenous people didn’t play a significantly visible role in most parts of the country.

At the school I attended when I first arrived, there were five people that had been born outside Norway. One from India, one from Gambia, two from Vietnam, and me. We weren’t immigrants though. Three of us “foreigners” would return home after our school year while the two refugees would return to Vietnam as soon as there was peace there.

The concept of allowing refugees to integrate, gain employment, and contribute to society wasn’t on the table. In some countries, refugees are still treated that way.

In the eyes of Norwegians in Norway in the 1970s, Norway was like Canada in the eyes of Canadians. A free, open, tolerant society. 

Life as an immigrant

In 1987, I got a job in a large hotel in Oslo. Many of my colleagues were from other parts of the country. Northerners included. Some, but not all, of the Northerners were stereotypically extroverted and boisterous.

We also had foreigners on staff. They worked in housekeeping, dishwashing and the staff canteen. Irrespective of their education or language capabilities, they didn’t work at the front desk or in administration or in sales. 

When I moved to Denmark a decade later, it was similar. One difference was that we had Danish-born “immigrants” that worked as concierges and at the front desk, usually during the night shift. They were Danish citizens, spoke perfect Danish, and had Danish passports but to most people, they were still immigrants because their parents had been born abroad and they had a different skin colour and religion.

“2Gs”, second generation, was their “official” designation. 

White people from other countries were rarely given the same designation. When people heard my Norwegian accent, I was sometimes asked how long I was planning to stay before returning “home” to Norway.

During the Christmas pageant at work, a caricature of me entered the stage and interfered with proceedings speaking gibberish no one understood. A large question mark was held above the caricature’s head. People laughed.

Except for the police when they were extending my visa, no one ever really called me an immigrant.

While I lived in Europe, immigration became a growing political issue in many countries. Divisions between Catholics and Protestants grew narrower, as other religions, skin colour, or behavioural preferences were given the “scary people” roles.

In the 1930s and 40’s, Jewish people in Europe (and elsewhere) were persecuted, prosecuted and even executed because of their religion. They were the scapegoats. 

People hid their acceptance of the atrocities behind the excuse that they didn’t have access to information, they didn’t know better, or they just followed orders.

Today, all the information and insight in the world is available for free right at our fingertips. Yet, people with other religions, skin colour, or behavioural preferences are still widely discriminated against. In some places, divisions are growing wider, and steps are even being taken to try to limit the information available to people. It’s a slippery slope.

A diverse family of immigrants

I was an immigrant in Norway from 1978 - 1998, in Denmark from 1998 - 2007, and in Belgium from 2007 - 2018.

In January this year, we celebrated when my wife, an immigrant from Denmark, became a Canadian citizen. My sister-in-law is an immigrant. Our daughter is an immigrant where she lives and her fiancé is a descendant of immigrants to Europe.

I still have many faults, biases, and ignorance, but I returned to Canada as an immigrant. I didn’t move “back” to my homeland. Kirsten and I moved forward to our new homeland as immigrants, bringing with us lived experience from a wider world.

Kirsten maintains her Danish citizenship and we’re both proud Canadian citizens that are grateful immigrants that live on the traditional and unceded territory of the Syilx Okanagan people.

The Chief Sʷknc̓ut Monument was commissioned by Westbank First Nation. The monument was unveiled in the City of Kelowna in a spirit of reconciliation and conciliation. Click here for more information about the art and artist.

Compared to the ignorant kid that grew up here, my mind is more open and accepting. I’m committed to continuing to work to educate myself and others on the strength of a diverse, equitable, and inclusive society.

When my grandmother went to church to pray that we wouldn’t marry a Catholic, she wore a hat with a veil. Strictly interpreted, she’d be breaking the law in many places today. I’m confident though that had she been given the opportunity to access the information and education we have today, Grandma would have been an ally for every minority that struggles to find fairness.

Let’s not limit ourselves to making inclusivity about celebrating days, weeks, or months. Let’s support each other to create a free world that isn’t limited to a country or a specific subsection of the population.

When I was awarded a Carlson Fellow in 2014, Chair of the Carlson Board, Diana Nelson introduced me by sharing a few lines from a poem I’d written a few years previously. They’re perhaps even more appropriate today.

Stay safe,
Always Care

Thanks for reading 87 Stories - Lessons from the University of Life!

I’m Paul. Written with the clarity of hindsight, the accuracy of a faded memory, and countless creative liberties, 87 Stories is a journal of life lessons learned and how my “gap year” made me an emigrant, an immigrant, and gave me a life I’d never dreamed of.

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