minority  noun : a part of a population differing from others in some characteristics and often subjected to differential treatment                               Merriam-Webster

 

When the flight attendant called for families with children to board the flight to Beijing, China, most passengers had already formed a tight crowd, bodies pressed together competing for space.

I went around the ‘line’ to the front but despite a polite, repeated “Excuse Me,” I could not get through with my family.

“Just push,” the flight attendant yelled, “They won’t move.” I’m sure that she could not tell by my mannerly Canadian approach that I have years of experience navigating Asia’s populated cities. She also likely had no idea that she would be the last person for a long time to refer to my behaviour as the norm. By calling the Chinese passengers, ‘they’, their behaviour was the exception.

But I felt it almost as soon as I entered the plane. I was pushed down the aisle by people racing to find their seats and hide their baggage overhead. When my husband and I finally got our kids tucked into their spots and our pile of carry-on bag stowed, I observed those that crammed by. All had characteristics that I did not.

I was the minority.

And it wasn’t just my brown hair and blue eyes, I pondered, while pulling a butter tart, one of the few truly ‘Canadian’ foods, from the package that my brother and his new wife had thoughtfully given us for our flight.

The people surrounding me, most of whom usually snack on roasted soy beans and dried seaweed, probably thought I was crazy for savouring each bite of the syrup, sugar, butter and egg, combined to perfection and then set in a flakey pastry. But just moments before, in the Toronto Pearson airport, my snacking habits would have been considered normal.

I thought wistfully of the flight attendant who told me to push through the crowd, and of my four months in Canada blending in. We traveled from one coast, almost all the way to the other, and besides my Blooper in Banff, not once was I stared at.

I am grateful for my time in Canada. I’m thankful for the opportunity to connect with family, friends and with my roots, to attempt to show my children what ‘Canadian’ means while trying to get a feel for the changes that have taken place while I’ve been gone and figure out who I am in relation to present day Canada.

Again, I am giving that up and taking on my China identity. A foreigner. Someone to watch, to point at, to talk about. Despite this, I, along with my husband and three kids, have made our home in China and are excited to be back. While it’s a different home, it’s our home.

I’m sure I will spend the next weeks and months comparing China to Canada even more than usual. Trying to reconcile living here, not there.

Trying to reconcile being someone strange, who does things beyond understanding.

Like eating butter tarts.