Family Origins

I.

I grew up in Saint Albert, Alberta. Canada, to be more specific. All my family was there; so, I thought.

Really it was just all the family that I knew. At seven years old I did not know that I had a whole other identity of people who claimed to be kin, a whole other family who shared pigments of my skin.

My whole world was where I grew up.

I had only lived in one house up until we moved to Florida. To America. To the home of the free, land of the brave. Insert other patriotic propaganda here.

This poem is not meant to bash anyone's nationality but to resonate with the hashtag definition of art being to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.

And when I moved countries in second grade, I was wildly unprepared for this culture shock, a place that I had heard described as the world's melting pot.

What I wasn't prepared for was to be melted down, for kids to pick me apart, make fun of my sound, my accent, my name, first, middle, and last.

Because when I moved I felt like I wasn't allowed to leave any part of me at home. Meaning in Saint Albert. Meaning where all my family was. All the family that I knew at seven years old.

Maybe it was presumptuous of kid me to think that because I was from Canada I would be safe from immigrant jokes.

Not realizing that if you are not born here, they lump us all into one boat, all as fresh off the boat.

And here I did not know how to stay afloat. The water I grew up on was usually frozen. The water here infested with gators, giving me fear to put my toes in.

One day my classmates asked me,

“if someone dies in Canada does that mean they die in real life?”

I wanted to scream at them.

Though I fully knew screaming would be against the Canadian protocol that had been placed on me without my consent back in second grade, stating that: Canadians were the nicest, kindest people you could ever meet.

That was the first expectation placed on my shoulders, a stereotype that was now mine to uphold for "my people". I did not know what to do with that weight, so I did the Canadian thing, I did not show anger, fear, frustration. No negative emotions allowed. "Canadians are nice, kind, happy people".

And when they asked me,

“if someone dies in Canada, do they die in real life?”

I wanted was to scream,

"I wish I could ask my aunt for you. Ma taunt Monique. But she died before I was born and as far as I know she has been dead everywhere, ever since."

...

Instead, I put on my Canadian clown mask and said,

"I don't know, let's take a trip up there, you can kill me with the gun that your dad probably bought for you for your fifth birthday from Walmart, so you could stand your ground, and when you get back to school, let us know".

II.

When I first got to Florida my second-grade teacher sat the class down and taught a lesson on how to spell my name. My birth name, first name only: Renée. She thought it was unique because it was French and had an accent aigu over the second ‘e’. Making it sound like ‘eh’, making it Renée not Re-knee.

I explained how to spell it and she still spelt it wrong. So excited to learn something new, the teacher was just so happy to have a "new kid" in the community.

I did not correct her. That would be the first of many times that I did not stand up for myself.

III.

Moving to America when I was six going on seven, I was wildly unprepared when it came to the topic of my origin.

My birth name is Renée Monique Ramcharan. If you want to break my name down by color here is how the kids in my school did it:

"Renée, French, okay so white!"

"Moe-NEEK? Huh I guess you are black!"

--- Actually, it's pronounced Ma-Nick, it's French, named after my aunt.

"Well here in Florida its pronounced Moe-NEEK"

"Don't worry it makes you more black so just go with it”

….

"RAM-Train ???"

--- It's pronounced Ram-CHA-ran, from Trinidad! My dad was born there, that is where I get my color!

"Cool, so like island black!"

--- I guess; he moved to Canada when he was little and grew up there, that’s how he met my mom...

"Oh so he didn't grow up black"

…

…

I do not know what that means.

I do not know what it means when the kids in 5th grade say they can tell I am "only part black" after they have brushed their hands through my hair as if brushing crumbs under a rug, hiding a mess that is not supposed to be there.

Seven-year-old me did not have a study guide that I read on the car ride down to Florida.

I was told I would make new friends. I was told I could go swimming any time of the year.

I was not told that second grade would be the year that I would start to hate my body. The year that I was given nicknames that I did not want.

The year that I became aware that I no longer fit in any group in the lunchroom. The year I made a nest in social limbo. Got comfortable wearing masks, did what I was asked. Became the embodiment of America's Canadian. Kind. Happy. Nice. Contained my identity in a block of ice that I started to call home.

IV.

In 8th grade there was a jump rope for heart fundraiser. Basically, you jump rope for a long time, hope people "sponsor" you and donate money and it raises funds for the American Heart Association.

8th grade was the year that my obsessiveness started to become noticeable. I jumped and jumped and jumped…

I think somewhere a part of me believed that if we raised enough money, we could somehow bring my aunt back to life. Holding on to the hope that since she only died in Canada maybe she was not really dead.

She died at three months old because she was born with a hole in her heart and at the time, they did not have the technology to figure out that that was the problem until the autopsy. I never knew ma taunte Monique. But having her in the middle of me, I like to think while she died in Canada, she has not died in me.

V.

My mom's maiden name is Forest. My grandpa's name being Fern Forest. He had his own jewelry store called Forest of Jewels. My mom and all my aunts and uncles worked there growing up.

One story that I love hearing is when someone stole a ring from my grandpa's store. Luckily, my mom recognized the girl who was looking at the ring from school. My mom played detective, looked her name up in the yearbook, and because it was the 80s, she was able to get her address from a mutual party.

Later that night my grandpa sent my mom and her boyfriend, my future dad, to knock on her door pretending to be friends, only to realize they had the wrong house. The girl who stole the ring, was wearing it when she answered. As my future parents turned to leave, out came my grandpa from the side of the house, putting him face to face with the girl who had stolen a wedding ring from his shop just earlier that day. Her confident smile disappeared, knowing she had been caught she started crying immediately.

My grandpa comforted her, said it was okay. He simply asked for it back. Said there was no need for any other consequences. The girl, mortified, gave the ring back.

My grandpa was someone who believed there was more to people than what you saw at first glance; believed in second chances; knew that sometimes there is an easier, softer way to handle things.

He was someone I looked up to, someone I loved, someone who knew how to make really good tea and who made up his own rules when playing pool. He is someone I miss very much.

I am grateful for him giving me a forest to grow in and showing me that I am strong enough to plant my own someday.