Making Friends And Drinking In Moderation

After returning from my Incan adventure, I was ready to tackle yet again another year of high school in Lima. Not only was it another year, but it was my last one. Brian would be heading to Canada for post-secondary education and I was only three years behind him. I would be stuck doing my Grade 13 back home. I had finished my previous year on a solid footing, including an excellent performance in my English, an accomplishment I was very proud of. My teacher had been Mrs. Barbara Walker, a lovely woman from Minnesota who had applauded my skills and learning curve, especially realizing it was my first time reading and writing in this language. She had recommended me to Advanced English for Grade 10, but for some reason that teacher did not want me in her class. Algebra with Mr. Daniel Brenig was awesome, and I would be in his Geometry class this year. Awesome again. Honours Biology was a result of having done well in Physical Science with Ms. Zalecki and History, my all-time favourite subject-matter was now Peru-Latin American History. The road was paved for a very exciting academic year.

Brian, Maman, myself and Dad on Canada Day, 1996

Aside from that, I had also earned my respect guaranteeing my own safety and sense of belonging among my peers. No one messed with me and I didn't get involved elsewhere. Over the summer, I had added to my gang Glen Swanson, a Guatemalan-Canadian kid who had lived in Peru most of his life when I met him. His father was from British Columbia and worked for a Canadian NGO. We found a connection when I came to the school campus during the end-of-year break, bored out of my mind, looking to play some basketball. Basketball seemed to be a very unifying sport at this time in my life. We hung out over the summer at his father's office, quite close to my house, and played games on the office computer. During those visits to his patriarch's workplace, we discovered the wonderful world of E. Wong - the widely popular and only supermarket franchise when we arrived - and the food samples. We used our coins to play arcade games there, especially Cruisin' USA. You could choose from a decent range of vehicles and I preferred the school bus. There you have to race through traffic jams and you have pedals, a steering wheel and a gear shift. It was a great introduction into how not to drive.

Back to school now. My Grade 10 English class was with Ms. Barbara Brough, a Canadian from Odessa, Ontario - if you are not familiar with it, it is a town of 10 houses across the highway from Amherstview, west of Kingston, a real hotspot. In this class, there was a kid everyone referred to as Crack, but named Sebastian Olivares. This kid was born in Peru but grew up in Oaklahoma, USA. There were many questions about how he got his nickname but apparently, the true version, is that he came to soccer practice wearing a fancy kit but was terrible at the sport. Some also said that he used to bend over frequently, exposing his but crack. I, personally, had the pleasure of never seeing his butt crack. In the beginning, I remember he was slightly unpleasant with me but I couldn’t have cared less. He was shorter than my mother who is about 5' 2" so I did not feel threatened. I believe, still to this day that he had always looked up to Glen but as soon as he realized we were friends, he suddenly changed his opinion about me and began hanging out with me. Students of every age seemed to push this kid around, punch him and shove him around as he was small and defenseless. I think I was the only one who never got involved in that, as I was never one to go with the flow. Eventually, he caught on to this and I told him he should stick up for himself. After all, it worked for me even though it was rather unexpected.

Another friend who got thrown into the mix was William Erickson. Erickson and Crack were Glen's roller hockey buddies and eventually became good friends of mine, like Alejandro, Glen and Kensuke. William was a very quiet American kid, even more shy than I was. I couldn't believe it. I would try talking to him when he would sit and join us, but he would look away and not even answer. I couldn't understand if I was cool with him or not for the longest time. There was also Miguel Peschiera who had spent some time in the US and I had Biology with him. I got to know him that year, having become lab partners and working on some projects together. He was a really friendly kid and his family was adorable. I remember once being there for dinner with his parents, his older brother and his younger sister and they were all really chatty and curious about my country and my family. I think his father had a government job or something of the kind, so perhaps they were well schooled in protocol and manners. I almost felt at home but with a Peruvian-American spin. There was also Melor Mokhtar (better known in the inner circle as Mel), the daughter of the Malaysian Ambassador who became one of the best friends I have ever had. She grew up living a similar life to mine so we could relate on many levels. Even more, she was born the day after my birthday. She was my sister from a different continent. Well, she still is. These guys really made Peru for me. Looking back at our lunches on our every-day picnic table, it was a real potpourri of cultures, coming together and having fun. I know to this date these guys would still do anything for me if I ever needed them and I hope they know it is reciprocal.

Erickson, myself, Alejandro, Glen, Crack and Mel in the middle

Our out-of-school hangouts are still treasured memories. Generally, we would get together at someone's house on a Friday night - a sacred ritual that no one dared to break - and we would play video games or watch movies all night. This was also a period that saw an introduction to alcohol. It is a taboo subject in North America where society does not seem to have evolved much from the temperance movement, unlike Peru who never stumbled into these dark ages. However, we never did this hiding from our parents or anyone. It was completely normal for teenagers to enjoy a few beers. Beer and Domino's Pizza. Later, we discovered the British pub – I kid you not! I can't recall any time where we got drunk or drank to get drunk. Other kids did in fact use and abuse as a weekend ritual, something that could be easily noticed on Monday mornings. This freedom allowed us to learn to enjoy drinking socially and to understand limits, something I think is lacking in North America. There, people are magically introduced to drinking when they are "independent" as they go off to college and mommy and daddy are no longer around to ground them. If you are raised in responsibility and moderation, you will observe less abuse. Europe leads by example on this. Those who abuse and behave violently often are attempting to bury serious personal issues. We opted for a healthy life, including lots of sports including softball, basketball and soccer.

From Russia With Love

As I mentioned near the conclusion of my previous blog entry, the world has its own way of making things work out, returning a sense of balance. The same energies would come into my life during the next few months of being a High School freshman. I was feeling further alienated seeing my bridges burned after attempting to join the Peruvian population. It was no longer an option for me to continue to that end and I was not willing to take any more chances. If my environment would be subject to further bombardment, I would not make it through the posting. Two years could turn into an eternity when being on the wrong end of a conflict. I was now moving away from “adaptation” to more of a “coping” mode in regards to my situation. At this point I was able to find several similarities between my life and prison movies. If I was going to survive high school, I needed a plan: someone to watch my back. My brother had kindly volunteered to be my backup – perhaps noticing things were off to shaky start, to say the least, but I could not have my brother fight my battles. I needed my own posse.

Ivan Drago during a press conference

I figured the smaller groups of students were more closely knit, therefore harder to break into. Other groups were made up of Americans and other English-speaking kids and more quiet and distanced groups such as the Japanese and Koreans. I felt a sense of equal opportunity in evaluating my chances for proper integration as I shared the same ingredient with all of these other kids: a bunch of nothing. We were foreigners but, in my mind, this was not enough to click together. For a while, I navigated alone through the world of Roosevelt observing my peers during my classes and lunchtime. I saw from a distance how they interacted and I did not feel outgoing enough as I gauged my appetite for risk. I did not have any particular preferences, although I began to form a bond with Mario Lambert, a French-Canadian the son of the RCMP attaché in the Embassy and David Williford, whom I believe was the son of an American missionary or something of that nature. They were both in my Spanish and Debate classes and had a great sense of humour. Our Spanish teacher was a former Miss Peru – must have been a very long time ago – named Ms. Saco who had difficulty commanding respect and controlling her classroom. If you have ever seen an episode of Oz, well this was somewhat similar during the riot scenes. The only difference is that class would eventually come to an end while in Oz everyone’s sentences were different. The environment was so relaxed there, I was able to chat up a storm with both of them and build a closer connection.

During the course where I was regularly used for target practice (Physical Education) I began to befriend a Slavic-looking kid. He looked to me as a shorter and chubbier version of Ivan Drago, the Russian Red Army boxer who took on Rocky in one of Stallone’s movies. No one seemed to include him in their team when organized sports would take place. I did not want to pick a side, as I knew I would be picked on regardless of my decision. Students also seemed to periodically insult him using all sorts of words that I had never heard of before or care to repeat. It was evident to me he was another outsider. We seemed like a perfect match. If I was not liked, and I was an “alright” kind of kid, he must have been better at that time in my own mind than the average student. The first time I approached him, I attempted to communicate in English with him, as my Russian was nonexistent. I hoped this would be a common language. We were supposed to play volleyball and I did not have a partner and he did not appear to have one either. He responded verbally to my initial contact yet, although his lips were moving and his speech level struggled against the incessant sound of bouncing balls on the hardwood gym floor, I had no idea what he responded. We somehow managed to understand each other communicating through various gestures and facial expressions, such as waving towards each other so one would get closer and the almost universal thumbs up. We continued for a long time exchanging further gestures and actually laughing as we kept each other company during our sentence in the gym. It was funny but we seemed to find a connection without having to speak.

I later realized this Soviet buddy of mine was also in my World History class. Kevin “El Chivo” Jameson, who I swear to this date, was a clone of Woody Harrelson, taught this course. He was a young American, perhaps teaching high school kids for the first time in his career. He was a shy individual as well, something that was not a key to succeeding as a teacher there. The reason he was nicknamed el chivo (the goat) is because on several occasions, while he lectured on the topic of the day, a random person in the classroom would belt out “Kevin chivo” at the top of their lungs, and the rest of the class followed in unison with an “ey yeay yeay yeay”. Every yeays would get louder and given the day and circumstances, there could be several of them added on. He never seemed to have an answer to this behaviour and although I found this hilarious, I was also astonished at how little control teachers in this school had over their students and the overall lack of discipline. I had never seen this kind of behaviour in my life and in my other schools, there would be no place for this nonsense. This did not impede my newfound Eastern European buddy and my contributions to the chorus. We may have on occasion belted out our own chivos, creating the tsunami of ey yeay yeays. As a matter of fact, this was a very good stress relief technique. I remember leaving Mr. Jameson’s class usually feeling quite refreshed and ready to tackle the rest of my hostile surroundings. Kevin was a nice guy and did not exhibit any resentment or hostility from uproarism in his classroom. Perhaps he was just happy that the class would eventually come to an end. I often had chats with him about basketball as supposedly, he had played for Duke in the NCAA. I was young but that did not mean I was gullible. He did not seem to have the makings of a Varsity athlete.

Alejandro, Kensuke and I

The Russian and I finally began to speak once I realized his name was Alejandro. I now managed to discern the language as he tried to converse with me through a thick accent known internationally as Andaluz. It is close to Castilian (Spanish), but many letters are not pronounced, and the pace is somewhat quicker. It did not help that it was the first time I heard this regional accent. He did not have much English in his repertoire as this too was his first ever experience studying in the language. I possessed the advantage of having a prior oral record. Thanks to this new connection, I was reunited with my passion for basketball, playing at lunchtime with him and his Korean and Japanese ESL buddies. This was also where he introduced me to Kensuke Kobayashi, a good Japanese friend who became our gateway into a whole new language and culture. Kensuke taught me something I will never forget: Onara no nioigasuru (it smells like fart). This tied in to that lingering guano smell in the city air. He was a very nice kid and with a great sense of humour. Both of them also allowed me to learn a lot from cultures I had never been exposed to in the past, and share some knowledge of my own home. I had become a much prouder Canadian in response to the feeling of rejection that I felt originating from my hosts. It was now looking as I had finally found my place in the school where I could be at peace and let the good times roll. We were all kids in no man’s land.

Multiculturalism: Building The Cultural Mosaic

Since the birth of Canada, partnerships have been fostered between different cultures in order to build a nation. French and English, forever European rivals in their Empirical aspirations, set the groundwork for future generations to tolerate each other and celebrate each other's differences. At an early age, I proudly understood this unbreakable bond between the two founders of my country, facilitated by the positive relationship between my British father and my French mother. Diversity was in my blood. On the other hand, the examples I had experienced of national culture throughout my experience in South America promoted homogeneity. Many nation building projects developed a common unifying ideology in order to  form a strong identity. Most of these territories include a variety of internal micro cultures, sometimes referred to as regional identities, incapable of eclipsing a deeply entrenched core patriotism. Immigrants are expected to embrace the new national brand, adapting to the local culture, fitting in to the uniform mold. Canada had certainly distanced itself from this practice since I had entered this world. This assimilation process had greatly facilitated my understanding of the host population’s culture and identity assisting the process of integration and creating an everlasting bond with the country.

Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau from 1968 to 1979 and 1980 to 1984

Canada has served as a refuge for people leaving their homeland in times of distress in search for a safe haven. Several waves of immigration have given the country a new shape thanks to the framework established by our British and French Fathers of Confederation in 1867. Nevertheless, celebrating diversity was not a priority until the 20th Century. An early champion setting the stage for cultural inclusion was Governor General, Lord Tweedsmuir, who promoted the uniqueness of ethnic groups and their contribution to enhancing our national character during his inaugural speech in 1935. He asserted that the strongest nations are those composed of different racial elements contributing to the foundation of a positive society. In the 1970s, charismatic and long-time Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau and the Canadian government endorsed multiculturalism, formally recognizing the importance of immigration and the need for pluralism. He declared in 1971 that Canada would adopt a multicultural policy, the  Multiculturalism Act, respecting the diversity of languages, religion and customs. This was the birth of our ongoing cultural mosaic project which promotes inclusion and opposes the US-style melting pot ideology. Although informally adopted, this assimilation policy had been our pre-established unspoken condition to those who chose to settle in the Great White North until the end 1960s. Whether or not people obliged was entirely up to them.

Throughout my young life, I had befriended passport holders of various different countries who also possessed that certain element of patriotism. I became aware of their cultures through regular interaction, personal anecdotes about their homeland, their rich history and stereotypes that can be sometimes accurate - such as all Canadians are polite, Americans know how to put on a show or the French love perfume. I understood that any country individually developed extensive and unique unifying aspects which defined their national pride, hence, their feeling of belonging to a greater and special community. This special group of people are what makes up a nation. This word is significantly sensitive for us political scientists and those who have that eternal patriotic flame. A country is defined by its geographical borders on a map yet it can include different nations within or overlapping these borders, each with their own national interests, language, culture, religion, ethnicity and so on - this is particularly true in the cases of Great Britain, Ireland, Russia, Spain, Switzerland and many other countries including Canada. I continuously fed this erroneous belief of a nation and a country being on equal footing as the all-inclusive powerful psychological entity. After all, we all identify misunderstood or unknown concepts with those that are more familiar to us until circumstances teach us the difference. During my three years in Chile, I perceived homogeneous culture, language, and religion. Minority groups were minuscule in comparison to those of my birth country. Nonetheless, Europeans, Mapuches, and mixes of both were the reality of Chile’s deeply entrenched assimilation process under the umbrella of the flag. As I had witnessed a similar composition of the Venezuelan population during my three years there, I systematically associated these realities to my homeland. If we all stand under the same country flag, we are all the same regardless of our background or other baggage accumulated throughout our lifetimes, and we are a nation.

Ottawa proved to be a major test to this concept. It's metropolitan area is now the fourth largest in Canada with a population estimated at 1,130,761 (est 2006) with foreign born inhabitants making up 202,730 (close to 18 percent) of the total population, according to the 2006 Statistics Canada census report. Although I lived in the quiet suburban paradise of Hunt Club, a traditionally Anglophone neighbourhood, it was evident its cultural background was getting a makeover. Among my more frequented hotspots in my neighbourhood included the McCarthy Road and Paul Anka Drive area, where you could find a video store, the A&P supermarket, Shopper's Drugmart, a Scotiabank branch and the Community Centre. This was our strategic supply area for all our basic needs. This great medina demonstrated a promise of a new world when the it was plagued with a plethora of conflicts - something I observed first hand during the Caracazo and the end of a military dictatorship. These were no longer people, but representatives of different nations within a country mingling and meeting minds. It was as if my small expat world in Chile had become exponentially larger. Suburban Ottawa showcased young Middle Eastern children playing with East African kids, South Asian small business owners catering to all variations of dietary  restrictions, and my favourite, the Shawarma Revolution! No matter where life would take you in the city of Ottawa, chances were you would not be too far away from a Lebanese restaurant serving shawarmas and other their fine culinary delicacies, such as kaftas and falafels. Granted I am not much of a Middle Eastern cuisine connaisseur or posssess an in-depth knowledge of national dishes, but my taste buds were hardly ever disappointed.

Canada, a place where cultures meet

After a shaky start, in most of urban Canada, multiculturalism had become a positive force by the 1990s. A door opened providing additional examples of lifestyles, values, beliefs, traditions and food. On the down side, some immigrants began to encounter issues in the job market as Canadian institutions, boards and other regulatory bodies did not recognize foreign accreditations. The hard earned post-graduate studies had become worthless for many of these hopefuls dreaming of a new world of opportunities as doctors, lawyers, dentists, and other seasoned professionals. Circumstances forced these professionals who could have contributed to Canadian social development accept jobs where requirements were lower. Furthermore, both immigrant groups and Canadians considered that multiculturalism was encouraging the propagation of a ghetto mentality, suggesting newcomers sought out their familiar home culture, avoiding interaction with the rest of society. During my time in Ottawa, I noticed that Canadian-born people were tolerant and patient, especially with those who exhibited difficulty in communicating in English. Nevertheless, I could understand how people could shut out the world when they encountered a communication barrier. Change leads to reaching out to what is familiar. When you move away, you feel as if you have both feet in different countries. I lived through this. Change is challenging given the instant culture shock of completely foreign settings. There is no easy way to prepare for this except by adopting an exaggerated positive and flexible attitude when faced with adversity. Eventually, time will heal everything and home takes on a brand new meaning.

A World Without Borders

The first two years in Santiago presented unique occasions for my parents to groom Brian and I into the youngest gentlemen. Canadians from coast to coast are generally friendly and welcoming people yet protocol and etiquette are becoming less important as a significant proportion of the population seem to label this behaviour as snobby. There is a smaller group of people who take the more extreme side, surrounding themselves with expensive goods and procuring lavish services, leading to their self-proclamation of belonging to a selected elite. These individuals generally associate quality with the associated price tag. My brother and I were raised in a manner to appreciate quality through use rather than cost and to respect our fellow human beings no matter their financial standing or place in society. We were extremely sociable and able to foster and maintain friendships with anyone who was willing and able to communicate with us. It is something that has allowed me to feel comfortable anywhere between a group of orphans with disabilities to a room filled with politicians and foreign dignitaries.

Maman, Mémé and I in front of La Moneda Palace

When receptions or cocktails were held in our private SQ, protocol dictated that the hosts were to remain at the entrance of the home or designated event location to greet guests. Protocol is actually not snobby but a universal set of procedures that ensure hosts and visitors are on equal footing in terms of respect for each other. On most of these occasions, Brian and I would sport our nicest clothes and stand next to our parents shaking hands with everyone. How many young children play this host role, welcoming people at their front door with a “how do you do?” We were to add a “pleased to meet you” after each introduction. Sometimes, embassy staff that knew us would share a friendly comment or two with Brian and I. In Santiago, Brian and I had conquered the hearts of many of the Embassy, as most who had children were either teens or older. We were still in the cute bracket. In some way we were the Embassy’s children. The usual procedure after the welcoming ritual would include a brief meet and greet or standing next to our parents listening to what the grown-ups had to say. This was an extremely useful skill to acquire as it allowed me to understand how the diplomatic game works and some of the specific jargon. As soon as the guests were called to dinner, Brian and I would excuse ourselves, retiring to the kitchen for our meal and resume our evening quietly on our own. On some special occasions, our guests would be treated to the musical delight of the young Bickford duo on the piano.

Living in a rich and homogenous environment provided excellent opportunities for Brian and I to adopt certain Chile cultural aspects. However, we were also exposed to a multicultural environment due to adult expats yearning to find a piece of home in their new posting through other people and families in the same situation. Throughout my personal experiences, I have generally found expats can be divided into two quite different groups. The first of these are those who are excited about the new adventure and learning experiences of leaving their home country. These individuals are generally fascinated by the overall change in their lifestyle and begin to adopt elements of the local lifestyle. In some cases these people do not forget where they are from but tend to feel more at home in their host country. The other side of the expat persona is the complete opposite. Change has not been kind to them as they keep searching for elements of home in the new country and cannot find them. They resent everything the host country stands for and cannot relate to the locals. They dream of the day they can return home. I have seen both cases but I favour the first. I seem to thrive with change, as it is a process of self-discovery and enjoy meeting people who are open to sharing their life experiences. Each and every person experiences life from a different perspective and one day their knowledge or your own could prove useful.

I did not establish a preference for Chileans, Canadians or any other expat. I grew up understanding the existence of geographical borders. Yet I had a blend of cultures between my Chileans and everyone else. Within my family itself, I already had a rich cultural diversity, with English, Welsh, French, Spanish, Belgian and perhaps other nationalities the further I trace back my bloodline. I have family in Canada, England, France, Italy, Mexico, Spain and the United States and, of course, the friends I met down the road that became my adopted family. Expats have one common uniting element: being away from home. My parents met through official functions politicians, diplomats and business people from many different professional backgrounds and countries. The expat circle is in some cases a close community and as such, Brian and I began making friends our age from Argentina, Belgium, Canada, Denmark, France, Germany, New Zealand, Spain, Switzerland, and perhaps other countries that I may be forgetting to mention. To those who may read this and I have not mentioned. I apologize, but rest assured you have a special place in my memory and heart. I remember Brian and I had developed a strong friendship with the Ambassador of New Zealand’s daughters who spoke excellent Spanish, but they were my first English-speaking friends at that age. We seemed to run into the Kiwi family out of pure coincidence on some of our trips outside Santiago as well. I was greatly intrigued with their unique accent that seemed somewhat similar to Mick Dundee, yet at the same time somewhat different.

Standing guard over Santiago wearing my Canada cap

As Brian and I continued our immersion in these diverse cultures, we realized how important our behaviour was when relating to other people, young and old, as we were representing our country. We wanted Canada, whether Canada was a person or an entire population, to be proud of us. Last year, I remember receiving a Facebook friend request last year from my friend and former classmate, Stephane Simon, from back in the Santiago days that referred to me as the Canadian friend. It was quite an honour to remain in someone’s memory as a representation of a whole country. As a result of such cross-cultural bonding, I developed a sense of empathy for newcomers, trying to assist them in their adjustment to a new home. I had befriended a South African kid, who I remember quite well. He was about 2 years younger than my classmates and myself, but I took him under my wing. Stephane had also joined in. We included him in our activities and hoped he felt  part of the group. My Chilean friends had also led by example exhibiting an incredible reception from the first day I set foot in the Alliance. I continue to this day extending a hand in friendship acquired in Chile hoping to help people transition to the temporary environment I call home.